He has to make her shiver.

Slow, rumbling waves that start at red lips and slowly move down hesitant arms; a ripple at the waist when he touches her for a dance, a slow, moving blush when he stares deep into her eyes and says she's beautiful; a shudder when he pulls her in close.

Not close enough yet to feel those breasts quiver under his chest, just nearly close enough so that a touch of his palm on her back, on her hair, on her shoulder, a devious lingering finger on her ass that makes her think she shouldn't; but he moves away too quickly - the fingertips dancing over her back while he tells her how fat the mayor is and watches her smile and laugh and lean close, close into him - but only for a moment; only for a moment does he let her lest she turn away and leave him wanting.

He has to enthrall. Swanky red wine filled to a half-glass, an elegant shirt over crappy blue jeans, and some fresh cologne so she can lean over and smell him, and then breathe in, inhale and savor him.

He has to seduce. Some passionate red roses so that she smiles and listens to him and thinks he's nice and caring and so much unlike her husband.

A quick glance at her peeking breasts, at the alluring décolleté, at her conscious ass so that she smiles and blushes and twirls her legs close together and thinks he's daring and invigoratingly rude and so much unlike her husband.

She has to succumb.

Deep, deep inside her, between lips that so often host a nervous tongue, between arms clasped hard behind him, between her arching, inviting ass, she wants him. She wants him like a treat denied; she wants his arms about her, she wants him to kiss her till she burns, she wants him to hold her close and make her shiver and sob.

She knows it's wrong. She knows it's a no, no, no with an intensity that burns her crumbling hands and quickens the wine inside her. Oh, she knows too that she feels an arousal like never before. Not even the hazy visions of her first years with Michael come close. This man - this black haired boy with twinkling blue eyes makes her feel twelve years younger; he makes her laugh, blush and twitter like a twelve year old. He makes her want to pout her mouth and tease him for a kiss. He makes her check the hemline of her skirt ten times a minute to make sure it's not up to her waist.

But Michael! Oh! Michael! Michael! Michael! Michael and the kids, Michael and his tireless work, Michael and his love, Michael and the sweet little things he does. Oh! Michael and his quiet way of telling her she can't be anyone she wants. Michael and the way he slammed the door on her that time at Hawaii.

Oh! And Michael's apologies later. She told her confused, thirsting brain that she loved Michael. She loved Michael in a way that made her want to pronounce that word as three. But this man beside her - she knows with a certainty that dims everything else that he wants her, he wants to undress her, kiss her; he wants to... Oh! Fuck. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh God! Besides...

He has to prod her along. He has to gently lead her to the floor when he knows that it is one of the slowest songs of the night. He has to make her want his touch, moving away when she draws close; his an imperceptible shift backward so that she misses what she wants, hers a tentative step forward. That uncertain foot grows in warmth and fire and desperation as she asks and he denies until once when she pushes forward, he thrusts so hard against her that they are groin to groin - and then she lets out a gasp. Ah! A sweet, lovely gasp that comes from deep, deep inside her, and then he smiles.