My need for you itches at me. Claws, scratches, reminding me every moment you're around. I feel like I can sense you, around the house, that you heighten my senses with your presence. You can try, sometimes, but you don't need to. My eyes, my mind, always come back to you. I hunger for more.

There's not a room in the house I haven't wanted you, haven't thought of having you. Eyes devouring your body, through whatever clothes you throw on for a day, thinking of where and how I could enjoy you.

Passing in the hallway, spinning you against a wall, feel my hands insistent through your jeans, your shirt, feeling every curve of you as I push my hand into those jeans, forcing you into that pleasure right there. Ambush you when you come out of the shower, gloriously naked and flush, hear your chuckling protest before I bury my face between your legs and lick, your hands in my hair as mine take your hips, needing your taste on me. Or leggings- god, those fucking leggings- lounging on the couch, wishing I could rip them before I eat you out, taking you away from your Netflix marathon.

In the kitchen, rummaging around in a drawer, grabbing your hair and sliding my cock into your mouth. Keeping you in bed, all day, dragging you back once I'm ready for more. Turning your run into some different cardio, sliding that sports bra up so I can fuck your tits. All of it. I want all of it, and so much more.

But my hunger doesn't stop. It might lay dormant for a time, sated by you, the only one who can satisfy me. But I always want you more. And that's what makes it so delicious.