Spread wide — a familiar, teasing resistance, then open, revealed, for me, just for me.
Licking lips in anticipation, nimble fingers caress delicate edges. Burying my face, eagerly, devouring, all night long. My brow furrows in concentration — a comical mask for such a pleasurable chore. On the couch, or on the floor (by a roaring fire), or the kitchen table, or buried, cozy, under the blankets.
Predictable peaks mixed with unexpected surprises. Tension built — and resolved — over and over, higher and higher. I can’t get enough, keep thinking, “here’s a good place to stop,” but no, just one more, just a little longer. If it’s really good, I know I’ll wake up in the morning and dive back in, picking up right where I left off.
I lose all track of time, forget where I am, who I am. Transported, entranced, whole new worlds exposed to me. Nothing else matters, only what comes next, what comes next...
Yes, there’s nothing like a good book.