Not a Blueprint: It's the Shoe Prints That Matter

Craig had the kind of personality that ignited those fireflies a long time ago. He was always attired in black, styling and profiling from head to toe. He stepped with confidence and swag, his posture straight and tall. He was gifted with those finely tuned abs and biceps. He had a chilled-out body language that oozed calmness and a can-do, I’m-the-man attitude. He kept abreast of worldly issues—could hold onto any topic. His smarts were stimulated when he was tucked away behind a book, newspaper, or something of interest. He was always exercising his brain. And there was nothing like his scent, so aromatic, especially accented with a whiff of his manly-smelling cologne. His affectionate ways had taken me to another high. The warmth of his face brushed against mine.

His tongue swirled wet kisses around my neck.  And the tantalizing touches of his manly hand on my inner thigh as he lightly caressed me with his fingertips . . . Those times he’d wink as if offering a flirty word or two. He’d turn the corner of his lip and flash that sexy, wicked, sweet smile—which would make those butterflies flutter.smile—which would make those butterflies flutter.