Ten

Slowly, I counted the steps between,

Her body and mine. Nine, 

She pulled back a black shawl,

Sprawled over the thorns of her shoulders.

The blue moon glistened on leathery skin.

Eight, and my heart rate rises,

Her eyes dilate as I tear away breastplate.

I beg for her progression. Seven,

Stepping closer, eyes transfix, six,

Her arms rip, a barely covering dress.

She wears less and less, I press on.

I drive towards her, five. We're almost running,

Our gazes cunning, both wanting,

To take each other before, four, the other.

Three, I am reaching for her chest,

Her firm breasts rising as her arms raise,

There are no more plays, two, 

She, who holds my heart,

Now grabs at my horns and hair.

I am there and she has won.

One.