crows paula 01

There’s a way you drape inside a door frame that, when done at the proper time, has a 60% chance of making a woman melt. Forearm up the frame, you cock your hips a little to show off your figure (toned or pudgy), and incline your shoulders and face towards your prey. The pose brings raw physicality and your gaze is intensified in a way you can hear adds ten beats per minute to the heartrate. Twenty if you’re shirtless at the time.

Not to be done by the front door. If Paula had opened her door for you and found you sprawled there with hunter’s eyes she’d have laughed. Instead you greeted her with wine and lively conversation. You both drink and talk animatedly in the kitchen while she finishes the Thai curry she intends to serve you. She has read a book you recommended, and you’ve watched a film. She offers you a taste of the sauce on a dipped fingertip, and you suck it off in a way that hitches her breath. She calls you on something you said last time that she’s decided she disagrees with. You like her. She has a novel point of view.

This is will not stop you devouring her tonight, of course.

Leading you to the living room, she turns to discover you casually leant against the doorframe. The question on her lips is skewered by your gaze and falls dead to the ground. You watch her eyes flicker over your body, linger on the lats that your shirt otherwise modestly only hints at. While your gut is still present you’ve been working and working out. You’ve never had trouble putting on muscle once you were properly fed.

“… Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, blushing like a schoolgirl. The dress she is wearing is spangled with dark blue sequins, tasteful against dark blue fabric. It catches the light to give her a bright silhouette, making her stand out like the only thing that matters. She’s certainly the only thing you’re looking at.

“I’m thinking we turn off the hob and make a meal of you.”

Gentle, gentle pressure. You observe the way her lips remain parted, the way she stares into your eyes. The silence stretches on, serving your purpose. You have done this a thousand times and have made an art of it.

Ah, her chin raised a fraction. You read the lust you’re fanning like a familiar book. Unhurried, you push away from the doorframe and take a step towards her. See how she shifts her weight towards you?

How far can you push her? You cross the room and her lips rise to meet yours but you hold her inches shy with strong hands around her waist. To her questioning gaze you respond with unflinching command.

The tension as she pressed against your hands slowly recedes, submitting to your control, at least for the moment. And so you follow, now guiding her into a step backwards, and again, as you drive her against a floor-to-ceiling window.

Only when she has nowhere to run do you smother her with your body and kiss her.

She tastes like wine and the spice she is cooking for you. Though yielding she is not passive. She tastes you as much as you taste her, her urgency only growing as you grip her hands and push them out to either side, leaving her defenceless.

You could manoeuvre to bite with little trouble, but she has inflamed your desire. What do you do?