I want to lust after you, shamelessly. I want to bathe in it, marinate in it, not hide the kind of need I keep buried every day, under the guise of needing to be proper or polite.

I see you. I want to turn any moment into something urgent, passionate, desperate, imagining just throwing caution and normalcy and routine to the wind, to indulge in the kind of craving I can't dare admit from day to day. Where every bit of clingy fabric or bare skin or a swishing hemline of a dress or skirt can stir my imagination, make me want to just ravish you right then and there.

You want it too, on some level. Even if you can't admit it, that kind of need calls to you. You enjoy it, you revel in being wanted so badly we can't wait until it's proper or right or private. That need spills out, even as we can't or shouldn't do this here or now, you eventually need to give in to that desire.

It drives me crazy, this lust, needing you as an outlet for it. Staring holes in snug jeans at your hips, a sweater that you didn't think twice about putting on, enjoying an expanse of bare thigh or teasing cleavage or skinny straps across your shoulders. I imagine you gasping in surprise or catching your breath or that strangled, reflexive protest when I ambush you, desperate for you, insistent lips swallowing your protest as I claw hungrily at your body, needing to remove every last barrier between me and what I need from you.

Do you like that lust? That bare, carnal, simmering need I can't contain when I look at you, think of you, imagine you? Do you want me to indulge in it with you, dive into every sordid fantasy you would inspire in me until we're both sated? Maybe we should talk.