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And that lipstick. Sweetheart, please ruin that fucking lipstick.

I want to see it smeared when you pull away from me. I want it on my mouth because you put it there, and if you decide to drag your lips across my jaw or my neck just to see what kind of mess you can make of the bastard who has been obsessing over you for months, I'm not stopping you. I want evidence you touched me back.

That thought has become a problem.

What happens after a kiss, though? That's where my head has completely gone to shit tonight. If we get a moment alone and you still want me, are you going to let my hands move lower? Will you let me find out whether you get that same little hitch in your breathing when I'm the one touching you instead of watching from six feet away?

Would you let me slip my hand beneath that dress? Would you let me touch your pussy after spending all these nights telling you how badly I've wanted to?

Would you spread your legs for me because you wanted my hand there, then look at me through that velvet mask while I tried to work out how the fuck I was supposed to survive finally getting something I've imagined this many times?

Fuck.

I know what I would want. I'd want to make you come before I worry about anything happening to me. I've spent too much time thinking about the way you tried to swallow your sounds that night, and I want to know what happens when you don't have to hide them because you know I'm there and I'm the reason you're making them.

Would you let me put my mouth on you? I've wondered what your pussy tastes like enough times that the question has stopped being remotely dignified. Would you let me eat that pussy and make you forget there are other people somewhere outside whatever little piece of darkness we managed to steal?

Would you put your hands on me and tell me when something feels good? Would you pull me closer instead of lying there trying to be quiet? Would you let yourself come against my mouth and then ask me to do it again because you've finally worked out that I want you fucking greedy?

That fantasy has been living in my head all day.

You demanding another orgasm instead of apologizing for the first one.

Christ.

I would lose my fucking mind over that.

And if your hands found my cock afterward? Yeah, beautiful, I've thought about that too. I've thought about what it would do to me to feel you touch me because you wanted to know exactly how hard you've made me, and I've wondered whether you'd enjoy finally getting your own hands on the bastard who admitted he wrapped your dirty underwear around his cock because thinking about you had already made behaving impossible.

Would you want to feel what you do to me? Would you want more than that? Would you let me fuck you tomorrow night if we found ourselves alone and we both wanted it badly enough?

Fuck, sweetheart.

Would you want my cock inside you while we were still wearing those masks, still not knowing my name, while the only thing you knew for certain was that the man touching you was the same fucked-up bastard who has written every one of these letters?

Would you want me to take my time because it was finally real, or would you already be too worked up for slow? Would you tell me harder? Would you wrap your legs around me because you wanted me closer?

Would you let me feel you come around my cock after I'd already made you come with my hands or my mouth, then laugh at the absolute state of me because apparently the woman who spent the first week pretending these letters weren't getting under her skin has decided to fucking kill me?

I could keep going, that should concern both of us.

But here is the part I need you to understand before tomorrow.

Those are only questions. They are filthy questions and I desperately want some very specific answers, but they're still questions.

I don't get to decide tonight that you'll kiss me tomorrow. I don't get to turn the fact that you let me sit beside your bed into permission to put my hands anywhere else. I don't get your pussy because you wore my ribbon or bought the dress or smiled after finding out what I did with your underwear.

If I find you tomorrow and all you want is to stand there looking at me for a while, then that is what happens.

If you want a kiss and nothing else, I'll take that kiss home and obsess over it until I become completely fucking unbearable.

If you want more?

Sweetheart, tell me.

You've already learned what happens when you give me a clear yes, I listen.

Even when every filthy part of me is screaming for another one.