Paris was restless. Her husband had died 6 weeks ago and already she felt her body aching for a man. She also knew that her bank account would soon need an influx of cash. She devoted each Sunday to reading the papers, checking out the society page, in search of her new mate.
Then she saw him. His pictures filled the Lifestyle section as he escorted a lovely woman to an extremely elegant charity event. She barely glanced at the woman, not really too interested in her. What intrigued her, mesmerized her, was the image of her new husband.
She didn't require good looks for a mate, but this Paul Andrews had them in abundance. He was tall, towering over the insipid blond clinging to his arm. He was well-dressed, his tux fitted perfectly. His dark hair, with sexy streaks of silver, was artistically tousled. She stared at his lips, full and sensual, sporting a full moustache that looked very soft and tempting. The woman was looking at him adoringly, her mouth slightly opened, making her appear breathless.
She avidly read the description of the gala, noting that Paul Andrews was named several times, in glowing terms. He was wintering at his beach house and was an active participant in the charity. They listed his many good works, a perfect resume for Paris; she could picture this man's healthy bank account.
The next morning, Paris was up early. She lingered in a scented bath, finalizing her plans. She stepped from the tub, drying and anointing her skin with fragrant lotion. She carefully selected beautiful, gossamer lingerie and slipped into it. It wasn't that she thought anyone would see it, it was just that she worked better when she felt sexy. She stood in front of the wall of mirrors, turning to see all angles. She was a lovely woman; beautiful, really. Paris had a clear, glowing olive complexion. Her cap of dark curls had tiny streaks of silver that enchanted men; the innocence of wayward curls mixed with the sophistication of silver was nearly intoxicating. Her dark brown eyes seemed to fill her face. Her cheeks were naturally pink with high, perfectly-formed cheekbones. She had matching dimples on either side of her full, pouty mouth.
Paris was petite and full-figured. She was delicate in a way that made men want to take care of her and protect her. She admired her reflection and the dainty creamy lingerie against her perpetually tanned flesh. She enjoyed looking at herself. Paris ran her fingers up her smooth skin, luxuriating in the caress, the sensation of being touched. Finally, she forced herself to end her inspection. Almost sadly, she stepped into a black dress with red accents, covering up her lovely near-nakedness. She knew how to dress, how to look elegantly understated. Men liked that. She slipped her nylon clad feet into strappy black sandals, feeling the stretch in her calves.
She went to the garage and started her lovely, deep blue Mercedes convertible. The engine purred quietly as she backed down the drive. She loved driving this car. For a moment, she thought fondly of her late husband and his generosity. The car had been a gift from him soon after they started dating. Behind the wheel, she felt powerful, capable and very, very sexy. She enjoyed watching men turn to look at her appreciatively as she drove by.
