She's everything I want.

I wish she wasn't, sometimes. There's something about her, something that swims in her atmosphere, that makes her perfect and so unattainable. The way she stands with her hands on the wide breadth of her hips. Those curvaceous, luscious hips, the ones that make her waist look like the tiniest of any woman's. Her breasts are small—but they are not too small; they are just right, exquisitely round as they press against the stretchy material of the navy shirt that she has worn a hole through just below the bellybutton.

I love her because she's slender, not thin. A plush, warm layer of padding hugs her middle; she constantly tells me that she's fat and that she's embarrassed about that, but the fact that her stomach is not a washboard turns me on. I don't think that matters—she would still look stunning in a bikini. Her thighs are beautifully coiled, shaped like a muscular ring. Unlike some dreadfully anorexic girls her age that I've met, her arms are not straight and devoid of flesh like twigs. I can see her biceps straining against her shirtsleeves as she moves, scudding across the ground with the poise and grace of a model. There is nothing but confidence in her pace—and in her eyes, too, as she gazes upon you with a steady, steely set of dark brown.

Every time I see her, she sees me—turning her head slowly, scanning the room for the man that gazes at her. When she notices me, she smiles and waves, maneuvering through the crowd as it parts for her, as if she is a reverential saint. I can almost smell her from across the room—the faint but intoxicating aroma of roses, a perfume I'd purchased for her when she turned sixteen. My presence does not escape her detection. Her senses are sharp, keen as she meets eyes with me. Her smile never leaves her, the beautiful torture she inflicts upon me making the hairs of my neck stand up on end and sear at the roots.

Each step takes her closer, closer to my desperate grip and my yearning body. I know that she is aware of what she does to me—the long nights alone I've spent at her expense, dreaming of her lithe, catlike form pressing against me, nude and slick with ardor, have frequented me since the day I met her. When she arrives to where I stand, she licks her lips, for I am docile, willing prey. All I want is to be devoured by her. I want her to consume me and let me touch her in places that ordinary men take for granted.

Yet she won't even let me lay a hand on her. Her sweet honey, her breathless gasping, my fingers tangling in her silken brunette hair—all are foreign to her, and she does not wish to share them with me. The longing that coerces me into madness is but her bait as she draws me further into her invisible grasp, waiting as I fall to my knees before her and beg at a level that is far below me.

I am a master—but at her bidding, I am a pliant child, just another man frenetically in love with a woman that he cannot even touch. She has defeated me not only in battle, but also here, in this violent game that she plays with me. I am a pawn at her fingertips that she calls upon more often than I would like. If I were a different man—perhaps stronger and not a slave to passionate emotion—then her pretty face wouldn't make me want to die for her. If I weren't who I was, she wouldn't use me. Control me. At least not so easily.

But she does. She is the master of my own talent.

And I don't care, because she's everything I want.

And I only wish she wasn't.