If only he knew I was watching him

He doesn’t know that I’m watching the way his shirt sleeves cling desperately to his biceps or the way his dimples appear when he smiles. Every week it’s this way. I watch him as I sit here, waiting for my eldest daughter to get out of dance class, the room a loud cacophony of noises and conversations. I picture what he would feel like, his hard stomach, my fingers trailing along his abs, and his stiff chest. I can feel him breathe on me, his air smelling like mint and musk, and it sends a shiver across my skin. My neck tingles with his finger traces, his eyes are looking me over. I hope he likes what he sees.

My nipples have grown taut, my breasts are longing to be touched by him, and I tilt myself into him to help facilitate. He doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he kisses me tenderly on the lips; his taste is like warm rain. I want to take his clothes off, grab his throbbing erection with my hand, and rub my warm mouth over his head. His length, so deep inside my mouth, feels as lovely as eating an ice cream cone on a hot summer day. His shaved balls feel so warm in my hand; I can feel their smoothness on my palm. I massage them and tug gently at his large sex, my mouth still focused on satisfying him.