Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
I drink in the intensity of his expression.
I kiss him.
I don't think. I just do it.
My eyes close as my lips find his. When his lips part for me, I don't hesitate. My tongue slips into his mouth and dances with his.
He matches my speed. My pressure.
His fingers curl into my hips.
I soak up the sensation of his cotton t-shirt. He looks different casual. Feels different too. Like he's ready for some grand adventure.
Or at least a day at the beach.
My hips shift against his. My groans vibrate down his mouth.
I can feel him, hardening against me, and it feels good.
"Oh my god, you two, get a room." Sasha clears her throat.
I jump back.
He stands there, blushing yet confident.
Whereas I'm just blushing.
"This is going to take some serious work, Rome." Sasha shakes her head. "Can't you kiss a woman without taking your dick out?"
"How is it out?" There's no embarrassment in his voice. No outrage either. Only the lightest hint of absurdity.
"Oh my god, just look at it." She motions to the bulge in his jeans.
It's not unnoticeable, but it's not… out either.
He's got a semi. He's got enough girth that it's noticeable. Not so much that it's ridiculous. Not too much.
Just right, really.
Do I like him because our bodies fit just right? Or do they fit just right because I like him?
Statistically, women don't report a different orgasm frequency with partners with larger or smaller penises. If anything, smaller is better. Women are more likely to report pain with a more well-endowed partner.
There. That's an unsexy topic. That's a good way to slow me down. I'm not here to mount the man. I'm here to learn enough about him to play his girlfriend.
Somehow, Sasha catches on to exactly where my head goes and takes the complete opposite tactic. "Why don't you two get this out of your system. Take the rest of the day. I'll check in before the trip. If you need another practice round, I'm here." She gives me a warm hug goodbye then makes a show of giving Romeo a fist-bump, like she doesn't want to get within two feet of his erection.
She leaves with a wave.
And leaves us alone in his apartment.
With the rest of the afternoon to do anything we want and all the dirty thoughts in my head.
He turns a little towards me.
I shift my weight between my legs.
Pelvic pain or pure pleasure. The concepts compete in my brain.
"What are you thinking?" Romeo's voice is steady, confident. His posture too. But there's something in his eyes.
The curiosity I saw before. And a discomfort too.
He's not used to this sort of intimacy.
We're not client and service provider anymore. This encounter isn't about me.
Neither of us knows how to navigate that.
But I do know one thing:
It's not just what I want. It's what he wants too. What we both want.
And that feels really fucking good.
"I'm thinking I always do the safe thing, but now I want to do the fun thing," I say.
His eyes brighten. "I like the sound of that."
"How does it go?" I ask. "This whole… less pretense thing?"
"You're the sex therapist. What's your suggestion?" I ask.
"My suggestion is you find a sex therapist with a more objective viewpoint," I say.
"Fair." He smiles. "But given the situation at hand…"
I try to tap into my logical brain, but it's overwhelmed by my desire to touch him. I go for my training instead. "I've had a lot of clients who felt a pressure to perform pleasure during sex." Usually women, but not always. "I usually advise them to start in small ways, by appreciating other pleasures."
"Mindfulness and meditation?" he asks.
"And masturbation," I say. "That's usually the cornerstone. Do you masturbate?"
"Doesn't everyone?" he asks.
A dodge. He's not comfortable answering. If we were in therapy, I'd push in a different way. But this dynamic is unusual, to say the least. "If you were a normal client, I'd ask you to tell me about the last time you had sex. How it felt. Then I might ask about the last time you touched yourself. What you imagined. If you used any aids."
"Sex toys?" he asks.
"Or pornographic materials. Images, videos, erotic stories. Pictures sent by exes. A lot of people prefer that."
His eyes flare with something. Interest. Or confession. I can't tell. I can't read him right. I'm too caught between worlds.
"But that sort of talk isn't very sexy," I say. "The clinical approach. It puts people in their heads. Makes it harder to get into their bodies."
"Sometimes therapy is counter-productive?"
"Sometimes," I nod. "Sometimes, you need to think less, and do more. If we could team up, create a full-service therapy offering… we could help people so much better."
"Like a sex surrogate?" he asks.
It shouldn't surprise me he knows about sex surrogates—he's in the business—but it does. Did he learn about them from that Holly Hunter movie? Or does he know someone who performs sex therapy via touch and, well, active practice. "Like the next step, after a sex surrogate," I say.