Sex…I love it….it’s never been bad for me….but what is it that makes it mind blowingly amazing and leaves me weak-kneed and smiling for days, counting down until the next encounter? Intensity. It’s intensity. That first glimpse of his face. The mouth. The eyes, locked on mine. The lips. Imagining caressing them with my tongue. I like a lived in face, character, beards and wrinkles. No pretty boys for me. When he sits across the table from me, but his hand reaches across, a stroke of a finger. He wants to be closer…he moves his chair, invading my personal space, his thigh pressed up against mine…I return the pressure, feel the heat. He leans in, close enough to kiss but he just inhales my scent. Savours it. I see his chest hair, poking out of his shirt…I want to dive in. Stare at his hands, willing them to reach for me. I drink my wine, eyes on him, thinking of taking him in my mouth. We smile at each other, knowing, feeling the crackle between us. He places his hand on my face, pulls me to him. Kisses me….the world disappears, it’s just him and I. Our desire is strong. His hand reaches across, slips into my shirt, brushing against my already hard nipple. He pinches it, pulls it. I cannot move, I don’t want to move. Luxuriating in the twist pull ache, from his slow rhythmic movements, feeling it build, making me squirm on my seat. He knows he’s got me. He’s in no hurry at all. I sense he will enjoy making me wait. Intensity. It’s what I need.