Hanging on by the tips of my fingers

I taste the sweat as the tip of my tongue moves over the soft surface, where my fingers first explored, a brave act done in the deep dark where the only light comes from the projector above us, as it casts James Bond against the large flat screen below, my hands moving as his hands move, over a landscape nearly as sweet, but with far less a provocative name like Pussy Galore, although the hair my fingers weave through fits her Sandy colored name, and places my tongue reaches must taste as sweet – each sweep raising my heart beat and more, so that I ache for more, and plead for more, but can only go so far before yes turns to no, and I want to get to that place very slowly, tasting every inch of it, hoping she will, too, even if it takes forever to get there, even if I have to hang on the edge of it, and let only my tongue and fingers reach the places I most want to feel, even if in tasting and feeling, I come near to explode, hanging on to it with the tips of my fingers that I later can taste, long after the heat has expired.