“Why do you worry about me so much?” She asks, barley looking at me with those big eyes from beneath her long eyelashes.
I could list her thousands of reasons.
I could tell her that from the first time I saw her at that damn party, something in me stirred, something I thought I’d buried deep enough.
I could tell her that when she smiled at me for the first time, I felt the floor give way under my feet, and I realised that trembling isn’t just something that people do when they’re scared; it’s something that shakes you from within and makes you understand that you’re still alive.
I could tell her it’s because I’m a fucking bastard through and through, and I’d like to find a way between her legs and find my name on her lips in the moment that I make her mine.
I could tell her that it’s because I’m an empty man who’s experienced abandonment first-hand, always hoping that there might be something else out there for me. Something that wouldn’t hurt me, break me, or destroy me.
I could tell her it’s because her hair was made to be brushed by my fingers, that her eyes were made to be adored by mine, that her lips were made to be bitten by me, that her body was perfectly formed to be under, over, and next to mine.
I could tell her that the desire to kiss her, to have her, to write her name on my skin is killing me and if she keeps looking at me like that, I won’t be able to control myself. I’ll jump on top of her right here on this sofa, marking each centimetre of her skin with my teeth.
I could tell her that her nearness drives me crazy and tears me apart because I know I can’t have her, but I’d prefer to die slowly from her gentle sighs rather than to deny myself the sound of her voice, of her heartbeat.
I could tell her it’s because this stupid arsehole wants her all for himself, because he’s never had anything in his life that was more beautiful, and he can’t help but want to relish in her beauty. But I don’t say any of those things. I don’t expose myself to her, like she did.
I simply say, “I’m in debt with you.”
