Good at that

Jonathan

W

hen we get back to the house, Eva decides she wants to take a shower. Trying to clear my head of images of the curvy girl naked, soapy, and wet, I let her go. I walk to the fridge and pull out a beer, taking a long gulp, but it hardly helps quell the ache in my pants. What’s wrong with me? I’m acting like a teenager in heat.

“Jesus,” I mutter out loud. After all, I almost lost control on the beach. That’s never happened before. Yet I’ve just met this woman but I’m already more attracted to her than any woman I’ve ever dallied with.

“Steady, old boy,” I warn myself. “Keep it on an even keel. Don’t freak her out by being a caveman.”

Turning back to the fridge, I begin pulling out supplies for dinner. I find myself calming down while washing and then cutting vegetables. It’s a nice routine. I enjoy cooking but hardly ever get a moment to myself to do it and to be frank, there’s no one interested in eating my cooking either. The last few women barely ate, to be honest. They pic