I guide my hands
to the part of that tingle,
to a secret place of tender graze.
A gentle touch of pleasure
like soft whispers
in a hazy way of soft sleep.
Tingles begin to grow
with each finger that dances beneath
a touch of pulsing desire blooms.
The softness fades into a rhythm,
deeper with each dance of the moment,
until that pulse starts to race
a storm of my own making of pleasure.