But then you're standing there, next to me, close enough to touch, and it's enough to make me go crazy.
Your shirt puckers just the tiniest bit and I can see your chest, and all I can think about is ripping it off you.
Feeling your skin against my skin.
Who needs clothes?
I want to stand facing you, looking at every inch of your body. And then touching every part of you. Running my hands over your shoulders, and down your back. Feeling your strong arms. Touching where your jeans usually are. Pulling your hips into mine...
Moving onto the bed, or a couch, or hell, even the floor. Moving together, in a way that we haven't yet. Fitting together like Lego pieces that might have even been glued, never coming apart. In more ways than one.
I tell myself not to think about you.
But I do.