Fever

A fever has me in it’s grips. My skin burns as hot as stirred embers, yet my blood runs cool through my veins.  I sweat and yet I shiver. 

In spite of this, it is not water, nor medicine I crave, but the touch of another’s flesh.  The feel of soft curves curled up beside me, the sight of long smooth lines glistening in the moonlight. 

Closing my eyes, I trace the line of her body from the tip of her ear down, ever so happily down to the base of her perfectly shaped hip.  I crave a woman.  A woman in all her glory.  Perhaps that is the only thing to heal me.

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