You don’t need my hands—
not yet.
Not when the thought of me
has already slipped between your thighs,
slow as a whisper,
hot as a secret
you don’t dare say aloud.

You shift in your seat,
cross your legs tighter,
as if that could stop me,
as if I’m not already inside you,
pressed against the ache
that only I can soothe.

I am not there,
but love—
I am.