"He Drinks Me Like Wine"

He kisses the depths of my soul with the reverence of a sinner tasting salvation his lips drenched in the sweetness that drips from the river of my desire. He drinks me in, slowly, deliberately, like he’s savoring every drop of what makes me human, wild, and divine. The air thickens with the sound of our storm moans colliding with thunder, hearts crashing like waves against unspoken truths.

His grip tightens at the base of my neck, firm, possessive, trembling on the edge of control. I feel the fear in his fingertips fear of losing himself, fear of what we’ve become, fear of the chaos we create every time we touch.

“What are you afraid of?” I whisper, though I already know. It’s not me it’s the way I make him feel. Unhinged. Alive. Addicted.

And as he clings to the last thread of restraint, unraveling slowly with every pulse of my body beneath his, I whisper back, “Don’t stop. Not until I forget everything but the sound of your name.”

Deep & Dripping with Desire

She was a storm no man could tame until he spoke her language in moans and metaphors.

Born and raised in the Windy City, Zaria Monroe was fire in a world full of frost. Men wanted to taste her, but none dared to swallow her whole. They touched her skin, but never the ache beneath it. She wanted more. More depth. More heat. More meaning. And then... she met him.

It started on a balcony under a foreign sky his eyes like midnight, his words like worship. For six months, they haven’t kissed. Haven’t touched. Haven’t laid eyes on one another.

But they’ve made love in ink. They’ve fucked in rhyme. And every stanza has pulled them deeper into a world only they understand.

He doesn’t ask her how her day was.

He asks, "What did your soul crave today?”

She doesn’t send nudes.

She sends poems that make him clench the sheets.

Together, they’ve built a love story with no punctuation, no boundaries, and no apologies. But what happens when two souls who’ve only known each other in metaphor... decide it’s time to taste the real thing?

This is not a love story.

This is a surrender.

Of breath. Of body. Of every dark, dripping corner we hide from the world.

Told only in poetry, this is the book you read when your hands are shaking, and your legs can’t close. When your heart is starving, and your spirit needs to be touched... like that.