You naughty

The message shattered the silence, rippling deep,
a friend, a familiar name, never once touched.
Casual words after the wedding’s golden haze,
but words alone could never unravel him.
It was the images that swallowed him whole,
the ones he should have ignored but couldn’t,
the ones that rewrote desire into his skin.

Her hair—dark curls spilling like ink on silk,
tumbling over shoulders he had never kissed.
Her waist—drawn tight like a whispered prayer,
her hips—a slow verse swaying without thought.
Her cleavage—deep enough to swallow restraint,
soft enough to drag a man to his knees,
a hymn of hunger wrapped in unknowing sin.

She wasn’t just a girl he once knew,
no longer a passing name on a screen.
She was sculpted, woven of silk and fire,
an altar of hunger, untouched yet consuming.
She was made for worship, made for ruin,
and he surrendered—without her knowing,
without permission, without the strength to resist.

Then came the moment that shattered his hold,
a picture, a message, light as a sigh.
"Also, if in case you have not noticed…"
Not a confession, not even an invitation,
but a spell whispered into his undoing.
The curve of her, the way light adored her,
made restraint slip like silk through trembling hands.

She laughed, playful, unaware of the wreckage,
her words dipped in nothing but mischief.
But to him, they were soaked in sin,
pressed into his skin like fire and ache.
Each pause, each teasing hesitation,
wrapped around him like a velvet noose,
tightening with every breath, every beat.

He stroked the keyboard in tandem with himself,
a symphony of clicks and strangled gasps.
Her words, his breath, the slick rhythm—
a melody of need, desperate and raw.
He tried to last, to stretch out the suffering,
but she stayed up late, stretching the night,
typing softly, teasing, lazily amused.

"You naughty," she whispered, voice slow and blurred,
her eyelids heavy, her replies growing slower.
His body locked, his breath breaking apart,
every muscle pulled into tight surrender.
She was teasing—but she did not know.
His back arched, his body shattered, his breath caught,
spilling thick heat in silence, in reverence, in ruin.

A drop on the screen, a tribute, an offering,
a confession to a woman who would never know.
The conversation faded, unfinished, lost in silence,
but his body still burned, still ached, still wanted.
His mind still clung to her name,
wrapped around the ghost of what never was.
She would never know—she had already ruined him.