His footsteps are heavy, weary, thudding a path into the carpeted office floor.

Yet once he reaches the door, stretching his six-foot frame on the steel and glass barrier, his body – youthful, proportioned and disciplined – suddenly betrays a lightness, a weightlessness, an effortless masculine eroticism that instantly morphs my glance into a lingering gaze.

As his image is reflected and then just as quickly refracted in the conference room prism, I muse on that body broad, on that body divided, on the curve of his torso once abandoned and unadorned, the tension in his arms as he strains against the binds drawn tight, the heat of his bronzed skin after my flesh has finally met his, the wiry curls on his chest framed in the formality of starched white cotton, the eyes clear and wanting and blazing, the mouth poised for my cunt, my libations, my deep unrelenting kiss, the scent, the tang of his throbbing and thickening sex.