You Want Me

You want me. You know this, but for some reason, you refuse to acknowledge it. I can see it in your eyes, in the way they latch on to me whenever we’re both in the same room. You undress me slowly and deliberately, your eyes roving over my body like it’s some delectable treat on a concession stand and you’re starving. It’s in the way you lick your lips as your eyes drink me in, how you worry your lower lip between your teeth so slightly, almost absent-mindedly.

Your want is in how your lashes sweep your cheek each time my eyes meet yours, in how you try to hide the desire in your eyes from me. If you should know, you’re never successful. Did you know your lips pucker ever so slightly when you’re turned on? That your eyes turn hungry and unfocused, and you seem far away?

You need me. It’s in the way you shift in your seat whenever I walk past you. Your skin must be humming with the anticipation of my passing, and I can hear you hold your breath for the millisecond it takes my foot to cross your space. Sometimes, I tease you and let my hand brush against you. The tiny tremors I cause are always a delight to me. I hear you exhale shakily after I pass, and I know your panties are ruined with how much you want me.

You crave me, desperately. There are days you’re accepting of it, like the days you smile back when I greet you in passing. I like to think that perhaps, you’d made yourself cum to images of me, of us. I think that you lay in bed, beneath your covers, because despite all the sex you exude, you’re still touchingly demure and you cannot imagine yourself exposed like that. You fantasise about me, about us, about all the ways your skin would ignite when it comes into contact with mine. You can almost hear the sizzle of the sparks flying.

You imagine my hands touching you, feeling you, surrounding you, dragging you into me. You think of my mouth tasting you, feeding off you, absorbing your essence into myself. You imagine us everywhere; slow and gentle on the living room couch, hurried and urgent on the kitchen counter, playful in the shower, languorous in the bedroom. As you teach your hands to bring you pleasure, you imagine they’re my hands touching you, coaxing your flesh into release, and you scream as the pleasure rips through your body.

On days like this, you smile back at me and nod when I greet you. On other days, you hate that you yearn for me this way and you deny your desire. Days like the ones where you try to flirt with any other woman who isn’t me, especially when I’m watching.

I wonder if they realise that you’re faking it, that all the sex you transude is for me, only for me. Do they know that when your breath catches as they caress the skin of your hand, it’s not because their touch excites you? Do they know that the hitch in your breath is because their hand on you feels wrong, and you’re trying hard not to fling it away? Do they see that your smile is forced, that the words are falling mindlessly from your lips and all they’re saying to you is hot air? Do they realise how distracted you are from stealing glances at me every three seconds, to find out what I’m doing, with whom I’m speaking?

On days like those ones, it’s as if you’re angry with me for not noticing how much you want my hands on you. My seeming nonchalance irritates you and it amuses me how you’d rather endure the cursory touch of a stranger, than walk up to me and claim me like you should.

Because that’s what you want to do, claim me. You want me to mark your skin, but you want to mark mine too. You want to kiss me, boldly, in front of all the women in the vicinity around me. You want them to know that I am yours, that my body belongs to you and they cannot have me. I see it in the way you clench your fists when I so much as smile at another woman. Why don’t you? Why don’t you claim me?

It’s all you think about. It’s all you want to do. You want to wrap your beautiful, elegant hand around my neck and squeeze, whispering reminders into my ear about whose body this is. You want to etch it into my skin with your teeth, brand it onto my lips with your tongue. You want me to taste your possession whenever I lick my lips. You want to permeate my being until all I exude is you, until my body is addicted to yours and cannot exist without its fix; you.

You want me. Your whole body screams it. You think you’re hard to read but I know all the words etched on every part of you. I know what you’re going to say before you say it. I know how your mouth tilts when you’re concentrating. I know how your voice quivers when you’re frightened. I know how your hands shake when you’re mad. I know everything about you, I know you.

You don’t know that I want you too, that I’m more obsessed with you than you are with me. When your eyes undress me slowly, you don’t realise how I struggle to draw air into my lungs, how my eyes turn dark with all the possibilities I imagine. It doesn’t dawn on you that I look away quickly because I am afraid you will see your desire mirrored there perfectly, perhaps even magnified.

On those days when I tease you as I pass by your desk, I do it more for me than for you. I hunger for you, I need to touch you, I need to feel you. Those stolen touches mean the world to me. They keep me going until I can touch you again.

I crave you, desperately. It rips me apart whenever you flirt with someone else. My being dies a thousand little deaths when someone who isn’t me touches your hand and caresses it. It takes everything in me to affect nonchalance, to pretend that I don’t give a damn. In reality, I want to drag you to me and imprint myself on you till not even a whisper can pass between us. I want to glare at whichever woman is talking to you, and scream she’s mine into her face. Then I want to take you home and fuck the memory of her touch away.

At night when I lie in bed alone, above the covers – because despite all the innocence I exude, I’m a wanton little creature – it’s your face I see when I close my eyes. It’s your eyes that roam over me, your lips that kiss me, your hands that touch me, your body that draws a response from me. I imagine us sneaking kisses in a cinema, trying to be quiet in the break room at work or simply in each other’s arms watching a movie. When the tremors stop and I open my eyes again, your name is a whisper on my lips, then a sob, then a broken plea. Why won’t you claim me, as you should?

You want me. You need me. You crave me, desperately. Your body weeps whenever I am next to you. You insist on denying it, you refuse to act on it. I am certain of this because I hunger for you too. I know all the words etched on your skin because they’re etched on mine too. Claim me. Please. 

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