Clear

(originally published 3/30/2011)

His eyes were clear, a brilliant, Paul Newman blue, the kind that look right into your soul and make you want him to rip off your clothes and take you right then and there and you don’t care who’s watching. You lay down your cards.

“Three kings.”

“Damn.”

He mutters under his voice, but you heard him. You really want to giggle. You don’t really care who wins, but to him it’s serious, a real contest. He slowly straightens up on his haunches and you hold your breath as he unbuttons his western shirt and works his way out of it. It lands on the floor next to his boots and socks and Levis. But his body, O my God, what a body, abs that cry out to be fondled, kissed, tasted,  must be the result of hours in the gym. His chest isn’t quite as tan as his arms, but that’s okay- he’s fine the way he is. You can feel yourself getting ready for him – your body knows something you haven’t

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