But God, then his lips were on yours —
The bitter orange malt of Blue Moon
And the bergamot and cedar of his cologne
And then his hands, fisted in your shirt,
In your hair, pulling your head back to expose
The curve of your throat, your Adam’s apple
Just as tempting as the original
And then, the press of his chest against yours,
The insistent intrusiveness of his knee, nudging
Edging your legs apart to make room for his body
And when he asks, “did you ever think?”
His mouth trailing hungrily along your midline
You card your fingers through his hair and groan,
“Only every waking moment.”