You are most vulnerable when you read.
Preoccupied, submersed and lost
to the words on the pages
you turn with consideration.
The way your fingers run along
the papers edge like a lovers caress;
Naive wonder provokes licentious thought;
I begin to question my own virtue.
To see in your eyes the desire that
aches between my legs would be my undoing.
I wish you would look up at me just now;
flushed, anxious and starving
for your ravenous appetite.
I have tasted fire from your lips,
felt the possession of urgent fingers
bruise into my skin without remorse—
but only in these depraved daydreams of mine.