How about a sneak preview?
Justin Youngblood had a perfect ass.
Through darkness pierced by the glow of neon beer signs hung on the walls and the dance of colored light from the system set into the rafters over the dance floor, Heather Wild kept her eyes riveted on the curve of that perfect ass. Viewing it was a rare and special treat. She admired the shape of it under the slight sag of his designer jeans. Her eyes moved down the length of his thick, muscular thighs and then back up, over the nicely rounded contours of his buttocks and the fluid lines of his back as he bent over the edge of the pool table. His polo shirt rode up when he made his shot, exposing the pale skin and the dimples just above his low-riding belt. She sighed happily.
A skinny man in painted-on work jeans wandered through her line of sight. Heather wished for a dangerous, fleeting moment that Justin was more like the other men in the room. If he was a cowboy, he would wear the same Levi's or Wranglers as the rest of them. They would be skin tight. They would better show off that ass in all of its perfect glory.
And she wouldn't give a damn about it or him.
It was better that his jeans had come from an urban clothing store in the mall, that his shoes were clean sneakers and not dirty boots, and that his shirt was a textured cotton blend with a popped collar and three tiny open buttons that exposed the base of his throat. It made him different. She liked different. Different excited her.
Her eyes lingered on his biceps, where the snug sleeve only accentuated the bulge of gym-built muscle. Her fingers flexed. Justin was top-heavy, bulky from lifting weights; his strength was for show, not for work. He didn't rope cattle or bale hay or mend fences. He never had and his new MBA ensured that he never would.
She wanted him.
Justin Youngblood had a perfect ass.
Through darkness pierced by the glow of neon beer signs hung on the walls and the dance of colored light from the system set into the rafters over the dance floor, Heather Wild kept her eyes riveted on the curve of that perfect ass. Viewing it was a rare and special treat. She admired the shape of it under the slight sag of his designer jeans. Her eyes moved down the length of his thick, muscular thighs and then back up, over the nicely rounded contours of his buttocks and the fluid lines of his back as he bent over the edge of the pool table. His polo shirt rode up when he made his shot, exposing the pale skin and the dimples just above his low-riding belt. She sighed happily.
A skinny man in painted-on work jeans wandered through her line of sight. Heather wished for a dangerous, fleeting moment that Justin was more like the other men in the room. If he was a cowboy, he would wear the same Levi's or Wranglers as the rest of them. They would be skin tight. They would better show off that ass in all of its perfect glory.
And she wouldn't give a damn about it or him.
It was better that his jeans had come from an urban clothing store in the mall, that his shoes were clean sneakers and not dirty boots, and that his shirt was a textured cotton blend with a popped collar and three tiny open buttons that exposed the base of his throat. It made him different. She liked different. Different excited her.
Her eyes lingered on his biceps, where the snug sleeve only accentuated the bulge of gym-built muscle. Her fingers flexed. Justin was top-heavy, bulky from lifting weights; his strength was for show, not for work. He didn't rope cattle or bale hay or mend fences. He never had and his new MBA ensured that he never would.
She wanted him.
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