Wist

He entices me with his intelligence.    

However, its his rugged 3 day growth, and the way he looks at me when his eyes aren't framed with reading glasses, that makes me want to straddle him and gently put my face upon his, just to feel the soft prickly beard that seems to be emerging.    
     
Those eyes of his mask the pain associated with his grief.      
     
I can't imagine losing 2 parents, almost simultaneously, but that's where our differences lie.      
     
Assuming, he was born out of love with a silver spoon, that's rarely known adversity.  
 
We're from opposite ends of the social spectrum.  
     
I can imagine running his soft hands upon my flesh, as if they waited decades for me to arrive, just to hold his hands.      
     
Hands, that know how to heal.    
     
I wonder... if he's ever been loved, truly loved. No wife. No children. No evidence of deep heart connectivity, aside from the cars he loves to restore, along with his love, for music.    
     
Something, we have in common, the latter.    
His framed pieces of paper with his name outlines his status, and expertise, and somehow that feels intimidating.      
     
Despite, the 15 year age bracket. However, it could be much worst, at 25.    
     
He doesn't know that SR and MV are conspiring against his wishes, and it breaks my heart to know he has to answer for their ineptitude.    
     
I shouldn't wonder what he looks like when he's aroused from morning wood, with his hard cock in his hand, but I do.    
     
I wonder so much more, and none of it... is appropriate.