love·sick | adjective
A tender or urgent longing for love; to express a lover's longing.
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In a world where power, fame, and fortune are second nature, Beyoncé knows how to control everything-except her heart. After a chance encounter with a myste...
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Onika Tanya Maraj
I don't know when the shift happened.
It's been building for a while, the tension between us humming like electricity, sparking every time our eyes meet, every time her hand brushes against mine. But tonight... tonight it feels different. There's an edge to it, a sense of urgency simmering beneath the surface that I can't ignore.
I can feel her watching me, her gaze heavy as I move around the room, but I don't look at her. Not yet. I'm not ready to give in to the pull I feel, the desire that's been coiling tighter and tighter inside me with every passing minute.
But it's getting harder to resist.
She's sitting on the edge of the bed, her posture relaxed, but her eyes... her eyes are burning. I can feel the weight of them on me, like she's just waiting for the moment I'll give in, the moment I'll let myself want her the way I've been trying so hard to hide.
I glance at her, just for a second, and the way she looks at me—dark, intense, like she's already undressing me with her eyes—makes my heart pound in my chest. She knows what she's doing. She knows how she affects me.
And I'm tired of pretending like I don't want it. Like I don't want her.
I cross the room slowly, my steps measured, deliberate, and her eyes never leave mine. The air between us is thick, charged with all the things we haven't said, all the things we've been holding back. It feels like the moment before a storm—quiet, but full of energy, full of potential.
When I reach her, I stop, standing between her legs, my breath catching in my throat as I stare down at her. Her hands rest on her thighs, fingers twitching like she's fighting the urge to reach for me. But she doesn't. She waits, watching me, waiting for me to make the first move.
And God, I want to.
I reach out, my fingers gently brushing against her cheek, and the simple touch sends a shiver down my spine. She leans into my hand, her eyes closing for a moment as she lets out a soft, shaky breath.
It's like a spark—igniting something inside me that I can't control, something that's been building for weeks, months, and I can't hold it back anymore.
"I want you," I whisper, my voice low, rough with desire.
Her eyes snap open, and the way she looks at me—hungry, like she's been waiting for this—makes my knees weak.
"Then take me," she whispers, her voice barely audible, but full of heat.
And just like that, the tension snaps.
I don't hesitate. I don't hold back. My hands are on her, pulling her to her feet, my lips crashing against hers in a kiss that's all tongue and desperation. It's not gentle, not soft. It's raw, intense, full of all the things we've been holding back for so long.
