by Penny Reid
They needed to work for it and show me they were worth the price of my birth control and the awkwardness that comes from trying to unroll a condom two sizes too big onto an oddly shaped banana.
And why did men insist on buying the largest size? Didn’t they understand the concept of sizes? Did they think buying a magnum-sized condom was going to fool me into thinking their fishing boat was an aircraft carrier?
No.
But I digress….
My unwritten (and unspoken) rule was that dates one, two, and three progressed from kissing to second base.
Dates four, five, and six progressed from second to third base.
If the guy lasted to date seven, then we were on the precipice of a relationship, and I was ready to determine sexual compatibility. Only three men had made it this far; of the three, one was dismissed the next day. He had no concept of rhythm or the fact that my vagina wasn’t made of reinforced steel.
He also had mommy issues, so…no thanks.
However, with Alex, I had a problem with my heretofore-perfect dating plan. I’d demonstrated willingness to have sex prior to my usual schedule and timeframe because he was never supposed to last seven dates. He wasn’t even supposed to last one date.
As we walked into my apartment—where I’d invited him and, honestly, wanted him—I wondered about our next step and his expectations.
I also wondered what I wanted.
By his own admission—his, i.e. need for assurances, as he’d put it—Alex and I had three months to figure things out. Logically, I could see no reason to go balls first into our experimental time together. The best course of action would be to take things slow.
I repeated the word slow in my brain as I listened to Alex’s footsteps echo mine. Long before he’d hijacked my dinner three Fridays ago, I’d wanted to climb him like a tree. Knowing he was so close now—silent, watchful—made my bones feel rubbery and my stomach climb to my throat.
The feeling manifested itself bodily, akin to the dread and anticipation one feels as a child, running across the room and jumping into bed really fast after turning off the light because of monsters in dark.
Instead of dread, the anticipation of a night with Alex in my apartment was seasoned with a delightful fear. Fear tensed my muscles; shallowed my breathing; heightened my senses. It was fear of the unknown, with a suspicion that the unknown was going to be earthshaking, mind blowing, and soul shattering, with rockets’ red glare bursting in air.
Slow, I reminded myself again when I flinched for no reason and my heart jumped to my throat.
I unzipped my coat, pulled it off along with my hat, and let them fall to the catchall bench at the end of the entranceway. I heard him release the snaps of his lightweight windbreaker; each one sounded like a rifle shot in the otherwise silent space. Goosebumps prickled my shoulders and arms.
I didn’t know why, but I was holding my breath.
I marveled at how tightly wound I’d become.
It wasn’t like this was my first trip to the rodeo. Furthermore, I wasn’t this nervous that first night, weeks ago, when he took me up to his apartment, and I was all-out prepared for a one-night stand. That night had ended with him redecorating his apartment with broken glass, while I fled like a coward. Maybe my nerves at present were on edge due to the fact that we were in my apartment rather than his.
This time there would be no easy escape.
You can’t think of any other possibility? Alex’s words, from that fateful Saturday encounter, reverberated in my head as clearly as if they’d been spoken aloud.
Maybe I was feeling tense because of the dark.
I moved to flick on the light, surprised that my hand trembled as I did so. He stilled my movements, caught my hand in his, and held it in place on the wall just inches from the switch. Alex’s chest met my back as he stepped forward, his thighs against my bottom. He removed my hand from the wall, threaded our fingers together, and wrapped his arm around my middle.
“No lights.” The words against my neck and ear weren’t even a whisper; they were more like a thought carried to me via his hot breath, almost indecipherable from the beating of my heart.
I nodded, feeling somehow soothed by our contact—or intoxicated by it—and let my head rest against his shoulder. Almost at once, he captured my chin with his free hand and turned my face toward his. Before I could draw breath, he kissed me.
Alex’s mouth was punishing with hunger. He hummed and it became a growl. I felt the reverberation of his chest, and my toes curled in my shoes.
So that actually happens…huh.
How he held me—my throat exposed, his arm like a vise around my middle, my soft pressed to his hard—made me feel both vulnerable and exhilarated. On instinct—because in another life I’d obviously been a horny cat—I arched my back, rubbed my bottom against him.
He was either pleased or surprised, because he bit my lower lip and barely stifled a moan.
Alex used the hand around my waist, still holding mine, to spin me around to face him. It was my only reprieve from his demanding kisses; no sooner were we facing each other than his mouth was affixed to my jaw—nipping, nibbling, biting a passage to my neck, then the crook of my shoulder.
And we were moving.
It took me a few minutes to realize that we’d already crossed half the expanse of my apartment. My feet seemed to know that we needed to get to my bedroom. When I felt the back of my calves connecting with the edge of the bed, I took a split second to silently, internally applaud my feet.
Smart feet. Good feet. They would be rewarded later with a pedicure; maybe even paraffin and a fancy toe ring—even though, as a rule, I thought toe rings looked creepy.
Everything was… progressing. His hands were under my shirt, unclasping my bra with skill. My hands were under his shirt, touching everything that warranted touching—which was everything—because, holy heckaroni, this man was perfectly made.
All the calculations I’d done—regarding our three months and my usual schedule and whether to count our first date as today or the one from Thursday two weeks ago—completely fled my mind.
In fact, lots of things fled my mind: inhibitions, concerns, plans, dreams of normalcy. All my preconceived notions took a great migration, forced out by feelings of longing and stirrings of hope for this man.
My hands moved to the button of his pants, dipped into the band of the jeans, felt just a tease of the hard and smooth flesh before he caught my fingers. He didn’t stop kissing me, but he did move my hands away, behind my back, and distracted me by licking my earlobe.
Another explosion of goose bumps was followed by an acute shiver. I felt his smile against my skin, and he hummed—like I was delicious.
I remembered that he did this—he hummed when we kissed, when he was pleased with me, or my reaction to his touch. It was sex-ay, and I wanted to hear it again.
I placed his hands on my bottom to encourage him to squeeze. He hummed again, his fingers flexed, and he pressed our centers together in a jolting, rough movement—like he hadn’t meant to, and his body had disregarded a direct order from his brain.
Once more I tried to unbutton his pants, and again he caught my hands. This time he distracted me by pushing me down to the bed and climbing on top, forcing my legs apart to straddle my hips, kissing me. He again threaded his fingers through mine and held them hostage against the comforter away from my sides.
The only places our bare skin met were our hands and our mouths. When I attempted to touch him again, he lifted my wrists over my head and held them in one of his very capable hands. This freed him to use his other hand to touch me where he liked.
I melted into the mattress and struggled to breathe.
Although I appreciated the foreplay—and I especially appreciated his next hum of satisfaction when he lifted my shirt, palmed my breast, kneaded it, and delivered a wet kiss to my nipple through my lace bra—I began to wonder whether I’d said the word slow aloud when we’d first e
ntered the apartment instead of just thinking it.
Because, at this point, I wanted his clothes off. Maybe burned. Definitely hidden. And me straddling him. Naked. My clothes also burned—except my jeans, because I liked this pair of jeans a lot.
But he seemed content to pet me heavily, grind into my center through four layers of clothes, lavish and taste every inch of my neck, shoulders, arms, chest. My hips shifted because they needed the friction, but these were rote movements, a silent begging.
Nevertheless, a few minutes turned into a lot of minutes. I was reaching a frenzy, and he made no movement toward home base—and he’d cock-blocked all my attempts.
His caresses had wound me so tight that my hands were balled into fists above my head, and my body trembled beneath him. I was so ready. I was sure I’d come apart as soon as his boy parts connected with my girl parts.
In fact, it was very possible I was going to unravel without him needing to whip anything out of anywhere.
What the shitzterhozen was he waiting for?
In the end, it was too late. He bit the side of my breast. He licked a trail to my nipple. He breathed on it. He massaged my other breast with his palm. He rubbed vicious circles around its center. And he thrust what might as well have been a steel pipe against me.
Nebulas became stars behind my eyes. Big bangs sounded in my ears. Later I would realize that it was the beating of my heart.
My eyes flew open, found his gaze on mine—steady, hot, expectant, watchful, shameless. Just seeing him above me was enough for another prolonged wave of stupor-inducing tremors. My chest was on fire, I felt like I was falling and flying, and he intercepted my screams with a kiss.
Alex had just given me my first dry-humping ticket to O-town. I didn’t know whether to feel mortification, amazement, or admiration.
As I came down from my throne circling above the earth, I felt all three—but mostly embarrassment. I choked on a strangled half sob.
He released my hands. At last, I was free to touch him. Instead, I broke from our kiss, turned my head to the side, and covered my face. It was flushed a deep red from my release—and from embarrassment.
Gently, reverently, he kissed my stomach then lowered my shirt to cover the exposed skin. I rolled onto my side, away from him. Alex spooned me. I tried to shift away, but he wrapped his arm around my middle, his leg around mine, and brought me firmly against his chest.
His leg was heavy.
I was trapped under a heavy object.
He held me in place and would not let me push him away. Nor would he let me escape.
It seemed that when all my inhibitions fled earlier, they’d also taken my ability to make light of a serious situation, or to say something shocking to ease my discomfort.
I felt like a live wire, raw and exposed, and the irony of the situation was not lost on me. I’d just experienced maybe the best, most intense sex of my life, and we both still had all our clothes on.
CHAPTER 14
Sunday’s Horoscope: You will be tempted to keep something that doesn’t belong to you. This instinct will prove fatal in the future if heeded.
THOUGH HE WAS quiet, stealthy even, the sound of Alex rising from the bed and the acute lack of warmth against my back stirred me from fitful dreams.
I held perfectly still and listened as he opened and closed my dresser drawers. After a brief moment, he returned to the bed and, with gentle but disinterested fingers, undid the button and zipper of my jeans. I opened my eyes fully then, turned to face him, and found that he’d placed a pair of very unsexy cotton pajamas on the bed next to me.
I frowned at them, then at him, my eyebrows pulled into a deep V between my eyes marking my confusion. His mouth hitched to the side as he watched me, his eyes steady. He wrapped his hand around the back of my head and brought my forehead to his mouth, kissed the V between my eyebrows, and let his lips linger there.
Then he stood abruptly and walked to my bathroom. He shut and lock the door, and a moment later, I heard the sound of my shower.
My gaze followed him and dawdled on the bathroom door. After several seconds, I looked at the sleepwear he’d selected. He was so weird. Did baggy, stained cotton pajamas with cartoons of sheep and alpacas turn him on?
I slipped out of my day clothes and into the pajamas. They were my favorite pair for pity parties and illnesses: unflattering, comfy, and familiar. Also, the sheep and alpacas had little word bubbles that imparted fiber puns, like You can never have ewe much yarn and I only sing alpacapella.
I dressed and was under the covers when Alex finally emerged from the bathroom.
Dressed in his jeans and shirt from earlier, Alex claimed his spot on the bed, but he didn’t join me under the covers. Instead, he opened his arms and, employing his now typical, somewhat amused steady stare, waited for me to snuggle face-first into his chest.
So I did. And it was nice. But his hands were cold. He was so cold that his skin was almost freezing to the touch.
I withdrew my arms from beneath the snuggly comforter and wrapped him in a tight embrace, rubbed his back and arms. He hummed, seemed to relax a bit, and I felt his small smile against my hair.
It took my still sleepy mind several moments to put together the puzzle pieces; I was teetering on the edge of slumber when I realized that the shower he’d just taken had been a cold one.
***
ALEX WAS GONE. I knew this before I opened my eyes because I felt sad when I usually felt happy.
I waited several minutes behind the gray darkness of my closed eyelids, stretched, then turned my face into my pillow. I wanted to postpone confirming my suspicion for as long as possible.
And when I did, when I was met with an empty room, I closed my eyes again and heaved a loud, obnoxious sigh.
“Alex, Alex, Alex. Wo sind sie, Alex?”
Sometimes, when I’m alone, I like to speak in German. I can’t actually speak German. I only know a few phrases, but I like to pretend I can. It makes me feel worldly.
The smell of coffee caused a temporary spike of hope in my chest. I shot upward, my eyes now wide. But then I remembered that my coffee machine was on a timer, just like every morning.
Oh drat and bollocks.
I grumbled and cursed as my warm feet connected with the cold floor. This feeling of grumpy melancholy was atypical for me. I was usually a morning person. I was also an afternoon person, as well as a night person.
But after just one night of having Alex in my bed and in my apartment, I missed him now that he was gone. He was the entirety of my mood problem.
I crossed to the bathroom for my morning ablutions. Flipping on the light, revealing my image in the mirror, I reflected—pun intended—that perhaps it was for the best that Alex had left before being faced with my morning eye and drool crust. Also, as I’d neglected to brush my teeth the night before, my breath would have placed strongly in a fetid smell competition.
After brushing my teeth, I reached into the shower to start the hot water and almost missed the note taped to the tile. I had to blink at it several times before I registered what it was. But when I did, I snatched it greedily and devoured Alex’s handwritten scrawl. I realized that he must’ve left it for me after his cold shower.
It read,
Dear Sandra,
I have to leave before you wake up, so I’m leaving this note now. Thank you for spending the day with me. You are amazing, and you make me want things. This might not be fair to you, but I can’t help it.
I don’t think I’ll ever recover from watching you last night. Please don’t try to hide from me again. I needed to see you, touch you after. You are exquisitely beautiful. But last night, beneath me, you were celestial. Thoughts of you will keep me warm. Thoughts of you keep me too warm. Right now, I feel close to spontaneous incineration. I burn. I hurt.
According to our agreement, I am allowed at least two more interactions this week. I have some thoughts on where, but don’t know your work schedule. Can you write me a
note today and leave it with Mr. Patel at the restaurant? He’ll make sure that only I receive it. Please write to me by the end of Sunday. I need to hear from you.
Please also destroy this note after reading it.
-A
I read it seven times while standing in my bathroom. In fact, I decided to postpone my shower and, pressing the note to my chest, hurried into the kitchen so that I could enjoy it again over coffee.
Of course I focused on the juiciest parts first:
I don’t think I’ll ever recover….
….you were celestial.
I burn. I hurt.
My toes curled in my slippers and he wasn’t even in the room. His words made me feel less embarrassed and confused by my solo act and uncontrollable turned-on-ness.
However, I couldn’t help but wonder why, given his self-reported almost spontaneous incineration, he’d decided to forego his own pleasure last night. Maybe he worried the apartment was bugged with cameras….
But then I reread the first paragraph, and my attention caught on the phrases you make me want things and I can’t help myself. I had the abrupt sensation of falling. My stomach dropped to my knees, and my vascular system expanded and contracted with lovely spikes of pain in my chest and heart and throat. The ground and chair beneath me were unstable. Even the table was a bit wobbly.
I closed my eyes against the vertigo, astonished that I could be so affected by a letter, and wondered if this was what it felt like to swoon.
It was a lovely letter. He was lovely. He made me feel lovely.
“Lovely, lovely, lovely,” I sighed to my coffee as I opened my eyes and took a sip. Then I repeated it in German, “Schön, schön, schön.”
My previous grumpiness forgotten, I made a mental list of my letter-related action items.
I would send him my schedule by the end of the day via Mr. Patel, no problems there. Also, I had some ideas of where we could meet next. On the top of my list was Elizabeth and Janie’s old apartment. No longer occupied since their recent weddings, it would be the perfect place for us to engage in unhindered mutual bodily appreciation.
