This is what I want

This is what I want.
Your hands make circles around my ankles. They shackle me for but a moment before your fingertips move upward over the edge of bone, the dip and hollow of muscle and flesh. Over my calves and the prickly surface of my knees, where they linger to stroke the soft, smooth underside. Those untouched places. Your fingers linger there, seeking creases.
Your thumbs move up the sun-warmed flesh of my thighs, which I part for you beneath summer’s bright golden light. Like the breeze that twitches the ends of my hair, your fingers drift along my skin, moving higher.
This is what I want. You. Touching me.
You take the time to trace the faint white line, the place where once my flesh parted beneath the edge of a razor wielded by an unsteady hand. You don’t ask about this scar. You ask nothing, say nothing. You have no voice but that which I grant you…and so far I haven’t given you permission to speak.
You kneel in front of me, and this is where I like you. How I like you. On your knees, my body aligned for your worship and your hands smoothing a constant upward path.
This is what I want—your breath on my skin. Your fingers parting me. Your mouth finding the sweet, small pearl of my clitoris. I want your tongue there, and the pressure of your lips. I want you to lick me as I stand over you, you upon your knees.
I want you to worship me.