I think about him. A lot. A lot more than I should, frankly. A lot more than what can jeopardise my sanity. But still, I think about him. Entirely too much. I think about how it would feel if he held my hand; casually, easily, in front of people, our friends. Would my palms tingle, when they feel the warmth of his, on them? Would his hands feel soft in mine? Or would they be rough, calloused, rubbing against my own smooth skin? Would I try to hide a smile? Or would I melt into the ground, and stop breathing for a moment?
I think about all this, and more. I think about his eyes on me. How flustered I would get when he looks at me. How he would pin me with his unyielding gaze. How his eyes would betray what his words try to hide.
I think about a lot more. I think about his lips. I think about how they would feel if I touched them with my fingers. Or if I brushed them against my own. Would they be soft, pliable? Or would they be insistent, unrelenting, moulding me into shape? Would he breathe life into me? Would his tongue paint a thousand fiery strokes onto my lips? Would his mouth claim me as his?
I think about so much more. I think about his beautiful, capable hands. I think about them mapping a route onto my skin; how they would venture into uncharted, virgin territory. How they would leave a trail of blazing fire in their wake. Would they cascade from my face, down my neck, to my heart? Or would they gently meander along, taking their time? Would his fingertips prod my skin to life? Would his hands pause at my chest and feel my heart? Would they dare to do more? Would his palms perfectly fit over my breasts? Would he touch them to oblivion? Or would he let something more primal and mind-numbing take over?
And I think about so, so much more. I think about myself, bare before him, offering myself to him. I think about how his mouth would feel on every inch of my skin. I think about his fingers and tongue waging war on the innermost part of me. Would he bring me to maddening pleasure? I think about him finally entering me. I think about his length entering my body, sheathing itself in me and leaving, only to return to it, like one can never truly leave home. I think about his ragged breath on my neck. I think about his tensing body. I think about myself teetering towards painfully intense ecstasy. I think about him filling me up like I'm his empty vessel. Would he look into my eye when he finally moves away? Would he pull my back against his warm chest and whisper in my ear, sending shivers down my spine? Would he press his lips against my shoulder blades and utter a silent prayer of love? I know I will.