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It started with a glint in the eye, a forbidden glance. Are the eyes the windows to the soul? If so, his were yearning, burning with desire, with wanton abandonment. His demeanour was quiet, low key and residual. His body language sublime, in a way only few would understand and the experienced would get to appreciate. She found herself next to him at the buffet table, delighting in the scent of his cologne, a musky pheromone, agile with his masculinity. She could make out the slight ripple of a body used to hard work under his clothes and instantly wondered what heíd be like between the sheets. She felt the heat of a blush spread across her chest, cheeks and face. Why would she have these thoughts of the stranger next to her? Her eyes darted to the bulge in his Levi jeans, etching out what was in the forefront of her imagination. The line shifted at a snail pace, or did it just seem an eternity as her body heat radiated off her in waves of teenage derision. She noticed the curve of his tight bum, imaging her hands touching, groping and fondling... what had come over her? Finally! The line moved and she was able to gain a modicum of composure. As she lifted the soup ladle, her hand brushed his arm, only slightly. The jolt that coursed through her caused her to drop the ladle, splashing soup on his expensive shirt. Akin to the proverbial Cinderella, her plate crashed to the floor and she ran, as fast as her stiletto clad feet could transport her. She had not yet reached her car and the hot tears welled up and spilled onto her cheeks. Her limber body was drenched in shame and embarrassment. How could she have been so clumsy, her of all people, so fucking clumsy! She was grateful that she did not know his name and that she didnít introduce herself. He would never dare to find her, after all, she hadnít lost a slipper and there really werenít princes on white horses ambling along to rescue clumsy soup ladling dimwits. The evening had been long and emotional. What better way to soothe a bruised ego than in a hot, luxurious bath, soaking away the memories of the man with the silk shirt. The feel of the new pyjamas transported
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