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If you had told me beforehand, while you were fully awake and looking at me, exactly what you wanted me to be allowed to do, I think it would have broken something loose in me that has no business being broken.

Here is what I keep imagining.

You would have already told me what you wanted.

That's the part I keep coming back to, the part that makes the fantasy different from every other filthy thing I've written you. Not me deciding. You deciding, while you were awake and clear-headed and looking straight at me, telling me exactly what you wanted to happen after you closed your eyes. That conversation is yours and I'm not going to put words in your mouth here. But in my head you were specific, sweetheart. You didn't hedge or soften it into a suggestion. You told me what you wanted and you held my gaze the whole time you were saying it, and the fact that you could do that without looking away once told me everything I needed to know about how long you'd been thinking about it.

So I would come in after you'd been asleep long enough that your breathing had gone deep and slow.

I would stand in the doorway for a moment, just watching you, because I think that first sight of you would be almost too much. Hair across the pillow. One shoulder bare where the blanket had shifted. Your mouth slightly open the way it gets when you've fully let go of the day. And I would know, standing there, that you had fallen asleep thinking about this. That the last conscious thing in your head was the knowledge that I might already be on my way.

That thought alone would make it nearly impossible to move slowly.

But I would, because I'd want to feel every second of it.

I would slowly pull down the covers, making sure not to wake you. Each inch of revealed skin would test my control—the curve of your collarbone, the rise and fall of your chest, the soft expanse of your stomach. As much as I would want to kiss all of that beautiful skin, map every inch with my mouth until I'd memorized you, I would focus on trying to give you as much pleasure as I could before you woke.

I would gently pull down your underwear, taking my time sliding the fabric down your thighs, over your knees, past your ankles. Then I would softly kiss your inner thigh, working my way up slowly, breathing you in. The sweet scent of your pussy would make me pause, just for a moment, before I got my first taste of that sweetness.

And fuck, sweetheart, that's where the fantasy gets dangerous.

Because I keep wondering: could I make you come without waking you up? Could I wring multiple orgasms from you with my mouth while you slept, each one building on the last until your body was humming with sensation even before your mind caught up? Would I be able to push my cock deep inside you before you woke, so that the first thing you became aware of was being full of me, your body already responding, already moving against me?

Would you wake confused and overwhelmed, pleasure already cresting through you? Would you remember in that first hazy second that you had asked for this, or would there be a moment of disorientation before recognition settled in and you realized you were getting exactly what you'd wanted?

I think about you reaching for me, not sure yet if you're still dreaming. I think about the sound you'd make when you finally understood that this was real, that I had been between your thighs for who knows how long, learning exactly what makes you shake.

But that's just a fantasy, sweetheart, and it will remain only a fantasy until you tell me you want that and we sit and have that conversation.

The one with you looking me in the eye and telling me exactly what you want me to be allowed to do later. I wouldn't have to guess or convince myself silence meant something convenient. You would decide the rules before your head ever touched the pillow, and I would get to spend the whole fucking night knowing you trusted me to follow them even while I was losing my mind over you. I'd be unbearable about that kind of trust, sweetheart. I'm already unbearable with far less encouragement.

So think about it. You don't owe me an answer tonight and you definitely don't owe me another invitation just because last night went exactly the way I promised. If the idea does nothing for you, fine, I'll survive being disappointed like a grown fucking man. If it does turn you on, though, I want you to sit with that without immediately deciding it makes you weird, dirty or too much.

Yours, and getting more fucked in the head about you by the hour.

P.S. I turned off your lights because you were asleep and I know you'd have complained about wasting electricity in the morning. Yes, apparently I can stalk you and still have opinions about your power bill.

October 30

Evening my beautiful fucking problem,

Tomorrow night I'm going to find you.

There. I've written it down now, so maybe my brain will stop repeating it every thirty fucking seconds.

Probably not.

I know you bought a ticket for the Halloween event tomorrow night and I'll be there. I'm not giving you some ridiculous set of instructions to follow and I'm not telling you where to look because I don't know where I'll find you yet. I only know that I will, and when I do, sweetheart, you won't have to stand there wondering whether the masked man in front of you is me. I'll make sure you know.

You had coffee with your friend this morning, and for the first time in a few days the two of you looked almost normal again. She was still watching you carefully at first, but after ten minutes you were both laughing over something on her phone and she'd stopped wearing that expression that says she's two seconds away from bundling you into her car and driving you across state lines.

She asked whether another letter came. You smiled into your coffee, and that was enough to make her suspicious.

When she asked why you were blushing, you told her there were parts of recent letters she absolutely did not want explained over breakfast. She stared at you for a second, looked at the coffee in her hand like she regretted having ears, then started laughing.

Sweetheart, I think that was the first time she has found any part of this funny.

She still thinks I'm dangerous. She would have to be fucking stupid not to, and unfortunately for me your friend isn't stupid. She knows what I've done, or enough of it anyway, and I don't expect her to suddenly decide the man stalking her best friend is secretly adorable because he turned off some Halloween lights and managed to keep his hands where he promised.