I see your skin, pet, and I want to lose myself in it.
I want to run my fingertips over it, trace swirls and patterns. I'd draw on it with ink if you let me, but the invisible paths of my fingers are enough to make you shiver so deliciously, sacred in their transience.
I want to lay my cheek against it, softly rubbing, claiming like a cat. I'll purr, softly, in the back of my throat, nudge my nose into each little divot, count the bumps of your spine.
I want to kiss and lick, worshipping with my lips and tongue, finding all the little sensitive places that make you gasp, laughing with you if you're ticklish.
I want to nibble, gently at first, softly affectionate. Then I want to set my teeth to you properly, to bite — only as hard as you want me to, and I'll cherish any marks for as long as they last, because you are mine, pet, and I want to make you feel it.