Tonight,
we speak in numbers,
my palm tracing rhythms
on the soft rebellion of your skin.

You whisper “one,”
like a secret,
as my fingers press firmly,
measuring discipline
with tenderness,
drawing out each trembling digit.

By “two,”
you sigh, surrendering
to the pleasure of the sting
that binds your breath
to the pulse
of my heartbeat.

By “three,”
we both forget the world;
there’s only heat,
the blush blooming
across your flesh,
the sacred ache we share
in darkness.

“Four” and “five”
spill softly
from your parted lips,
each strike sweeter,
each moan a new secret—
the quiet arithmetic
of longing
building slowly toward release.

At “six,” you lose count,
and I remind you
with another touch
that pleasure demands precision—
each gasp earned,
each shiver carefully placed.

“Seven,” whispered
in sweet defiance,
your skin burns
with willing repentance,
my hand guiding
each trembling breath,
each word of submission
offered willingly.

“Eight” and “nine”
flow gently,
numbers dissolving
into sounds beyond language,
into sighs and whispers,
into the quiet poetry
of surrender.

And by “ten,”
you find your voice again,
softly thanking
the loving cruelty
of my palm,
the gentle violence
of our trust. 

Together,
we count down the world
until nothing remains
but the warmth
of your skin,
my hand,
and the quiet blessing
of shared darkness.