I almost lean, my lips flushed and waiting, but the squeak of a chair reminds me that I'm not allowed to. If we were alone, I would go through with it though. I know I would, because my lips are raw from my teeth trying vainly to compensate for lost chances and I can't get his voice out of my ears, his image out of my eyes, his lips off my own, his fingers in my hair, against my skin, pressed against my back--
He is always wanted.
I am always lacking.