But I want him to burn, goddamn it, like I am.
To drive him crazy, like he’s driving me.
My gaze is still trained on the porch, its dark corners.
In an instant, my mind concocts a fantasy.
Of him, watching me from the shadows.
My tongue wets my lips again and I move, brushing my fingers over my mouth once more before trailing them down my neck. A kind of fever takes hold as I envision him watching me.
Even if he’s there, which he’s not, I doubt he could see much.
He’s not there.
But in my fervor, I want to believe.
I let my hands drift to the swell of my breasts. I just want to pretend, out here by myself. I want him to be watching me. I want him hard and aching, feeling caged as he witnesses my actions from a distance.
I keep my eyes on the porch, on that corner where I know the chair is, and conjure him there. I trace my beaded nipples with my fingers, circling through the silk. My head drops back against the cushion, my hips rise as the soft fabric rides up my thighs.
I’m not wearing any panties, and I let my legs widen, so the air brushes my overheated skin.
He’s watching me, I tell myself.
Watching me.
Watching.
The more I think it, the hotter I get.
I pull one strap down, baring a breast, running my thumb over the peak, while my fingers play.
My fantasy takes on a mind of its own, consuming me in an exhibitionist whirlwind I’ve never experienced before, filling me with fantasies I’ve never had and giving me a taste of what I’d do for him, a taste of what it would be like to be under his spell.
What would he do? Stroke his cock? Or watch me?
I think he’d watch, his expression all hard lines and prowling intensity. Yes, that’s what I want—to witness the hunger that’s consuming me in his eyes.
I let the other strap fall and cup my breasts, running my thumbs over my nipples again and again until I’m breathing hard and my hips arch.
I squeeze my legs together and rock up, circling my hips so I can feel the friction between my thighs, nothing but a tease.
It feels so good.
I don’t want to stop.
I never want to stop.
He’s watching.
Watching.
Watching.
I don’t care if it’s a fantasy; it feels true.
When I can’t stand it anymore, I move one hand down my stomach and between my legs.
