I want my fingers on something softer than this keyboard.
Tonight, I want to be in bed with you, a movie we’ve each seen dozens of times on TV, and our hands wandering.
In no particular rush.
I want to make out solely for the purpose of making out. No glossing over it as but a step along the way. It can be a destination, if you do it right.
And we will.
I want to wrap your hair around and around my hand. I want to pull it, just hard enough, to tilt your head back.
So I can lightly move my lips up your neck.
Just barely touching.
Few things are hotter than teasing.
I know those few things.
I want my lips this close to yours.
But way too fucking far away.
A soft kiss. A harder kiss.
I want my arms around you.
A hug hinting at more.
Then spilling the beans.
I want to give you a back rub. Platonic for as long as it can be. Nerve endings knowing it is just the beginning. Fingers playing on smooth skin. Dancing up to the line where sexual potential embraces kinetic.
Then diving headfirst over it.
I want my hands on your hips.
Just the right amount.
Just that little bit surprisingly.
I want your nails down my back.
Mouths with a carte blanche.
On sheets blanche.
In a dark room.
I want the sounds to feed the desire to turn up the sounds to feed the desire.
Our breathing telling stories where I already know the ending.
I want to read it to you tonight.
A few times.