A Spy for a Spy
Chiara's POV He holds on to my body, his fingertips digging into my thighs, burying his head into my hair, before he grabs a fist full of it and pulls my head back so that I can watch us in the ceiling mirror. We are poetry together. He smiles at my expression before kissing the base of my throat, and I am sure he can feel my pulse flutter through his lips. Pulling away from me, he examines me closely, following my every line, the rhyme in my moaning, the rhythm of my panting, and his jaw feathers with the appreciation of a perfect composition. We bounce over the syllables, lost in the couplets of our union. Shifting our gaze from the mirror back to each other's eyes, we seem to see each other through all our ages. He saw the lonely child in me and I saw the young, scared man robbed of hi
- Writer
