(Witchy hour)
He tasted like bourbon and blood, mine.
He smelled like danger, he sounded like bliss.
He made me feel weak in the knee every time.
How I love when he calls me his witch.
How I love when he growls those words.
They carry little weight because of passion.
Those words were whispered at night,
Interspersed with pants, moans, and groans.
He doesn’t think when he says so,
He doesn’t mean it, not when deep inside me.
However, I love it all the same. He sees me.
For someone who had been deprived of touch,
Oh, this feels like I won the jackpot. His witch!
His witch! His delicious little witch!
His powerful little witch changed things.
He tasted like power and anger, my Hybrid.
My hybrid.
No comments:
Post a Comment