Devour

I was never comfortable with guys. They were too pushy, or creepy, or stalkery, or needy.

You... you are deliciously awkward. Between bouts of needy mouths we laugh about something from last week.

Your thumb on my knee, something innocent, strikes a nerve, and I can't get close enough.

Above me, you're concerned about pushing my boundaries, timid, wanting without needing, and it brings out something aggressive in me.

I want to push you until you have to push back.

I play all my tricks, licking lips, entwined legs, and still, I can't get enough. You push me down into the bed with your dancing mouth, and I just want you to devour me.

I want you. I. Want. You.

This should scare me. I've never wanted anyone like this before, but that fear that's been grinding in my gut has hidden itself away, until all I feel is this blind need.

In my head, I've claimed you, with every inch my hand moves, I claim another piece of you. There is something satisfying in that sense of ownership. That clench of hands in hair that says perversely "Mine."

I tell you how I feel with a fingernail on your back, but you can't read it, and I can't say it.

In the light, you're not ready. I'M not ready. We're just a couple of kids inside.

But at night... the slide of thighs, taste of tongues, and frenzied hands turn off my rational thought, and all I can think is

"I Love you. I want you. I need you. Make me yours."