For R. II

Soporously wakeful, she fills my arms, her length pressing against mine.

The silken smooth caresses of her softly lucent skin

Beneath the esurient stroking of my fingers

Soothes the fears and worries of the Hour of the Wolf.

The scents of hemp and sage rising from her hair, the butter and honey beneath her tongue, and the gently seeping nectar glistening on her petals like the evening dew upon the grass, sweeter than spiced rum; headier than ambrosia, sweeter than the delicacies of the Hesperides. I am willingly ensnared.

I would slake my thirst at the well of her body.

But for now, the rhythmic rising, falling of her respirations press her body ever closer into mine. She innocently thinks it is I who shelter her.

I lay my head against her, listening to her breath, feeling her pulse beat gently against my cheek.

I cannot help but draw my hands so lightly along the curve of hip and thigh, the pink-capped breasts, and along her throat and shoulders, drawing out sighs as if bowing the most exquisite living Guarneri.

And thus, I play a lullaby, fearing to disturb her sensual, somnolent splendor,

The Wolf’s desire despoiled by her defending presence.

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