You, my love, have one of those careers on which so many depend, which leaves me unexpectedly alone at times. I cannot say that my reaction to your sudden absences is very mature, but then, my reaction to anything sudden tends toward the childish.
I was looking forward to enjoying a nightcap on the couch with you this evening, listening to the details of your day. Instead, I am spending the evening with a solitary glass of wine and my thoughts.
Quite possibly I will use this time to slip into a scented bath, read, and soothe my pouting lips with the heat of my cabernet. Just maybe, my hand will dive beneath the bubbles, seek out my pleasure button, rub it slowly, lightly, until it is hard and pleading. The fingers of my right hand will take turns slipping inside, pressing and circling, while the fingers of my left hand caress my clitoris and pinch at my nipples. Even I, my dear sir, delight in the sight of my breasts (did you know that secret, love?).
Just writing about it has brought moisture to the fabric between my legs. I can feel my muscles contracting...a tightening clam shell protecting a hardening pearl.
When you slip in beside me, at whatever hour you manage to arrive, my skin will be soft...infused with mint and eucalyptus, massaged with lotion. My hair will still be damp.
I send you this request: press your body against my sleeping back, in the way that pushes your bulge between the crease of my behind; rub your hand up my thigh and around to the front; slip your hand between my legs. If it is wet with heat, please...