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Watching

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Watching him dance is like watching someone have sex with their clothes on. He moves in ways that never fail to make my pants a size too small. If I were better with words I would write pages dedicated to the way he moves. Somehow though, the only coherent words I can think while watching him are ‘animal grace’ and they seem dull and cliché on my tongue.

Something in me wants to belong to him. I find that shocking because the faint voice of the primal hidden inside of me tells she is alpha, but even she wants to submit to him. It confuses me that I want to dominate him as much as submit. I want to wear his mark on my neck for all to see, I want to rut against him until the scent of the girl he is dancing with is gone from his skin.

It’s not only dancing, his fighting is something I can’t help but watch… that is probably why I limp home most nights. He looks feral when he fights. The way he stalks his prey, the way he bounces on the balls of his feet like a prize fighter in the ring or maybe a kid in a toy store, it is mesmerizing. The way his eyes flash yellow always makes my breath catch, not in fear but because I can’t help but picture them flashing above me as he lunges down to sink his teeth in.

Watching him is my passion that is until I am jolted from my fantasies when he sneers at me, calls me donut boy or leaves with someone female which reminds me of how he could never be mine. I wonder if I will ever get lost in watching him, I wonder if I will ever let my jealousy get the better of me and stride across the dance floor, pull whatever slut has herself plastered against him and claim his lips like I want him to claim me. I think he wouldn’t mind the headache he would get to see me on my ass if I ever did that, so I guess until then I will just keep watching.

End