I love the shape of my wife.

I sneak glances. The curves of her, the lines. When she changes for bed, I watch from the corners of my eyes. I put my hand on her knee in church and my boxer briefs strain just a little, even in God’s house.

After a shower she’s wrapped in a towel and her skin is pale and her hair drapes damp. Under there is nothing, but it’s everything I want more than anything. Soft and smooth and continuous to the touch, grabbable by handfuls in the best places.

She smacks my hand away with an annoyed smile. It’s difficult not to want her at all the inopportune times, at all the times. I know what’s under those jeans, black, little polkadots rimmed with lace, a tiny bow, centered. All the times.

I run my hand down her side and into the warm hollow just before the rise of her hip. I could shrink myself and live in that hollow, set up camp, feast on milky thigh for every meal.


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