Sensory- a drabble

“I'm sick to death of women who don't smell like you.” He murmured those words into my ear seconds before he buried his nose at my nape and inhaled. Rough fingers wound themselves into the strands of my ponytail and tugged, allowing teeth access to tendons and electrified skin. The restrained press of hungry lips, followed by the scratch of three days beard. A soft bite, a long lick, then,“No one smells as close to perfection as you.”

 I shivered, immobilized by my need to allow him his fill, while saving my own memories for our next long divide.