Meant for Her: Part 1

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When was the first time I knew?

Three months back. She made eye contact and smiled, sliding up to my table in six-inch stiletto heels. Then, in that sweet tea accent of hers, she drawled, Howre ya tonight, baby?

Trying to be casual was the worst. The rush of blood to my cock tightened my jeans as I looked her over. 

She embodied that poppy country song. How did it go? Something about backroads and going slow as quickly as possible. Dumbass song, butdamnit could have been written about her. 

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