There is a fierceness to desire that I love. The burning heat, the urgency, the moaned excitement, the little noises of arousal and intensity - all these markers of want drive it up for me a few notches and make an already good scene superlative.
I want to drive a man so mad with want that he leaves impressions of that madness on my skin, in bruises where his thumbs dig in while we writhe together, our bodies feeding off each other's reactions. To hear a shuddering breath and feel my own pulse quicken in response, to bring his hand to my throat and let my racing heart reveal itself in veins quivering against his grip. To let my fingers speak my intentions, let my nails graze sensitive flesh, let my palm curl around hardness and heat in ways so intense and so demanding that incoherent cries are all that he can give me as I give him deliverance. To moan into sheets as I feel hot drops splash onto my breasts, to feel marked and owned by the hands that rub that seed into my skin, leaving me with reminders that I can wash off but never let go of. To be held hard and tight, arms wrapped around me, holding me in place, to be fucked with an appetite so large that I am sated and begging before he comes on my face.
