God…he was a work of art.
I looked him over, top to bottom, several times. Just soaking in the mammoth masculine perfection of him. Rugged, manly, powerful features. Sharp, chiseled, cliff-craggy jawline. Intelligent brown eyes. Expressive mouth, one which I knew could kiss with power and gentility that could take my breath away. His neck was thick, corded. His shoulders were like mountain ranges, bulging with hard, rounded muscle. His chest, too, was carved as if from granite, and his abs were a study in raw brutal power, thick and blocky and hard as an anvil. He had a deeply-etched V leading down the line of his hip bones to his groin, and as my eyes wandered downward, my heart leapt into my throat and my pulse pounded in my ears and my hands shook, and my stomach did flip-flops. There, at the center of that V, was his manhood.
I had no way of knowing how many inches it was, nor would that have made any difference to me had I known, as I had no frame of reference. All I knew, was that it was beautiful. Nearly as thick as my wrist, and almost as long as my entire forearm, ridged and veiny, with a plump domed head. Heavy.
God, I should really learn to eventhinka few dirty words.
His…cock…was beautiful. And his balls looked at once heavy and soft.
His thighs were…I couldn’t even come up with a metaphor or simile that was apt. A phrase from the golden age of science-fiction and fantasy rolled through my brain: might thews—Baxter had mighty thews. He was a football player, I remembered, and judging by the raw power of his legs, he could run down a freight train and tackle it.
I extended a trembling hand and touched his abs, slid my palm up to his chest, explored his pectoral muscles, and then back down. Traced the ridges and blocks of his abs. The lines delineating the muscles in his thighs. The carved angle of his waist, and his hips. I shifted forward a few inches, so I was closer to him, and palmed the cannonball hardness of his buttock, then again with both hands.
“I…” A laugh bubbled up out of me as I caressed his buttocks. “I like your butt.”
He laughed. “Football scouts and agents actually look at players’ asses. Big butts mean a lot of power.”
“Then you must have…alotof power,” I said.
“Honey, you havenoidea.”
Oh geez. Oh boy. I gulped at the heat and the promise in his voice. “I can imagine,” I murmured.
His chuckle managed to sound like he was teasing me. “You know, babe, somethin’ tells me you probably couldn’t. Not yet, anyway.”
“Not yet?”
“I plan on showing you.” His voice was a purr, now. Leonine. Thrilling. Seductive. “I plan on showing you mypowerand mystamina.”
“Ohhh boy. Oh boy.”
“Oh…boy,” he repeated, monotone, sarcastic. “You just said…oh boy.”
“Cursing and vulgarity is not ladylike, nor is it elegant. It is the mark of an uneducated and decidedly unsophisticated mind,” I said, instinctively quoting verbatim Mrs. Allison, the woman who had taught me comportment and decorum and proper social etiquette from the time I was eleven until I graduated high school.
Baxter’s eyebrows arched. “Well fuck me, then, right?”
I felt my cheeks burning. “I—Baxter, I’m—I didn’t mean—”
He laughed. “Relax, babe. It’s fine. That’s actually been proven to be untrue, but you can think what you want.”
I eyed him. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Well, just that several scientific studies have actually proven that a large vocabulary of curse words is a sign of greater intelligence, not less.” He winked at me. “But I’ll grant you that someone who swears a lot, like me for example, probably isn’t very elegant or sophisticated.”
I thought about it. “I suppose it’s just been drummed into my head for my whole life that cursing is a sign of weakness and demonstrates a lack of decorum, and that there is no reason to engage in it. I don’t curse as a matter of habit. It’s not a…a religious or moral thing.”
Baxter crossed his arms over his big chest, and quirked an eyebrow at me, with a wry, knowing smirk curving his lips. “You wouldn’t be trying to distract yourself, now, would you? I ain’t in any kind of hurry or nothin’, but for someone who says she wants to experience this whole touching me and making me come thing, you sure are talking a lot.”
I swallowed hard. “Yeah, I might be delaying a little.” I met his eyes. “Iampretty nervous.”
His smile was reassuring. “Nothin’ to be nervous about, honey. Just reach out and grab it. I won’t move, won’t say a word.”
I held his gaze. “No laughing at me, no teasing?”
“Some things I don’t joke about, Eva. Gettin’ my dick touched is right at the top of that list.”
“I just…I don’t want to—to do anything…I don’t know. Wrong, I guess.” I broke the gaze binding our eyes.
