I Dont Know What To Say 1

I want to do really, really filthy things to you.

I didn't even think I liked girls that much.

I barely know you.

And yet, it's like that stupid quote from The Fault In our Stars, isn't it? Slowly and then all at once...

You come along and look up at me with those annoyingly gorgeous eyes (and really, do they HAVE to be that fucking colour? I have such a weakness for that colour), and ho-ly shit. Smitten. Instantly fucking smitten.

I want to press my forehead against yours and sweep the hair that frames your face to the side, and gently rub my nose against yours, and let my hands rest against your powdery soft, glowing skin, and kiss all the breath out of you. I want to swipe my thumbs across your cheekbones and suck your lower lip into my mouth, and bite it gently, nuzzle into the skin at your shoulder (and damn it, I know you spray perfume there because I've seen you do it, and double goddamn it, you smell amazing and I hate it because it makes me feel pathetic for noticing). I want to hold your face gently, and caress your skin with my fingertips and lips.

But don't get me wrong, it's not all innocent by any stretch of the imagination.

And I want to get drunk, and kiss you, and press you against a wall, and hike one of your stupidly gorgeous legs around my waist, and bite at the skin of your shoulder and your décolletage, and run my hands up the inside of your thighs and not even bother with your underwear (which I'm sure would be super cute, and pretty, just like you, and oh god did I just write that? Gross). And I'd just slip my fingers inside your underwear, and you'd love it, because hey, this is my fantasy, and in this fantasy, you like me back. Or at least like me enough to want to fuck me.

And I want to take you home, and tie you apart on my bed, and fuck it, I'm not even a Dominant, but I want to take you apart, gently. I want you writhing about on the sheets, and panting, and begging, and pleading, and an incoherent mess of whispers and gasps and pleas.

I know exactly what I'd do to you. I wouldn't do any of the rough things I love done to me. You look like you're made of porcelain, and I wouldn't want to hurt you. I wouldn't use rope, but silk scarves (sorry, they wouldn't be matching...), and keep you spread, and kiss every goddamn inch of your body until you were begging for more. You're not something to be destroyed, but something to be worshipped.

And then... I guess I'd just give you more. I'd give you everything I have. Probably over and over and over again. Tongues and fingers exploring every inch of you. And because you'd be tied there... if you let me, and I worked out how (sue me, I've never been with a girl before), I'd stay up all night, getting you off over and over and over again. I'm talking forced orgasms here, getting you to the point that you're begging for more, but sobbing for me to stop because too much, too sensitive, oh my god, theretheretheredon'tstop.

Eventually, we'd have a enough, and I'd untie you, and kiss the rub gently at the marks on your wrists and ankles until the skin was smooth again. And I'd kiss you over and over again, bring you orange juice (what? You're probably dehydrated and low on sugar by now...), and walk you to the shower where you could just let me take care of you, water slipping into our mouths as we kissed under the hot spray. A hot fluffy towel later, and we could curl into bed and cuddle until sleep came to us.

I like the idea of waking up beside you, sharing a pillow with you, seeing the grey morning light casting a glow over your skin. I like the idea of watching you slowly rise into consciousness, the tiniest movements behind your eyelids, the gentle blinking as you slide into awareness, light reflecting from your eyes. A gentle morning kiss, and more, before letting consciousness slip away, curled into the warmth of the sheets, blankets, and each other.

I don't want to think these things about you. I really don't.

But, holy fuck, I do.