Ok, that’s exaggerating a bit but what woman doesn’t want to actually be ravaged and have a bodice-ripping experience? Right, we all do (at least a lot of us do). We’ve all read those books too.
“He moved closer and in a rapid movement slipped his arm about her narrow waist, nearly lifting her from the floor, and then covered her mouth with his, engulfing Heather in a heady scent, not unlike that of a brandy her father had been fond of. She was too surprised to resist and hung limp in his embrace. She saw herself as if from outside her body and felt with mild amusement his tongue parting her lips and thrusting within. From a low level of consciousness, there grew a vague feeling of pleasure and, had the circumstances been different, she might have enjoyed the hard, masculine feel of his body against hers.”
Gah. No way! No one has sex like that. What self-respecting, intelligent woman would want such a thing? All the stuff one can say. Save that little irritating itch in your brain that goes ... hot. Ohhh so hot. I never had a bodice ripping experience. Not actually. Not until today that is.
Today is my forty-first birthday. My husband was up before me this morning for an early meeting. I found a card on his pillow.
Happy forty-first birthday. I love you more every day. Love, your much younger man, Craig.
Let me just clarify what “younger” means in Craig’s world. It means twenty-seven days. That’s right. He is twenty-seven days younger than I am and seems to find great joy in making sure I know I have a much younger stud sharing my bed every night. I won’t mention that he has far more gray in his hair than I do but I admit he is in better shape than any man his age and older that I know. Tall. Solid. With a deep voice. Big hands. The most perfectly furry chest and stomach. The sweetest blue eyes. He drives me crazy. And he knows it.
