Self-control.

Oh, but you're so pretty. I would have at you, I really would. What I wouldn't give to see you helpless, eyes stunned and breath heavy, labored. Shaking, trembling, because you don't know what to do with yourself. Biting down on your lip because you just can't take it.

My hands would be at your neck, pulling you closer, holding you down, pushing you away. Fingertips brushing across the tops of your cheeks, kissing your nose, stroking your hair.

I want to absorb your confidence and self-assurance, wipe off the loose, easy, heart-breaking smile that lights up your face so aptly, knock down the boy who thinks he's got it all and render you breathless and gasping and fighting—just one more inch of skin, please. I want to be that standard, the one you'll relive constantly, blushing to yourself in class and shoving your face in your hands, thinking damn it, not again, and stare furiously down at your assignment. The one that's always in the back of your mind. I want to make sure you won't forget me.

But I have self-control. Sometimes I hate myself for it.