A part of me hated that he could read my mind, but another, much larger part, loved it. Like how he knew when to put his hands around my neck and the exact amount of strength that he should squeeze. Or when I wanted him to throw me onto the bed and tell me in no uncertain terms exactly how I was going to pleasure him. And that I was going enjoy every minute of doing so.

He was right, and it was infuriating…

He was always coming home late from work, always tired, and never in the mood. It’s not like I expected much, but I did expect something you know? I mean I get it; a day of labouring must be so draining, and he probably just wants to come home and put his feet up for a while. That would be totally fine if he would at least acknowledge my existence.

One time, I got myself all dolled up. I went the whole hog for him; hair dyed platinum blond, makeup, perfume, heels, and a new saucy piece of black lace from one of the fancy shops. I even got myself professionally waxed! It sure did hurt, but my goodness I have never looked so fresh down there.

He didn’t notice a thing…

Good authors are like an intuitive lover, when you let them in, they will fuck your mind in the most delightful way.

They will tease, entice, and edge you.

They will scare you in the best ways, pushing you beyond your perceived limits and into new worlds of excitement and ecstasy.

You can of course say no.

You can put the book down and walk away.

But if an author is good at what they do, you will be craving more…