I can’t help it…he calls and I respond. My body responds. I see him and I melt from the inside out. I have long since learned to not throw myself at him as I want to do. I have learned to pretend casual friendship. My voice is light and modulated as we chat and smile. All the while it covers my intense sexual response to him. His voice. His smell. He is everything that ignites me. Scorching fire needing searing wetness to dampen the embers.
Like a child hiding behind a mothers’ leg, I keep my sunglasses on so he can’t see my eyes. I know he could read them instantly. He’d see my craven want of his flesh. I want my pound of flesh. And I want my flesh pounded. I know he knows I am reacting to him. In the middle of a laugh, my breath catches and I can see his eyes searching my face, checking my breathing. He knows.
So he kisses me. And when he does it’s like my soul is being wrung out; twisted back upon itself and pulled like warm taffy in the hands of a seasoned candy maker and I want to be pulled and twisted until he creates what I was supposed to be. It becomes an all focused need to have him, because I only respond to him this way, on this level.
I can smell my own arousal and hear his long indrawn breath, knowing now he can as well. His eyes close and then flash fire at me moments before he kisses me again. Devours me. He is tasting me, with lips and tongue, conveying what he wants to do elsewhere with his mouth.
It would be so easy to drop to my knees and take him in my mouth. To pretend that I have the control over him sexually when I know I don’t. I just want to have the upper hand for those brief moments that he lets me. Because it’s not about him and his needs. I know he gets off, on getting me off. He wants to lick me. He wants me quivering underneath him. He wants me unable to think or resist him. His eyes say it. They promise it.
His hand runs from knee, up my bare leg and between my thighs. His touch is light but the intensity I feel is disproportionate to his actions. It’s too much to handle; I start to shake, to tremble. I try pushing his hand away and his arm is rock hard. I can not budge it, though the pressure on his hand does not change. Electric fire races through my body and I know I’m his. My body is his.
It’s his choice to stop, not mine. His smile, his grin. His quick kiss as he leans in to say goodbye. All casual reminders that continued non intimacy between us is only possible in avoidance or in public venues and then barely, simply because I can not control myself once he touches me. I watched him as he went into the sunshine towards the crowd and was left with flutters in my stomach and the sheen of an unfulfilled woman’s’ lust, between my legs.