Me sitting next to you, your next to me, your left side because I need a free hand and you do too. Your left hand rest on my thigh, not by my knee either. It sits on my thigh, fingers inside, while we eat. Your warm hand taps and finds, even more warmth between my thighs. You began touching me, teasing me, drawing circles and licking the fork from which you eat.
I’m wetter than the drink you’re sipping on.
I throw my right leg, over your left and open wide. I do it because I accept your offer, for I desire your nimble fingers. Dinner is moot because I’m barely tasting my food. My mouth is dry and I want to taste you, for the inability to breathe and keep myself still – my sex long overdue.
It’s not until you put your finger inside me do I agree to the promises of later and I hurry. Do I swallow? Or chew whatever is left of my food?
Damn…when we are you going to have me for dinner again?