Over the last few days I have been unable to resist sliding my hands over the paths your hands so recently traced. Those wonderful hands of yours left echoes of warmth in my skin that I can't help reviving. My hands are a poor imitation, but I still feel the tingle, the gentle reminder that you've touched me. If I close my eyes and slowly move my hands the way you moved yours, I see you in that moment. I see the lustrous blue of your eyes, I see your tenderness, I see your desire.
A million times a day I run my hand through the hair that is constantly in my face and push it aside. You made that same gesture, twice running your fingers so gently through my hair. Maybe it is too much to tell you I take pleasure in that simple moment, that the million times I brush my hair aside bring a million images of you to my mind.
Do you know how hard it was to tell you my little story while you teased me from your chair? What little fantasies did you have playing in your mind while I was seated before you? Every word I was trying to say caught in my throat, held in by the images I had of you in various states of undress.
I want my hands buried in your hair beautiful, my lips pressed to your throat. I want to trail my fingers along the gentle dip of your spine, I want to follow the paths I traced with my lips. I want your skin to my skin. I ache for you.
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