She tastes like skin freshly grazed raw by teeth, only slightly moist with a delicate rake of dryness.

She doesn't  wet them because she likes to keep you wanting more.

In an intimate situation, she cannot help but be intense. Tempestuous. So, your teeth gnash against hers just once.

If there's tongue, hers would barely pass the lips. She doesn't like to initiate.

She has to find out first, if you have the gall to think you are deserving of her. But when you slip in bravely, she approves and subtly responds.

Very carefully, by installment.

Yet the one thing that makes everything catch fire is not the dance of her mouth, but the scent of her hair and the way her eyes wouldn't stay close.

She watches in between flutters even as her hands make sure that it is only her who has any control.

When she finally pulls away---of course she'll be the one pulling away---you will gasp at the stain of your soul on her lips, and you will feel as if you are a lesser person than when she first decided to touch you.

And until she deigns to give you her heart, the call of your soul on those lips will tug and pull every fibre of your being until you are once again breathless against her mouth.

Holding your eyes fast with a coy smile, you will shiver in ecstasy and dread as she says, 'hey... hey sweet. do you know the soul is endless?''