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Look, I get it. It's not often that strawberries are that good a price. And we can get a pork shoulder to throw in the slow cooker for dinner, and- wait, no. Now I'm getting distracted from the thing that was distracting me. Which is you. So maybe the farmer's market can wait.
I've been thinking about you for days. Why is that weird? That the image of you in a ponytail and t-shirt and leggings has me all hot and bothered? That I'd watch you pick through oranges, imagining just bending you over the stall, enjoying you there, in front of everyone, just because we both wanted it that badly.
Maybe I'm not as worried about sourdough or whole wheat buns for the pulled pork when I'd be looking at your buns instead. Sneaking grabs and gropes of your gorgeous ass, loving how you look and feel, wanting to pull your hips against me and make out, or yank those leggings down so you can open your legs and I can feast on that pussy I haven't had in so long.
I'm not saying we don't need a good wine to go with it, just that I'm really enjoying watching you get up and shower and get ready and maybe instead of going into our day I can drag you back to bed or ambush you in the shower or over the vanity or fuck, literally anything that lets me ravish your gorgeous body. Or maybe we make it to the farmer's market and you flaunt your body all day without knowing it and we enjoy all that pent up need when we get home. Sound good?
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