All the sexy men be damned, I want to take you to my bed.
I want to take you to my bed. Put on my favourite music. Dim the recessed lights. Light a musk-scented candle to intensify the romance. Move my fingers up and down - to create a symphony with your sculpted, sleek and toned frame. In a dimly-lit room, won't you look sexy as f**k? Some people often call you a classic poem. If I may, please be my sonnet. Structured, layered and class apart. And let me undress you one layer at a time. Let me write a better version of you on my 700-thread-count bedsheet. I promise you, it will be a night to remember. But let me tell you, you are one poem whose place is inside my body, not on a piece of paper. You are a poem that would rhyme well mixed with the curves of my body - meter, metaphors, similes be damned. So just play along. No questions asked. Let me embrace you. Let me hold you between my freshly manicured hands - creating a devasting blast of seduction. To have you inside me would be a nuclear explosion - a chain reaction that sh...