I have no language nor can I find an image to capture your beauty
You flick back your hair, blacker than a raven’s wing, inkier than the most velvet of nights, a lustrous cascade of shining jet. Your fingers are delicate and long and your blue-painted nails match the colour of the material that temporarily covers you.
Lana Del Rey is playing in the background
Your eyes are searching for mine across distance and they are dark and sultry and yet full of light and youthful innocence.
Your shy smile, as you untie the single, loose bow and slip the thin fabric from off your shoulders, makes me catch my breath.
Your body is perfect. Your skin is dusky, golden, and touched with the palest cinnamon. It is immaculate, flawless.
Your breasts are exquisite. No artist could ever do justice to their peerless shape nor could any sculptor match their divine and faultless design.
Your nipples, hard and hungry beneath your fingers and my gaze, are beyond sublime.
I will never be able to listen to Lana again without conjuring up this holiest of moments. And I will sigh, close my eyes, and give deep thanks to the fates that joined us.
And feel myself involuntarily and deliciously harden at this memory.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
The photo is of Lana Del Rey because I could find no image to match Hermosa’s beauty. And Lana’s mouth is just a little like hers.