In which the biological imperative gives me the finger.

I want all of him.
I want to grind into him and be so deep that he presses into my ribcage.
Divine and dangerous lust. I wish I had no filters, no inhibitions. I want to smell of spit and sex and heat and salt. I want to taste it on my skin, and lathe it from his with my tongue.

But I hide behind lowered eyelids. I hope that the pulse pounding in my chest and throat is not visible. I glide when I walk, hoping the slickness in my sex isn't apparent.
I try to focus on the rippling waves of sun that prism off my windowsill, squinting my eyes and making motes of dust in the air glisten like tiny angels. And instead I will grind the heels of my hands into my eyes, and sigh softly.