And he was still inside me. We had not left his apartment all morning. We’d slept in blissful post-coital dozes. He’d fed me bites of chocolate and fruit. We’d showered twice. And we’d hardly disengaged. Throughout, barely a moment had passed when his body was not somehow connected to some part of mine. The stroke of his tantalizing tongue. His clever, insistent mouth, tasting every inch of me. The warm comfort of his big, hard body sliding over mine, thrusting into me, so deep, so deliciously deep … What astounded me most was the total abandon of it all. The way I had thrown away ten million perfectly good years of evolution and reverted to a mess of primeval need the minute I’d laid eyes on Alexander Wolfe. Forget the fifteen or so years of top-notch education, the Ivy League degree, the modernistic caution that comes from layer upon layer of twenty-first century knowledge. For this man I had willingly stripped bare and thrown myself at him with all the subtlety of a female primate whose species was about to go extinct. If I’d been in a more boisterous state of mind, I might have laughed at the sheer political incorrectness of my impromptu tryst. I almost mentally apologized to Erica Jong and all the seventies feminists for throwing away four decades of hard work. Here I was, happily impaled by my brand new boss who was now also, very definitely, my intensely obsessive new lover. I half-expected the Mad Men production crew to be gathered in the corner, cameras rolling.
