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Prequel: My eyes darted back and forth between the chicken roasting in the oven and clock above the stove. I stamped my feet to hurry them up. The chicken was a special dinner for Peter, to celebrate the results of my diet. And after chicken, he'll celebrate with me!

His muscled biceps will lift me off the floor as if I'm no more than a feather. And he'll twist my now almost-scrawny one-hundred and ten pounds into all manner of exotic erotic positions. I clamped my legs together to hold the hot dampness inside as I imagined Peter picking me up and twirling me like a little dolly.

Peter's black hair, always cut an inch high, makes him a manly six-foot-three in total. Brown eyes, soft if he wanted, but penetrating when the situation called for penetrating. Like when he wanted my body! I grabbed the kitchen counter to steady myself.

I stamped my feet again. The clock was so slow!

Peter would take one look at the way my curly brown hair framed my face, how my cheekbones now formed a counterpoint to my sparkling blue eyes instead of merely surrounding them. How there was so much space between my legs. We'd smile at each other and before I could breathe he'd press me against the wall in a passionate kiss.

Then he'd realize how light I was. He'd slide me up and down his body, our clothes falling to the floor. Then he'd lift me up, my pelvis pressed against the soft warm skin below his chest, my pelvis feeling each ripple of his rock-hard abs as he let me slowly slide down. And then I'd feel—

The clock on the oven chimed. At last! In a moment, he'll be standing in the door, jeans cupping his cute butt, muscles bulging under his T-shirt, and it won't be his eyes that'll be ready for penetrating!

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