My fingers move to unfasten the small buttons of my blouse, impatient with the less dextrous fumbling of his thicker digits. This is my undoing, this rush of desire that bypasses restraint, resolve, reserve and goes straight to garment rending passion.
I could wait, but why should I? I could waste precious seconds of bosom fondling time while he faffs about with these dainty fastenings. We could linger over my slow unwrapping but I am too eager for the feel of his skin upon mine. Sometimes later never comes, so I am a great believer in the pleasure and immediacy of now.
I try to be patient, I try to enjoy the suspense. Yet I skip ahead to the end of the novel, I tear open the corner of the wrapping paper for a peek, I read the spoilers and I grasp what I want and pull it toward, pull it into me, greedy for instant gratification.
This is my undoing. I am undone.