Hands

She is sitting up this time,
breasts pressed against
his bare torso, two tan hills
disrupting the space
between them. Her back
is sloped in an exaggerated arc
away from him, mouth open
in a graceful O. His hands,
two beams of support
at the base of her spine.
She leans her weight
into them with every thrust.
Slack-jawed with pleasure,
her guttural moans blossom
from deep within her bosom
and he is silent. His eyes, cut
like ice and just as light in color,
watch her as she rises and falls.
Then, her hands are on him,
pushing away. He falls backwards.
She sets the pace now,
knees deep in the sheets,
palms curled against the
hard pane of his stomach.
His eyes are open, hers still shut
as she moves closer to
that intangible moment
of truth.

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