A big, black marble whirlpool tub. Swan-shaped faucets,
brass, not gold, bathed in subdued lights

Sitting silent behind a screen, he observed her soft reflections,
trapped in mirrored tiles. A Lorelei?

Somewhere the tones of a slow blues trickled and tricked
he imagined her enticing as a crackling fire

burning low in a stone hearth. Soft as the white fur rug
they lowered themselves shivering down to.

Her taste, once his mouth sampled hers, was honeyed whiskey
drugging, sweet, and inescapably potent.

Her scent tangled up with her flavor in his fevered senses
until they were one and the same, strong opiate.

Silk slipped away
inch by seductive inch
revealing alabaster flesh.
Rose-petal smooth, flawless glass.
She reached for him, drew him in,
her lips moved against his ear
in a whispered invitation.

Please, dear, will you hand me my bathrobe and slippers?