His voice hits low,

  a warm hum in the ribs,

  thick as molasses

  and twice as sweet.

  It drips into me,

  slow,

  steady,

  like he knows exactly

  how sound can touch

  before hands ever do.

  There are men who speak,

  and then there are men

  whose voices inhabit you —

  curling around the mind,

  sliding down the spine,

  coaxing want

  out of places you kept locked.

  He talks like he’s guiding someone

  through a trembling moment,

  like he’s done it a hundred times —

  that low tone,

  that steady breath,

  that quiet promise

  that you don’t have to be afraid

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  to feel everything at once.

  And God,

  how he makes me want.

  Not just him —

  but more.

  More closeness,

  more heat,

  more of myself

  than I’ve ever allowed to surface.

  His voice is a door

  I didn’t know I had.

  A hand on the small of my back

  without ever touching me.

  A whisper that unwraps thought

  from bone.

  I hear him

  and something in me

  leans forward —

  hungry, aching,

  curious in a way

  I’ve never given myself permission to be.

  It isn’t lust.

  It isn’t love.

  It’s the intimacy

  of being seen

  by a sound.

  And when he speaks my name —

  low, careful,

  as if tasting it —

  I feel myself unravel

  like silk in warm water,

  wanting to follow the sound

  wherever it leads.

  Wanting

  more.

  Of him.

  Of myself.

  Of the ache

  and the answering warmth

  that rises to meet it.

  A voice like that

  doesn’t ask.

  It invites.

  And everything in me

  leans into the yes

  I’ve never said out loud.