If I've said it once, I've said it a hundred times. This is all your fault. Looking at me with those darkened doe eyes and that wounded pout, I wonder if you know what you do to me. I wonder if you know how much your voice turns me on—when you sing, when you speak softly as you compliment me, even when you're annoying and overbearing. The sound waves ravage through me and always end up pooling between my legs. It makes me want you. More specifically, it makes me want to hear you… hear you say my name. I want to hear you say it as I ghost my fingertips across your collarbone. I want to hear you whisper it over the shell of my ear as those same fingertips drift wantonly across your lower abdomen. I want to hear you plead out my name when my fingers tease you. And then again when those fingers are deep inside of you. I allow myself to forgive you momentarily and indulge in my want as a smirk threatens to appear.

I see you look away and I wonder if you know all of these things and just how your voice affects me. But mostly, I wonder if you know how much I want to hear you say my name followed by the phrase, "I want you, too."