Eve was feeling super, crazy naughty. And normally, that would be fine, but not now. Not at this very point in her life. Right now, feeling crazy, super naughty.... that was a problem, because the man in her life that was otherwise perfect, was not the super naughty type. He definitely wasn't the crazy, naughty type. And he was on the way over right now.
What. To. Do???
She was at that age, that particular age for women where their bodies desire, their libidos run roughshod over their better judgment at times, their mind's ability to paint a picture of things they want done to them and things they want to do to a man so absolutely vivid now, so utterly and ultimately filthy the devil would blush, that age where wisdom, experience and longing meet testosterone, confidence and the idea that they can get exactly what they want by doing little more than asking right, or asking wrong or just by simply saying, "come fuck me."
Eve was reveling in that age.
She had asked wrong, and gotten what she wanted. She had flirted and fucked. She had said, "come fuck me" more than a few times. She had certainly asked right, and, herself, been asked a lot. She said, "yes, please" to her heart's, and other parts, too, content.
She wasn't classically beautiful, but more of an exotic thing, a taboo of a woman. And what a woman!
She was a mix of a half-African mother, all curves and athleticism, and a Scotch-Irish father with broad shoulders, a man with a penchant for good whiskey and food, made powerful through the legs and back by the grace of God and honed through working 60 hours a week on a farm. She was that rare combination of naturally soft curls, big green eyes, a stern chin and a dimpled cheek on one side of her face combined with a softness and feminism that was appealing on its own, and many, muscled curves.
She wasn't tall, was fair-skinned given her heritage and meandered toward middling in her fitness. But she kept a flat, taut belly through good genes alone and, in an honest moment, she'd say she watched what she ate in order to keep her looks.
In the last two years, before the not-so-naughty man, she wasn't just having a lot of sex, because she was. She wasn't just having good sex, because she was. Fuck, yes, she was.
No, the truth of the matter was she was having mind-blowing sex and having it a lot!
She had divorced long ago, and hadn't really met someone for a long time she couldn't live without, so she had accumulated a number of partners that all made her feel good for a moment, or a few moments. There were tall men and short, fit and not-so-fit, some good, some better, some amazing, some just okay. She accepted them all for what they were, tried to take the best of each of them to meet her needs and to give as good as she received. She was a generous, passionate lover and wanted the same in return.
She also liked the variety.
She didn't mind, at least for a while, seeing someone new under her or on top of her. It was exciting, fun, naughty. But she also craved something that the often random men who serviced her, who filled those womanly needs, couldn't really give her and weren't meant to give her in those kinds of relationships. She had her regulars, and even they lacked in this area.
Intimacy, that elusive devil.
She craved intimacy, more than anything now. Missed it so. Missed holding hands, cuddling, back rubs. Missed meaningful kisses. Missed it all.
She wanted the touch that only someone who cared more than a little could provide. She didn't want to look over the next morning and plan her exit strategy, or worse, plan it in the middle of the night. She didn't want to wake up to a snoring lumberjack whose name escaped her. She didn't want to have to gently or forcefully get him to exit her place. She was tired of fucking around, even if it had its perks.
Then she met Paul.
Paul, the kind of name a kid gets when his family is Irish-Catholic and he's one of eight brothers and sisters, was brought up in a house where sex wasn't really on the table for discussion. He had been sheltered even through college, where Bible classes were a regular part of the curriculum.
But he was over 30 now, and.... still.... somewhat sheltered. He'd had only a handful of partners, and none of his relationships had lasted for longer than a couple of years.
He'd never been married, although he had asked once, which was such a horrific idea looking back on it. It was like he watched his ego, his love, his affection, his woman, all balled up together in one critical moment, into a single ball of emotion, and watched it crash as if aboard an air liner filled with all of his emotions and feelings and desires, doing a nose dive straight to the middle of the earth. So. Bad. So. Painful.
She turned him down in such a way that he thought he might never get over it.
He was more than puzzled by the rejection, crushed completely, and swore off women for a time.
Eve was really the first person he'd seen in more than a year. They'd met at a coffee shop, randomly, oddly, when Eve decided he should wear a mocha latte in addition to his coat (a terrible but hilarious accident, but one they laughed about constantly). She offered to pay for the coat, he asked for dinner instead. She accepted, and the sparks flew. From spilled coffee to a budding romance, all in a span of a few weeks.
He was smart and witty. He was handsome, funny, cute and even flirty without trying. He had a boyish charm, a wry grin. He was dark complected, had dark, straight, shortly-cropped hair, with spectacular gray eyes, and at 6-3, had one of those bodies that allow men to wear whatever they want and still look good in it.
And Paul sent flowers. And called. And cared. And texted. And flirted. And opened doors. And they clicked. They were intimate without trying. They finished each other's sentences. They were, at least in most facets of their budding relationship, which had been brewing just a couple of months, really, really working for each other.
He felt confident for the first time in a long time. He felt desired. Needed. She felt loved, respected, wanted for things other than what she could provide with her mouth or body. They were falling, but, and this is where Eve's spidey senses were working overtime, they were lacking in physical contact.
Lack. Ing.
It wasn't that Paul was bad at sex the way he viewed it. He was equipped enough, not pushy, not lacking for tenderness or foreplay.
But Eve wanted something that Paul, so far, hadn't even been willing to try.
She was looking for some creativity, dirty talk, FILTHY talk, something other than her or him on top. They had done that several times, but it was SO quiet. She was looking for something a little more earth shattering, something that made her want to scream his name. One particular night, she had reached for herself to help the process along, and he asked what she was doing!
She was frustrated, and, in a too honest moment, very, very flustered and wondering if it was worth it. Is HE worth this?
