Answering A Lady's Call

Do you like erotic poetry? Erotic romance author and poet, R. Paul Sardanas, allowed me the honor of collaborating on a poem with him. I'd love to know what you think of our creation. In addition to the poem, our friend, Samarel, of Samarel Art http://samarelart.com gifted us with the usage of one of his beautiful works of art to go along with the poem. To learn more about Paul and his writings, visit his website:http://rpaulsardanas.com Pick up a copy of his most recent release, a tantalizing tale of love and lust, The Order of the Golden Rose, which you can find at almost any online venue including Amazon. Thanks for reading.


Answering a Lady's Call

by Tess MacKall and R. Paul Sardanas

An unguarded moment rouses desire from its slumber.

She moves, most subtly, as he lies beside her.

Wrapped in gossamer threads of chastity, she stretches,

Memory of the unspeaking language of their bodies stirs,

breaking through her cocoon of denial.

tearing away all complexity of thought.

Uncertain, she touches the loosed cords that have imprisoned her.

Hesitant, he feels warmth flow to his hands, long cold.

Consent long ago given, now disavowed.

Want, once spontaneous, becomes a tortured path.

She parts her lips in awakening and her amber colored whispers beckon.

Her voice of soft desire comes to him in accents of dream.

In twilight, she waits.

He touches her hair, and walls of empty night fall away.

Ever susceptible to his caress, coral hues of sun-risen desire curls through her body, and pool at her woman’s center.

From the edge of sleep, he feels a tremulous wonder at the return of an almost painful heat.

A moment of clarity intrudes, a bitter reminder of her discontent.

Is she dreaming of him? How sweet that would be, and he almost prays for wakeful thought between them to blur, to stay gently buried in a mist of half-remembrance.

Torn, her body grows taut with the shame of her weakness and passion’s ache shimmers in its pearled essence of winter, refusing to surrender.

If he should speak, he knows he will no longer be a memory of love and hunger; her eyes are tightly shut, he is afraid that they will open, but he wants to see the look he once lived for in their depths.

Desire given voice, a small cry falls from her lips as slender tendrils of need ask for his charity.

They hang on a thread, woven of heart’s sound, until he hears her call; so small, so wrenching in its muted cadence of want.

And forgiveness finds its path.

He knows, and it floods into him with frightening joy, that the night has taken them deep again.

The darkened places of her heart dance with wild abandon, unfurling a scarlet ribbon of desire.

He gasps, echo to her own call, and when he breathes in, he is filled with the scent of her, ripping into a core of purest need that he cannot believe he had ever sealed, and put away.

In the long breath he takes, she hears the splendorous chorus of lost passion found, and trembles with the unexpected truth.

His hand is shaking, as his fingers run through her hair, then to the warm arc of her cheek, and the corner of her mouth.

He still wants her. She still needs him.

Her lips open, then close around his fingertip.

As morning blossoms lift their faces to the sun, she turns, gathering his hands to her breast.

When she turns to him, takes his hands, and he feels the beating of her heart beneath her breast, he remembers life. It is in the warmth of her skin, in the moist trace her mouth has left on his finger.

Her endless night glistens wet with unspoken apology and basks in the radiance of acceptance.

How could he have let himself forget this? Regret for nights that should have had no end lodges in his throat, and is transformed through the silent eloquence of his tongue, placing it to her areola; rising, to kiss the hollow of her neck.

She arches into the heat of his sunlit kiss as she presses her woman’s center into the curve of his hip and wraps her leg around his. Her body had not forgotten. Only the mind suffers.

When they were new together, and desire was uncontrollable, the simple pressure of her leg against him would have gone unnoticed. A ripple, on the face of a flood. Now it fans him to an intensity of desire beyond anything in the memory of youth.

She cries out with need for the touch and feel of what she thought lost, now found. The lines between lust and love blur and knowing him again is all that matters.

Her cry wrenches something in his soul. He wants to say “I never stopped wanting you. To be inside you is everything.” But as he enters her now, she breathes out two words. Did she truly say “love me”? He answers, with his body, with his own breath, with his soul.

She wants to tell him how much she loves him, how much she’s missed him—missed this. But for now it will be enough to feel him inside of her. To once again understand she belongs and is wanted, needed, loved. Her winter is at end.

He doesn’t know what the hours will bring, what tomorrow will bring. He knows just one thing in the warmth of this moment. Love didn’t end. Lost and silent, even hopeless…it rested. And yearned, all unspoken, for healing. His long, cold night transformed.

Tonight, sweet night, a call is answered, and they will sleep in the other’s arms.