Sometimes I imagine us, squinting out fuzzy blossoms of daylight, 6.57 in the morning. You'd let out a tired sigh of content and arch your back against my stomach as I rub my thumbs in circles on either side of your navel. I press my face into the crook of your neck, the fine hairs at the bottom of your skull softly caressing my cheek. The sunlight is pouring in now, through the slits in your curtain, casting shadows on your body that I delicately trace with my fingertips. I lean in closer, lips barely brushing against your bare shoulder, breathing, warm breaths on your skin, hands gently urging you closer. My eyes close as I give in desire, pressing my lips against your neck to taste your skin.
Then there's sometimes where I imagine us in the still privacy of your bedroom, heat hanging low in the air around us. I trace your silhouette with my gaze; watching your lithe movements makes an urging need pool at the bottom of my stomach. I cross the room to you and you turn to acknowledge my presence. The look on my face must have given me away, but I'm too far gone by now. Two steps and I have you against the wall, my hips pressing against yours. My hands find their way along your spine, kneading into your body in a steady rhythm as you lean into me. I tilt your chin up gently so I can taste your lips. I want to delve into the warmth of your mouth but you begin to clutch me urgently from deep strokes of my hands on your back. I can hear you whimper softly as you dig your nails into the back of my neck. I cannot imagine what sensations you are feeling, but in a moment fueled by carnal urges, I only want to pleasure you more.
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