Sat watching him in a pub, the sweet richness flowing over my tongue as I let my mind wander. He's gorgeous in that slightly soft way that shows he isn't aware of how devastating he looks.
My heart skips every time he touches my hands and stares into my eyes, we talk a lot but it's talking about nothing at all really -- the weather, sports, music,-- but it isn't ever anything important. I can feel his smile burning into my head as he stares back. It's a slow, coy, quiet flirting like something back at school, this nervous bumbling sweetness.
I just want to tell him that I want him. Want him to fuck me, to kiss me, to take me. But I'm scared that it would ruin the game, ruin the charade of me as a sweet boy. So instead of telling him, instead of being the wanton slutty boy who is begging to take him to bed or hell, dropping to my knees and blowing his mind as he slumps against the bar holding onto the pump handle as I suck him dry. Instead of that, I go home, back to my flat, my empty flat and that double bed. Instead I stand in my shower, the water beating down on my naked body as I grip myself. Feet apart as I stare back into my dreams imagining that neck, that body and the moment that sends me over the edge into my hand, my thumb caressing the tip of my hardness, his eyes. Those soulful eyes staring into mine as I fill him, my explosion oozing, pulsing into him.
I love him and I know that though I barely know more than his name and those eyes.
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