I don’t want his kisses.
I don’t want his love.
No longing for his fingertips to scale up and down my spine.
Not a touch on my inner thigh.
Not a pat on my behind.
I don’t want his tender love.
I don’t want him to make me moan, causing my toes to curl or point and my hairs to highper extend.
Neither do I want to be the fufiler of his lust.
The pinicle of his sexual prowl.
My lips on his neck and a tender hand at his nape. No
I just dont.
Wanting to synchronize breaths as we climax .
Staring deep into his eyes.
No desire for him to bequeath his kisses to my skin.
His hands to hold me like some love song.
I care not to smell him upon my sheets, basking in satisfaction and glee.
Or to regurgitate and remenince on his embrace when he is away.
Oh not this one…
I care not for his face.
