I know my letter hasn’t made it to you—my letter full of all the naughty, heathenish things I want to do to/with/on you—but I have an addendum:
I want to pet your shoulders, wrap my forearms under your arms and up your back, hold onto you like a harness while you catch you breath.
I want to play with your hair until you fall asleep on the couch with your head in my lap, watching Audrey live her dream Italian life.
I want to sit like that for an hour after you drift off, and study all the bits of your relaxed face I never get to see anymore.
I want to sit in your lap and shave you with a straight razor, like in Bond, and watch you nervously accept your fate and practice trusting me. I want to rub cream into your cheeks, mould them into funny faces, then take your life into my hands. Show you how I will never, ever let you get hurt. Follow the curves of your body which is somehow not just a gift to you but also, now, to me? Wrap a warm towel on your chin; douse you in oil. Kiss you until you lean all the way back onto the bathroom tiles, and have my way with you there.