There are two men in my life who unsettle my equilibrium… sexually.
Whilst Ruf is the epitome of the rough male, they are both his antithesis. Smooth, urbane, tall, lean, City types. The only thing the smooth males have in common with him is that they are dark, with the type of chest hair that I love.
One, a Blast from my Very Distant Past who recently came back into my life along with a whole raft of emotional connections. My oldest friend from right back in my earliest childhood. A boy with whom I skipped through cornfields playing kiss chase and who… Well, more on him another time…
The other smooth guy is a man for whom circumstances have conspired to keep sexless for many years. And who was the original incarnation of Smooth in several of my stories.
They are both wonderful physical examples of the male species who come with a beautiful soul attached.
If I were not with Ruf, I would be in one, or (knowing my penchant for Having My Cake and Eating It Too) both, their beds in a second.
I talked to Ruf about them. He is the kind of man for whom that sort of conversation would not be considered a threat.
He smiled at my confusion over my feelings and he said: ‘So, why don’t you try?’
A bluff?
Not at all. This is a man who is so secure in his own sexuality that he is quite sure no other man could produce the effects that he has worked so hard and researched so thoroughly to achieve.
Reading and experimenting until I am as putty in his hands.
But, of course, giving me choice is not necessarily a good thing.
I adore this man.
But the little voice inside my head will do anything to try to spoil that.
And now it has ammunition.
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