I touch your fingers from across the table.

They’re short and stout, just like you. But with strangely broad nails. I trace along your thumb and almost feel your blood rushing there. I’m feeling slightly dizzy now. The promise of those hands on me…that mouth on mine is making me breathless. I want you so badly. I want you to take me home. To gaze into my eyes as you cup my breasts and squeeze them. Take off my clothes and look at me. More than a shared lovemaking, I want your attention. Your desire. I want you to want me. I want you to see me. And only me.

I want you to bury your head between my thighs and lick into me. Oh, I’ll make some token protests, but I want this. I want you. I want you to put your fingers inside me, your thumb on my clitoris and stroke me into blissful oblivion. I want you to be focused on me, hearing my gasps and moans and looking at my face.

There’s no more Facebook or social media or likes. There’s none of this bullshit flirting through comments and thumbs-ups. There’s no endless stalking of profiles and last-seens and posts. There’s just you and me, the waves of the sea crashing outside your window.

I want you to know I’m alive. To know I feel this way about you. To know I’d let you do this to me and more. I want you to flirt with me, stroke me to pleasure with words and banter and wit. I know you can.

Can’t you feel me wanting you?