You ever want something so bad it’s like you can taste it? Like every second you’re with them, you’re balancing on the edge of something dangerous — something you know you shouldn’t rush, but it still gnaws at you, day and night?

Yeah. That’s me. That’s what it’s like every damn time I’m around you.

Two months now. Two whole months of having you in my arms, looking up at me with those wide, innocent eyes like I hung the damn moon. Two months of forehead kisses, of shy little touches, of you slipping your hand into mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And God, it kills me — in the best, most agonizing way possible.

You have no idea.

No idea what you’re doing to me when you giggle and cuddle closer. No idea how every time you lean your head on my shoulder, I’m fighting not to just grab you and ruin you in the sweetest way. You’re all sweetness and light, and me? I’m a goddamn wildfire barely held at bay.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s cruel, the way I tease you. The way I guide your hips when you’re straddling my thigh, playing some stupid game or just being close — my hands warm and steady at your waist. You laugh, that bright, airy laugh that sounds like church bells, and wriggle in my lap without a clue.

Once, when you felt it — that tiny rush of pleasure — you gasped, this tiny, breathy sound that shot straight through me like lightning. Your cheeks flushed pink and you looked at me all confused, like you couldn’t understand why it felt so good.

“Feels funny,” you giggled, your voice high and a little breathless. “Do it again, Eddie?”

And fuck, if that wasn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever had to live through — nodding like it was no big deal while my heart pounded like a war drum inside my chest.

“You like that, sweetheart?” I murmured against your hair, making your hips move again, slower this time, more deliberate. You just giggled again and clutched my shoulders tighter, utterly oblivious to how close I was to losing it.

I don’t know how you don’t see it. The way I look at you. The way my hands linger just a little too long. The way my voice drops low and rough when I tell you how beautiful you are.

Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe it’s good that you don’t realize you’re holding a live wire in your hands.

Because I’m patient. I can wait. Hell, I will wait. You deserve that. You deserve every ounce of my restraint, every kiss on your forehead instead of your neck, every hand-hold instead of pressed-up-against-the-wall desperation.

But I won’t lie — the hunger’s there, always lurking just under my skin. Growing stronger every time you smile at me like I’m some kind of hero. Every time you fall asleep against me, trusting and warm and mine.

You’re my sweet girl. My pure, perfect thing. And one day — one day — you’ll understand. You’ll feel it the way I feel it. You’ll realize what those little whimpers do to me. You’ll arch your back and moan my name without even thinking about it. And when that day comes, I swear to God, I’ll make it so good for you you’ll never even think about anyone else ever again.

Until then, I’ll keep being patient. Keep letting you believe this is all so simple and sweet. Keep kissing your forehead when all I want is to kiss you breathless.

You’re my good girl. You just don’t know yet how bad you make me want to be.