I love the way Tim Curry holds the p when saying the word,
defining it as he says it.
I’ve always loved the anticipation, sometimes more than the act.
My hands on your knees as you sit on my desk,
the darkness behind us- silent yet dangerous.
The look in your eyes as I gaze up at you,
Your lust spilling down onto me as you rock my chair back and forth, your feet on the arms and my fingers digging into your skin.
You wore a skirt. Tease.
Our clothes are in the way though,
a casualty of war that will soon feel a ripped fury unleashed upon them.
This is the last moment my mind thinks before it relies on instinct, sound or the way your body reacts to my touch.
That moment when the anticipation of what I’m going to do to you runs through my head,
and what possibilities you’ll do to me dances gleefully along side it.
Your chest at my eye level and your eyes looking down to mine,
Seeing part of your bounty and unable to control my breathing,
Your legs are still parted.
My focus scattered.
The moment before action drilling its way into my pounding heart.
Draw out the anticipation of lust,
until the dams break and flood us both.