Open Legs (Poem - mild tw)

The whiteboard pen moans when it writes,

as your fingers tighten, firm, ‘round the tip -

a tip that you want me to stroke ‘till it’s taut,

bulging out of your jeans, like that one lump in the wall,

yet you sit down; and hand me my corrected sheet.

Watch droplets slip from the bottle                 to your lips,

like the dew in my panties, warm, wet, as you smile

that enigmatic smile of yours, and you lick the moisture

from the rim to the edge to the rim: while I edge to the surface,

rising up from the water before ducking down again.