The candle gutters, wax pooling like liquid gold across the table’s edge.
Your shadow leans in first—
a slow, deliberate eclipse—
until the flame kisses the hollow of your throat.
I taste the heat before I touch it:
a breath of smoke, a flicker of want.
My mouth finds the wax-warm skin just above your collar,
and the night forgets its own name.
The wax cools, a thin amber scar across your sternum.
I trace it with my tongue—
until the scar melts again,
and your heartbeat answers in molten gold.
Your fingers tangle in my hair,
where the candle’s last breath
meets the first gasp of dawn.
Dawn creeps through the blinds, pale gold slicing the dark.
I follow the line of light down your ribs,
until the sun itself is jealous of the heat we make.
Your hips rise to meet me—
a silent, perfect arch—
and the candle’s ghost flickers once more
The sun climbs higher, painting your skin in molten stripes.
I press my lips to each one—
until the light burns itself out against your pulse.
Your thighs tighten around my shoulders,
a final, trembling lock—
and the room holds its breath
as the last shadow surrenders to heat.
The room exhales, heavy with sun and salt.
I rise to your mouth, tasting wax and dawn and us—
a slow, lingering kiss that swallows the morning whole.
Your fingers dig into my back,
claiming the last of the night,
two embers refusing to cool.