Page 6

I'd kiss your shoulder and tell you, "Look at yourself, sweetheart."

But I also want you to see what happens to me when I touch you.

I want you to see my hands shaking a little because I've imagined putting them on you so many fucking times that actually getting permission would probably wreck me worse than anything I've invented in these letters.

Then I would push the dress slowly from your shoulders and watch the fabric move down your body in the mirror while your expression changes because you know I'm looking too.

And sweetheart, I'd fucking look.

I'd make absolutely no effort to be polite about it.

I'd kiss the side of your neck while you watched, and then lower. Slow enough that you'd know I was doing it on purpose.

You'd probably call me an asshole. And I'd agree.

Then my hands would move again and your argument would get considerably less convincing. That's where the fantasy starts getting filthy, beautiful. Because I don't want you standing there quietly letting me admire you. I want you involved. I want you turning in my arms because you're tired of waiting. I want you grabbing my shirt and kissing me first. I want that wine-dark lipstick absolutely fucking ruined.

But then I would turn you back around so you could watch yourself as I trailed my hands slowly down the front of your body.

I'd start at your shoulders, dragging my palms over your skin while I watched your eyes follow every movement in the mirror, then let them travel lower until I was cupping your breasts through your bra. That's where I know you will try to look away, sweetheart. But I won't let you, I'd kiss beneath your ear and tell you, "Eyes up, and watch."

Then I'd squeeze you just to watch that smart mouth forget whatever insult you had lined up. My hands would then keep moving, down your ribs, across your stomach, and then lower. Slow enough that you'd know exactly where I was going long before I got there.

My fingers would slip inside that sexy black lace but I wouldn't be looking down, I'd be watching you and taking in every tiny sharp intake of breath and how your lips would part. And then I'd watch every tiny reaction as my fingers move against you. The tiny crease between your brows when pleasure caught you harder than you expected.

I'd watch your whole body soften against mine while you tried very hard to pretend I wasn't getting exactly the reaction I wanted. Until the pleasure became too much for you to hide from me.

Jesus Christ.

I want that image burned into my fucking head. I want you watching yourself get flushed and messy. I want you seeing your own mouth fall open instead of immediately finding something about your body to criticize. I want you watching pleasure take over until there isn't enough room left in that clever head for whatever nasty little comment you were planning to make about yourself.

And I'd keep talking because apparently I've accepted that I'm never going to shut the fuck up around you.

"That's it."

Your head would tip back against my shoulder.

"Look at you."

And when your breathing changed again, when your body started giving you away even harder, I'd hold you tighter against me and make sure you could still see yourself.

Because I don't want the fantasy where you disappear inside whatever I'm doing to you. I want you there for every second of it.

I want you to see what I've been seeing for months, sweetheart. Your shoulders, the softness you keep treating like something to hide, that mouth that has been a fucking problem since before these letters existed, and the woman who still thinks being wanted this intensely has to be a mistake. It isn't, sweetheart. I look at you and want you. It's really that fucking simple.

And when you fall apart, fuck, that sound would fucking own me. I'd want another, and another. I could go fucking insane for wanting to hear that sound again and again.

I'd also let you ruin me and probably encourage you, I'd let you mark me with that lipstick after you got your pleasure because the thought of seeing your lipstick smeared across my skin afterward makes this whole possession problem feel a little less one-sided. I'd have something visible proving you touched me and left your mark on the bastard who has spent so long claiming you in letters, and I like that far more than I should.

Wear the dress on Halloween if you want to, or wear something else if you genuinely change your mind. Just don't put it back because that shitty little voice in your head starts listing reasons you haven't earned the right to look fucking incredible in it.

If that voice starts telling you to take the dress back, tell it to shut the fuck up for me.

Your increasingly fucked up admirer.

P.S. I'm already imagining where else I would like to see that lipstick smeared.

October 27