I’m trying not to think about how much time separates me from her. Only five days, no big deal right? I mean I’ve been counseling her to be patient for a couple of months, why am I breaking down this close to the finish line?
But I am. I’m gritting my teeth anticipating her arrival. I’ve imagined her standing in front of me so many times it feels like reality. But I have yet to touch her, to stroke her skin, to wind my fingers into her hair. The idea of kissing her makes me grind my teeth as I feel a growl coming from below my belly. God, I want to know how she tastes, how it feels to slide my tongue along hers. To feel that quickening as she gasps and pulls me closer.
I want her luscious, beautiful, curvy body next to mine, pressing into me, speaking to me of her need, her desire, her impatience. I want to feel the heat rise between us until it becomes a living thing, winding its way around us, embracing us, making us slick with mingled sweat.
I get surges, hot flashes, sudden heated blasts of emotion and sensation and longing. I think of her face, her smile, the way she ducks her head when she gets overwhelmed with feeling. I want to lift her face, kiss her lips, murmer into her ear. I want to take her to the place I’ve only witnessed from afar. Her back arching, her eyes closing, breath gasping, muscles clenching. I want to give her that, I need to give her that moment.
How is it that five days is harder than time measured in months or weeks? Because I can see it from here, on my calendar, that spot marked for her is visible. As much as I try to distract myself with the day to day of my life, I betray myself. I think of her face, her lips, her sweet welcoming hips, and I’m gone again, down the path of anticipation.
No, I’m not patient any longer. Patience has left me behind with a bratty wave and a blown kiss. “Good luck.. it’s only five days after all.”
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