I do not think she knows how breathtaking she is. These round Scottish lasses often don't. In the pictures on the web (and there are many) she usually seems surprised, wide mouth open, big eyes wide as though shocked that anyone would be taking a picture of her, with her high cheekbones over round cheeks, her cute little nose, her slightly large teeth, her fair skin, her luxurious long, not quite curly, not quite red hair. Sometimes she even objects to being tagged in pictures like the one at the potter's wheel with the clay on her hands and clay dust on her face, laughing about something, her head back, her fascinatingly round but not overly big breasts thrust out, one with the wheel, as though she is not in that moment earthy, funny, messy, alive, and highly fuckable. But in every one there is also a little twinkle, like she knows she is, like she wants to be, needs to be on her knees with a man's hands on her hips, bouncing the weight of her or driving into her from behind. When she catches me looking at her she seems intrigued, and yet slightly uncomfortable, unsure what to do with the attraction, with my marriage, with me being more than twenty years older. Me, I would rejoice in both as I watched her suck me, her hand between her legs, rubbing herself hard in anticipation of riding me, grown woman actress now her, on her bed in her new first apartment.