I could feel your eyes on me as I walked past you on the sofa, and couldn't help but put a little more bounce in my step. I couldn't help but give my bottom a little extra shake, causing my skirt to swish silkily against my thighs.
"Come here," you beckon, your voice tight with what I hope is desire.
"Why? I'm perfectly comfortable over here on the chair," I reply coyly, as I curl up in the armchair, careful not to expose the distracting absence of any panties. I lean forward to place my wineglass on the coffee table, pretending not to notice how my blouse drapes open in invitation, innocently, yet blatantly displaying my breasts swathed in the lacy push up bra purchased just for this occasion. I think I hear just the slightest groan escape your lips as your eyes devour the view.
It has been a long time; an achingly, insanely long time since I felt your skin on mine, since I felt your desire pressing into me. The force of my want, the ache of my emptiness is enough to make me want to scream; but I can't act. As much as I want to launch myself, straddle you on the couch, catch your lips with mine as I slowly stroke myself against the hardness I have fantasized about for weeks, I feel like I am bound in the chair.
"Come," you repeat. I sigh inwardly, hoping you understand the impact that your double entendre has on my already-simmering arousal. I peek at you through my lowered lashes, letting the smallest of shy smiles play across my tingling lips, silently calling to you, imploring you to act. I feel bound in place, needing you to be the aggressor, needing you to overwhelm me with your desire, needing you to conquer me, to claim me.
If I could escape my bounds, I would lose my hands in your hair, and draw you into me, deepen your kiss, taste your tongue, your lips, your cheek. I would lean my head back and guide you to taste me, to run your lips along my neck and then down to the swell of my breasts. Arching, I would press towards you, feeding you my lace-covered nipple, moaning as you drew it deep into your mouth and began to suck. Inflamed by your tongue, I would grind against you, my fingernails digging through your shirt to steady my rhythm, my thighs heated by the friction of riding you through your jeans.
However, still I am stoically seated on the chair, my breath shallow. Waiting. Wanting. You stare back at me, commanding my gaze; I hope it is lust that I see simmering behind the seemingly placid blue of your eyes. I involuntarily shift in the chair; my leg now directly under my dripping pussy, I feel my calf sharing in the slick wetness you have so easily elicited, by simply being nearby. Locked in your eyes, I draw my lower lip inward and hold it between my teeth, sucking its softness and sliding my tongue along its edge, hoping the action will somehow help me contain the pressure of my mounting passion.
If I could let go, I would swiftly rid you of your t-shirt and would slowly drag my hands across your chest, delighting in the feel of your skin, lightly grazing your nipples with my fingertips, savouring your throaty groan. Encouraged, I would softly pinch your left nipple and then your right, teasing and distracting you from my hungry mouth's intent path along the taut edge of your neck. You would jump in reaction to the feel of my wet tongue against your earlobe, in reaction to the feel of my hot mouth, in reaction to the sound of my arousal, a breathless whisper in your ear, "You're mine."
