I could have been
cashmere, something
he picked up and
gently carried
upstairs. I was
chiffon he wanted
to wrap the most
sensitive parts of
his body in, held as
if we'd moved in
to each other before
this tango in
Argentina. If there'd
been Margaritas
they wouldn't have
been enticing as
his skin. In his arms
my body bent to
his as my leather
jacket had to
me, musky,
animal, wild. Exotic
as the word
Andalusia. Each
staccato move,
a lure. I wanted
him to hold me as
if I was skin, every
thing in me prey
he was on a
safari for
