It’s always the small things. Just the way their sleeves hug their arms or the collar of the shirt brushes against their skin, the way their jeans sit that day or maybe it just how they carry themselves with more ease than the day before. It’s the smallest things that can spike the mind. The straining of their pants or the way their throat bops when they swallow. And the thoughts take off.

Craving to sit on their lap, feeling the heat and excitement radiating from their body. Feeding them desserts, with the spoon or fingers or with a kiss and tongue. Balancing on that rope of desire and resistance, not giving in but endlessly teasing. Whispers in their ear about what I’d like to do with them as I innocently let my fingers wander over their skin. Shifting slightly in my position, barely grinding down but they can feel every movement and it’s getting so deliciously painful so much they frown.

Another lick, maybe a bite, let them suck on my fingers as I nibble their earlobe. Another scoop of chocolate pudding on my fingertip, smear their lips and let them lick it off. Just shamelessly grinding down at this point, what will they do? And I feel my stomach tense up, another bite of dessert that I let glide from my mouth into theirs, sharing the sweetness on each other’s tongues and lips. Turns into a passionate exchange of desire and pleasure, rubbing against each other.

Kiss me in the hall, press me against the wall, pushing their thigh between my legs and holding my wrist above my head. Make me feel desired and small, hungry for their lips. Nudge and pull away, make me whine and beg for the touches and licks until I’m their little squirming mess.

Let me push against them, escape their grip, corner them against the door and let my hums against their skin drive them crazier for more. Barely touching, fingertips just slightly brushing before I grab their neck and pull them close, push my hips against theirs.

Overpower me again, show me the hunger and the passion that makes them burn for me. Pinning me down with their stare, grabbing my hips like they care, digging their fingers into my flesh and letting me feel the cravings they carry with each breath.

But I can turn it around in a whim, get my hands on their skin, my fingers brushing over their hips and drive inside their pants, palming their hardness and squeezing a bit. Their ragged moans fill my ears, I’ve got them by the thread that holds their sanity. So hot and messy already for me.

And this game would go on and on, taking turns making each other into putty, forming one another into the wet dreams about being slutty. We don’t even make it to the bed or the couch, we just get down on the floor and fuck each other more and more, each thrust harder than the last. Forgetting all about the past. Cumming so hard they forget their name. And each time the body hits the ground, the dull pain reminds us how what we found is real and raw, honest and perfect, even with every single flaw. Because feelings don’t need to make a lot of sense, as long as it makes you feel alive.