Spring hums beneath my skin, a melody of warmth and awakening. I twirl a flower between my fingers, soft petals brushing my lips, teasing like a whispered secret. The cold is behind me, the grey a memory—I am shedding winter like a dress slipping off bare shoulders. I am warming up. I am opening. I am blooming.

Desire unfurls inside me, stretching, reaching, aching to touch, to taste, to tangle with the world. I want to feel skin against skin, warmth melting into warmth. I want hands and mouths and breathless laughter. I want to press my fingertips into softness and firmness alike—breasts that rise and fall, muscles that flex beneath my touch, plush curves, smooth strength. I want to explore, to be explored, to learn and be learned like a language spoken through lips and fingertips.

I inhale—deep, greedy—the scent of earth waking, of green pushing through soil, of life pulsing, demanding to be felt. My senses recalibrate, sharpen. The sun kisses my skin, and I offer myself to it, to the season, to the promise of pleasure and play.

Spring is here. I am ready.