Morning Chocolate

Bill downs hot chocolate most mornings, especially the kind that tastes exactly like Tiffany. She slides up the bed beside him, naked as mercy, planting her mouth where it counts. Every wet glide of her tongue whips his skin into goose-bumps. Then comes the killer detail: the lazy, knowing curls of her toes against his thighs, dancing so sweetly that every viewing pervert wants to swap places. Our mouths water. Our shoes look too big for anyone. All because she can squeeze more joy from two feet than most lovers squeeze from their whole desperate bodies.