It’s really easy to talk about how sexy you are when you do stuff. When you perform delicate tasks with precision, or say things that make me melt. And logic might dictate that it’s harder to see why you’re sexy when you do absolutely fuck all, but that isn’t always the case.
The other night when you were lying on the sofa, me sitting on the floor looking up at you, I couldn’t stop my brain from telling me: bite him. Go on: bite. Stand up, straddle him, press your cunt hard against the muscle of his upper thigh, then as you rub yourself on the solid reality of his achingly sexy body, sink your teeth into the flesh of his shoulder.
You were just so there. So real. So immediate.
Your t-shirt sleeves were stretched taut against the meat of your upper arms, and my eye was drawn to the pale softness of your skin, framed by neat black cotton.
And I wanted, so much, to lick it.
We were not alone: there were other people there. Perhaps that’s why this aching hunger grew into frenzied obsession. I smiled at the right points in the conversation, made jokes when there was an opportunity to speak, and meanwhile inside my head all I could see was me grabbing you, frotting you, eating you. Dragging you off the sofa and onto the floor so I could squat over the thick rigidity of your dick, and slide it deep inside me.
It was your arms and your shoulders, but also your neck. Every visible inch of your skin looked warm and soft and perfect for me to press my lips against and growl.
When you fidget with nearby objects I can’t help but stare at the dextrous way your fingers flip and twist and tap and manipulate whatever it is you’re holding. I remember how those fingers feel when they’re buried in a fistful of my hair, yanking me back onto your cock as you fuck me. I picture how they’ll feel when we get into bed – when you reach for me with chilly hands and try to warm them on my tits, eventually hunting down the wet slit of my cunt as you murmur ‘roll over…’
The way you crossed your legs that night – thick, muscular thighs tapering down to delicately perfect feet with mathematically-curved arches. You were doing nothing, yet being everything, and all I could think about was how I could claim you. Own you. Envelop you with my cunt.
You’re sexy when you do stuff, but also when you do nothing. When you sit opposite me, and we cannot physically touch, you become part-stranger. The fact that we’re not allowed to fuck right now makes me all the more desperate to do it. Stand up, straddle, and fuck you like there’s nobody else in the room.
By the time we go to bed, the feeling has worn off. I’m far too tired to keep my eyes open, let alone devour you.
But tomorrow I’ll think about what there might have been.
And the things I wanted to do to you, while you did nothing.