He runs his puckered lips along the painted blue feathers, lingering there, breathing slow and heavy.
The warmth of his breath steaming the tattooed flesh in small mouthfuls. He kissed the bluebird; he stroked his teeth across it. Continuing along collarbones and clavicles, the skin where his lips touched swelled and rose in tiny, eager bumps. The trail of wetness left by his mouth chilled in the open air and his chest hair tickled pale, tender inner thighs as he lowered himself along the horizontal length of our bodies. He uses his skilled tongue to trace circles around freckles and navel, straying lower, and lower. Moaning softly, his mouth busy and full of flesh, he grabs two handfuls of hips. Suddenly, he raises himself, glistening and licking his lips. He angles himself.
“You’re ready,” he said without lifting his eyes, as more of a statement than the question he intended.
“So ready,” I sighed.