Because I want more. I’ll walk through vines of red and purple and smile. I’ll place my hand on the small of your back and let you go ahead of me. I’ll hear music even though there’s no band playing, and we’ll walk through fields full of no plans and no expectations.
But the desire will be there.
It will always be there.
Will it be too much for you? Have you kissed but not surrendered? Touched but not caressed? Held but not embraced? There’s so much passion in your writing. It burns me, when I read your world, when they grab onto muscles and groan one another’s names.
What are you like in your bed of ink, when you’re writing your own scene, when it’s not your characters keeping you up at night but the soft, warm sliding of your own body wanting to know what it’s like? Can I be that release for you? Is that why I want you? Because you’re so unmarred?
No. That’s not why. I want you because I want you.
Oh gods, no.