I don’t write erotica, I tell you. And then put my pen to your paper and start imagining all the rooms I could make you moan.
I don’t know what this is. But it’s the kind of thing I can’t stop. It’s the kind of thing that has me awake at 4 AM thinking of your lips.
You’re from New York, which means you know how to deal with humidity. Excuse my Californian ways, how I wipe the sweat from my brow and tell you I’m not used to this kind of heat. I run my fingers through your brown locks and you say, “People get used to the temperature.” I don’t know if you mean this city or your body. Either way, I’m willing to learn.
I’m a willing student.
You tell me stories from your past and I’m not sure if this is to impress me or scare me. Either way, my mouth is here. Either way, my mouth is waiting for its moment. You’re everything I’m not supposed to want. Which means you’re all that I think about when I’m in the shower. You think I haven’t played this scenario out a hundred times?
You think I haven’t imagined
your hands all over me?
You think I haven’t been waiting all this time
just to taste you on my skin?