It started with a kiss…

The second hand on the kitchen clock jumped, and then juddered toward the next marker. Another second ticked passed. His chin rested on her gleaming smooth brunette hair. He inhaled. The scent was potent. She smelled of freshly shampooed hair.

It was now or never. This was his chance to find out and he couldn’t let this chance slip by. With his index finger extended he raised her chin, beamed, a big broad smile and let his lips drift across her forehead. As his mouth brushed and touched her skin he steadied his nerve. His caress stayed fixed. Desire grew. Then he moved even slower as his lips brushed playful over one eyebrow before he settled, rested against the other. He planted the softest kiss, and he waver, unsure how she would react as he traced his nose along the ridge of her nose. John kissed the tip of it lightly. Then held his breath as his lips hovered above her philtrum, its definition had hooked him in the moment he saw her. It was distinct, a perfect spot to kiss a girl. His tongue hovered above the dip. He hoped it was a sign she was into sex in a big way. The lightest of kisses chased along her cheek bone until he nuzzled close to her ear lobe.

‘You smell divine. I could devour you.’

Resistance was futile. He wanted her. Needed to know what she tasted like, sweet or sour. Their lips locked. A soft vulnerable touch that grew tighter as he pressed his lips hard against hers. He pulled her close, into his body. Held her tight. He couldn’t stop himself. Yet he was convinced he’d bruised her lips. She tasted lovable.

‘Oh shit, sorry mate, didn’t know anyone was…’

They sprang apart. John felt tongue-tied. Frustrated. The unknown intruder left. John looked at this brunette. He took one step closer.

‘You’ve been gone ages... Where’s that drink you promised to get me?’

The harsh tone of his wife’s voice rankled. John turned. Reluctant. Picked up the glass of wine and his pint and walked towards his wife. In the harsh kitchen light John clearly saw her plunging neckline that revealed more than was decent. His wife’s breasts on display like over ripe fruit at a street market fruit and veg stall. Where she had sat, her tight mini skirt had ridden up at the front, ruched into a mass of crumpled untidy fabric and the severity of her bleached blond hair reminded him that the last thing he ever wanted was to smell his wife’s brand of shampoo.