Kavanaugh – Continuing Education

June 30, 2014 | By | Reply More
Show Her True Colors by Beverly Ash Gilbert

Show Her True Colors by Beverly Ash Gilbert

His touch mesmerized her into sensual sacrifice. He unzipped her inhibitions, and she strutted around in wanton shoes, naked, perpetually wet and randy. This isn’t me. She thought. Wait, this is me. She was caught in his spell. He was such a busy man. When he left to slay the day’s dragons, he kissed her and hugged her, and he had such a difficult time letting go of her—and he would make her laugh and he would make a promise with his eyes—and then, one more time, he would kiss her hard, his tongue deep and suggestive, and he would smile as he left, and she would watch him walk his cocky walk as he headed for his shiny convertible. When he didn’t return, she worried. He would walk in, casual and confident, and she would say why didn’t you call, and he would say because I told you earlier you just don’t remember. That’s what he said. He would brush it off and she would brush it off and they would laugh again. Then he would unwrap the evening. And her. Her bed sheets would be scented with Polo and musk, and wrinkled with ecstasy. There were two sides to him; one side was childlike and fun; she laughed at his stories. She loved his teasing and the pillow talk and the orgasms that made her high—again and again. But there were two sides to him . . . . The other side enjoyed lighting ants on fire. She told herself his words were true. She trusted him so she could go on feeling loved and alive. She didn’t doubt his love; she shifted every time he said shift. When he vanished, she had moments of clarity. In those flashes, she would be confident and strong, and she would tell him she was finished. Because his kind of love made her crazy and sometimes he scared her. She was learning. He was a master at explaining himself, explaining that he never lied or misled. He would tilt his head, and with a parental smile, tell her she was being . . . silly. She would sit there and marvel at his confidence and his magnetism. And she would wonder, too, at her momentary loss of faith. At her getting it wrong. She would look down at her wine glass; she would suck on her lip. She heard his truth under the slow ceiling fan above her bed; moonlight slatted across their braided bodies in the soft naked of the night, but she thought he was speaking of his past. He whispered his memorized list, a recital of sorts, of many women and many one-nighters, of multiple wives (even one he married twice). She heard his remorse between sensual kisses, I-love-you licks, while he fondled her nipples with feather-like fingers. He murmured she was the woman he had been searching for—she believed him when he said she was amazing. Wouldn’t you want to be amazing to the man you loved? He said he never lied. He also never said goodbye. He just disappeared. Night would fall. And she would twist with the angst of her addiction to him. Some lessons take women longer to learn.

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Category: Knowing

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