You asked me what I want. Here is my response:
I want to bring you to the edge of ecstasy, every time. I want you quivering and shaking, overcome and overwhelmed. I want to hear your breathy sighs, your whispers, your shouts, your choked back moans–I want the desperate undulations of your hips, the clench of your fingers on my wrists, my ribs, my hair; the sharp freezing of your thighs as you try to hold yourself still to accept the movements of my mouth, my tongue in your most private of places–I want that bonelessness, the slackness of every muscle in your body, the softening and curling up of your afterglow.
I want all of that, all of it.
I want to bend you over against a cabinet, with the wild and lascivious thrusting of the unashamed and aggressive and hungry, I want your legs slipping over mine as you brace against the wall and the back of the chair scratches the sheetrock, evidence of an evening, a night, well spent. I want, I want, I want–I want you like I need air, I want you like a woman newly blinded by darkness searches for an opening, a doorknob, a way out and a way in.
But, more than all of that, more than anything, I want you to want me. To think of my body and to writhe, in your sheets, to press your neck to a cold wall to soothe, to think of me and to feel your insides clench and moisten and twist in that deliciously way that signals “my body has turned only towards you”–I want you to want me with even the slightest sliver of the amount that I want you.
Is that now clear enough for you?