I prefer my romance served steaming hot, with plenty of good, old-fashion passion.
I got a full dose of just that when I had my first date with Dream Boat. (My current amor) That's when I experinced "it." That most talked about and prepeuated feeling--pure, unadulerated lust. "It" was the thing I read about in countless romances, the thing I craved about all else, the think I had almost given up on after twenty-five years. (Yes, a bit premature. As I mentioned, I can be quite the drama queen.)
And then I met him. I don't know what it was about this guy, but all my senses hightened, as if my very pheramones strechted out to tangle with his. All through our four-hour dinner (we dragged it on and on, niether one wanting it to end, even though the food was mediocre.) we were in top entertaining form, the ancient ritual of wooing a potential mate making our blood run hot.
But it was over dessert that I decided I would--in typical romantic fashion--do ANYTHING (sell my soul to the devil, cross the seven seas ect.) to get those big, long fingers to touch my body. While it's a struggle to remember the details of what the dessert was actually called, I do remember it was something that left a pool of chocolate on the dantiy plate. Still determined to impress and overwhelmed by sizzling lust, I utter without thinking, "I could lick that plate clean."
In that moment when I looked up and found him staring at me, I met his chocolate gaze and, I kid you not, a bolt of heat shot from his eyes into mine and straight through my body, pooling low and deep. That was the moment I knew I would do anything to get more of that heat.
And I did. Shamelessly and with fervor, I did anything to get those hands on my body, again and again.
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