There are a lot of things about our encounters together that I end up thinking about after.

The messaging beforehand. The spike of adrenaline and need and want that coursed through me when you said you were on your way over. The anticipation of knowing that in 15 minutes you’d be here and kissing me, touching me, licking me, fucking me.

I touched myself afterwards thinking about the implied command in your request for me to open the door to you in lingerie. The sexiness I felt both in wearing lingerie in the middle of the day, but wearing it knowing that you’d like it, that you asked for it. When I opened the door and you saw me in my scraps of fabric, the appraising way you looked at me.

The way I kissed you the second you were in the door and the way you pressed me against the wall in my hallway, the way you pulled the fabric over my nipples to one side. That you grabbed my wrists in one of your hands and raised them over my head as you kissed me, my neck. That your other hand went towards my clit, to feel how wet I was for you. When you loosened your grip on my wrists, I loved being able to touch you, to hold you closer to me, to be able to move aside the fabric separating your fingers from my clit so that I could moan into your shoulder as I fell apart.

The way you look at me, the way you look at my body. You always look hungry for me and my body responds to that. It is ready to be devoured by you.