You do a poor job of hiding, I've caught your eye.

I want to run my fingers along the lines of your sweater...
Cashmere tracing the angles of your breast,
So I raise the veil of your leather belt,
And discover where your firm, flat stomach begins
Trousers which, though baggy, fall perfectly straight,
Filled with cashmere curve and unswerving silk satin,
You dream of my carresses, of feeling my kiss,
I want to hear the sound of six zippers,
Whispering on your unbuttoned crepe shirt