This is not.....

I never saw myself in my own fantasies; I couldn't bear it. I didn't see myself as someone who ought to be in those situations. When I made myself come, it was always to faceless men and women in whatever roles I wanted them to be in, saying and doing the things I wanted to say and do but never felt like I could pull off with confidence. Maybe I didn't really want to; I had no one in my life whom I craved to be naked with behind my eyelids at night.

Then you, the dark horse in the running, rode up, and everything finally became possible. Yet, while I  love you, this is not a love letter.

This is an I-want-to-fuck-you letter.

Past experiences have taught me patience, how to sweetly torture myself while waiting for the right moment. I want you. This is why, when we spend time together, my fingers are knotted on the tabletop and my ankles are locked.

This is not a love letter. This is a confession.

You turn me on effortlessly. My mind swims with thoughts of your head between my legs and me coming against your tongue while your fingers are buried inside me, locking me to you. My mouth is dry, my panties wet. I can't concentrate on anything but how badly I want you.

This is how I get through the days until I see you again. I picture all the scenarios that will unfold once you know how I feel and feel the same way. We'll do anything, I'll do anything you want.  I can see us going further than we ever planned or thought possible, and being so fucking glad we finally did.

You're with me everywhere I go. I fantasize about how your skin will feel against mine. I can hear my own screams in my head. I walk around with my body buzzing and my head foggy. The anticipation—the need—is both killing me and changing my life.

This isn't a love letter. This is a success story.

I respect you. You are a person who deserves what I have to give, and I will give it to you. This isn't a love letter. This is a promise.

I want to enthrall you. I crave you. I want your soft, choked moans in my ear, your hot breath against my neck. I want to hear your unintelligible mumbles of ecstasy. I picture us afterward, our flushed faces resting against the pillows, smiling wordlessly at each other like we both know some amazing secret, and it makes me ache. This is not a love letter. When you kiss me, you'll find out just what this is.