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Submissively, Frances drew closer to him, her hands clinging tightly around his neck, pressing her own body to him, not hearing his exact words but reacting to their sense, to the tone of his voice. She had forgotten what it was like to de desired, to be special, to be privileged. Now, dancing with Drago, feeling his hardness, the warmth of him and smelling his smell, the scent of perfectly, newly clean black skin so reminiscent of the first time Drago proposed to her, Frances remembered. They moved very slowly in time with the music, allowing her to feel his growing erection. Frances could feel his manhood pressing into her navel, reveling in Drago's hardness, if not, in his lust for her.

"Frances, feel how much I love you," Drago whispered softly in her ears. But Frances did not seem to hear. Rather, her eyes closed, she rested her head against his breast and pressed her body closer to his while Drago felt her hands around his neck pull him closer to her. She allowed herself to enjoy the pressure, his enormous erection pressing hard against her womb.

Drago invited her for a night cap in his house. Drago poured the wine. Frances was surprised to see, when she took her glass, that her hand was shaking.

"Cheers," he said, as he clicked his glass to hers. She took a very small sip, tasting it. Their eyes locked. Looking straight into Drago' eyes, Frances let the tip of her tongue slipped from between her lips and slowly and provocatively licked away a shimmering drop of the wine. Instantly, hot blood surged through Drago's veins and cock. He wanted her so badly that pain lanced along his thighs and his manhood throbbed. As hot color flooded his face, Frances smiled at him, and said,

"It's good," Frances said smiling at him while hot color flooded Drago' face. Lifting her glass toward him, she offered a silent toast of gratitude to him.

The gesture thrilled Drago' immeasurably. Hot with unsatisfied lust, warm with love, he burned in delightful misery throughout the rest of their dinner. They made small talk. He told her about his good old days. But Frances did not hear a word. She kept watching his hands as they played with the bread crumbs on the coffee table near the fireplace, watching his eyes as they sparkled when he laughed: mocking? serious? she could not tell; his lashes as they swept his cheeks when he looked down. Drago' lower lip was full and curved down at one end, so that he always had a sort of wry look about him, ready to smile or grimace. His jaw was square, and he worked it when he was silent as though he were chewing his thoughts. Frances tried hard not to think what his mouth would feel like on her mouth. . .on her breast and nipples. . .on her pussy or what his massive black hands would feel on her body. She began playing with her bread crumbs.

"Canada isn't the same anymore," he was saying. He had put his in a pile, brushing them together.

"Why is that?" she forced herself to respond. She did the same with hers.

"Things aren't as much fun. I don't know. Maybe I'm just older or perhaps alone. Maybe I have to find somebody." As Drago said it, he looked at her. Their eyes caught. He reached over and brushed her crumbs onto his. Frances was helping him put the piles together. Their fingers touched.

"You sometimes have to look for it. . .get it to have it," she said, and reddened.

"More wine?" Their hands pulled apart as Drago reached for the bottle and they both sighed.

"I don't know. I feel bent out of shape. Maybe I'm just older. Or maybe it's the business tilt," he said.

"All right. What's the business tilt? "Have I got it yet?"" she giggled. Drago explained it to her. Frances laughed. It was not that she had forgotten how funny and sexy he was. It was just that she had not allowed herself to remember.

"No, and I hope you don't. You have too pretty a neck to have it ruined that way."

Frances could feel her face flush and her pulse beat a little faster.

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