I watched his hands move up and start unbuttoning his shirt.. each one allowing more flesh to show… I reached for him and he gently slapped my hand ...way… telling me not yet. I wanted to touch him so bad… but waited patiently. The shirt was soon off and laying across a chair beside the bed. There I was on his bed… the only place I could think about… watching him… the way his hands moved over his skin… I wanted them on me… I wanted him in me. He toyed with me….. touching his zipper… moving his. These are the things that help make up for me. If I’m to be completely honest, there is a lump in my throat, and a tension to my core. These mediocre words are only forming the distraction from the things which I beg reality to release me from. I beg so hard that I even imagine a different ending. There is knock on my door, which was strange, because everyone was asleep the last time I checked. My grandmother was the only person who could knock on my bedroom door at night, yet she always. More

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