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)
He brings his hand to my wrist and places my palm on his chest. A non-verbal invitation.
The way I prefer things.
For all the ways I preach sexual communication, I much prefer non-verbal signals. I talk all day. This is when I let my body do the talking.
In theory.
In practice, I default to what my partner wants. I let him run the show.
Men just… move so much faster than I do.
Romeo notices me hesitating and looks up at me. "Take all the time you want."
Right. I'm doing what I want to him. And this is what I want to do. I look into his eyes as I explore his torso with my hands. First, the firm muscles of his pecs, then the defined shoulders, the thick biceps.
The actual abs.
He has a fantastic body. Objectively speaking. But it's not his traditional good looks that move me. It's the way his skin feels against mine.
There's something right about it.
The touch fills some place in me that's been empty for far too long. Is it lacking love or lust? I'm not sure.
Both, maybe.
For once, I don't question it.
I close my eyes and surrender to the sensation.
I take a long, long time exploring his body. He leans into the touch with patience and steady breath.
When I finally move onto my next desire, I expect him to rejoice from the momentum. But he doesn't.
He stays patient.
"I want to kiss you," I say.
He brings his hand to my cheek and pulls my head towards his.
My lips connect with his. The soft brush at first. Then his lips against mine. The scrape of teeth.
My hips shift against his.
My tongue slips into his mouth.
He starts to reach for me. His hands go to my thighs. But he stops himself. Presses his palms into the couch.
"Touch me," I breathe as I pull back.
"Not yet." He keeps his body steady. He waits for me to move. To act.
Similar to what he did in my apartment. Only there's a different energy to it. There, he seemed like, well, a man who has sex for a living. He seemed like he had all the skill and patience in the world.
Here, he seems more urgent. More rushed, despite his stillness. Like he's playing a game with me. Or against himself.
Not because he's trying to prove he's a fantastic fuck.
Because he wants to see how well he can do.
Because he wants to see what I want.
What do I want?
I want to kiss him again.
So, I do.
I bring my lips to his. I suck on his bottom lip. I slip my tongue into his mouth.
He matches my pace again.
He's a good kisser. There's no other way to explain it.
There's something romantic about our tongues touching. Or maybe it's the intimacy of it. A more emotional sort of intimacy. Less about the urgent need to come. More about the urgent need to connect with another human being.
Good sex is about connection.
I have to explain that to so many people.
To myself.
But I don't want to stay in therapist mode, right now. I want to fall into this moment. To follow my urges.
I run my hands over his skin. Again, I take my time. I want to touch him everywhere. I want him to touch me everywhere. I want our bodies to fully join.
But I want this too.
I touch him until I'm too desperate for more, then I unbutton my blouse and toss that aside.
The bra.
I let my torso sink into his. Let that feeling of our skin connecting flood my body. Oxytocin. That's the feeling in my body. But somehow putting a word to it doesn't make it any less special.
Sure, I know the science. I know I'll feel this rush of hormones with skin-to-skin contact from anyone.
But there are other hormones I won't feel. And these sensations in my body, this urge to be closer to him—
That's not an everyone thing.
That's rare and special and pure and human.
This time, when I take his hands, he lets me. I bring them to my breasts. I kiss him as he toys with me.
The same horrible, beautiful agonizing teasing.
Until I need more. Until I shift off his lap.
I stand and do away with my slacks.
Then the underwear.
"Here or in your bedroom?" I ask.
"Is that a question?" he returns. "Or a desire."
It's a tough call, actually. There is something sexy about the couch. The urgency of it. The ability to position myself so I'm sitting on top of him.
But then the bed…
That's just classic.
"Bedroom. Now." A demanding tone drops into my voice. It's slight, but it's enough to surprise me. I want him that much. I'm that ready to throw caution to the wind.
He smiles with the confidence of an expert mentor. Then that smile shifts into something I only barely recognize.
The playfulness that can come from sex with someone you like.