Tremors

A tremor starts, a low, guttural hum, skin slick against skin, an urgent, primal rhythm. Fingers tangle in damp hair, a gasp caught deep, as hips meet, grind, and plunge into the sweet, wet keep. Each thrust a deeper claim, a shared, exquisite ache, the world outside dissolves, for pleasure's pulsing sake. Eyes roll back, a silent scream of rising bliss, until the final shudder, sealed with a hungry kiss.