Chance Meeting

It starts at lunch -
cold white wine that
tastes like spring
and loosens tongues
and leads to a brush
of skin that lingers,
and lengthens into an afternoon
where your hair tumbles down
and your smile
curls into kisses
while our bodies lurch
in unexpected collision
and my fingers fumble
over tight little buttons -
the impatient heave of fabric
parting skirt from shirt
as your back molds to my hands,
your hips a deliberate tease
pivoted against my own.
your breath hitches - a hot little sigh
fanning my cheek,
urging me to discover and explore
a world spread against my fingertips
impatient to be conquered.