The way she moves

Her art in the way she moved
The eye upon
It isn't just a look, it is a hook, set deep.
A current from her hips that men can feel
clenching in their guts,a sudden, sweet
and brutal need,a throbbing in the beat
that pulses in their veins.She lets a smile
curl,slow as smoke, and watches, for a while,
the way a throat works,swallowing a groan,
the way a hand fists,tight against the bone.

She arches, just a fraction, and the air
grows thick with all the things they ache to tear
away from her.A dress strap starts to slide
a calculated,lazy, downward glide
on sun-warmed skin.She sees a dozen eyes
go dark,dilated, stripped of all disguise.
She sees the sharp,unmistakable, thick strain
against the fabric,a blunt, honest pain.

This is her art: to make the body speak
a language that makes strong men weak.
To craft a heat that doesn't need a touch,
to make them want,and need, and want so much
their knuckles pale,their breath comes hot and fast,
a spell she knows is built and meant to last.
And in their raw,unmasked, desiring shock,
she feels the answering,slick, and primal lock
deep in her own core,a triumphant, wicked flood—
This power is her most intimate,stirring blood.