Horizontal thoughts

 Tip of tongue started at the hollow in my  throat, her warm, topaz-gold tiger’s eyes glinting a promise of more to come. In my head, while rational thought was still possible, I addressed the sanctimonious prick that was my brother, assured him yet again that paid-for variation way out beat the thrice-weekly ennui of the marital bed he, ever-adamant, tried to convince me was superior.

He didn’t know how much his wife liked money. And I doubt he let her do to him what she – tongue marinaded in honey with just a soupçon of paprika – so deliciously did to me.