They get me every time. Those sly little tendrils of hair across her eyes. It is a love/hate relationship. I love the feel of those strands. The softness of them against my palm as I push her face down onto my throbbing cock. I love the way they tickle my skin when she drapes them across my crotch and strokes my balls with their velvety touch.
But, goddamn them, I hate it when they obscure her eyes.
I don’t know which I love more. Those silky strands that form a dark joystick I use to control her mouth. Or the hazel promise of pleasure I see when I look into her large, expressive eyes. They both unnerve me. The mere touch of her hair across the back of my neck makes my crotch ache. The way she has of looking at me just so, a flicker of pure, unbridled sexuality that catches me off guard and makes the room feel like it doesn’t have enough oxygen.
You would think that after this much time, I could control myself. I’m a grown man after all, not some hormonal teenager. In spite of that, I’m no match for her. She disarms me with her lively conversation. Standing just beyond reach, her mind engaging me, drawing me in. Casually, she will lean over the counter and my train of thought begins to derail as my eyes are drawn to the curve of her ass. My mind begins racing, palms itching to make contact with the soft pale skin beneath her jeans.
Slowly she will move in, closing the distance between us until we are nearly touching. I will catch her scent, the same fragrance that will linger on my sheets the following day. Her laugh taking on on a husky edge and that familiar sparkle beginning to shine in her eyes. She will throw down a flirty remark, an indicator that her mind is no longer on the topic we are discussing.
As I sit there slightly dumbstruck, contemplating my move, she will look up at me and like a trap door opening, reveal the fire burning in her eyes. My crotch responding, my cock will start to fill in anticipation of the slick prize that awaits me.
And then, like a coup de grace a tendril will fall slyly across her cheek. Unconsciously, I will reach out to drag the loose strands off her face so I have an unobstructed view of that glimmer of sex; the erotic pledge in her eyes. The feel of her soft hair in my fingers will prove my undoing. It is in that moment the battle is lost. My mind gives way in a shudder, my cock strains belligerently demanding satisfaction. Then my willpower flees, my desire grabs the reigns and I know that I won’t be satisfied until I am buried inside her, painting her in my most primal shade.
This is my undoing. To fuck her is to give a piece of your soul to her. Not something I usually like to do. But I’ll do it. Not because I want to, but because of those sly little tendrils.