because he sounded so desperate that I agreed. It was because I echoed his prayer. I not only wanted more of him, I wanted more of me. The witty, confident me that I was with him. The me that he saw me to be. Were they one and the same? I wasn’t sure, but I wanted them to be. And he was the reason I’d seen the possibility.
I wanted them to be so much that I didn’t think about what I was agreeing to, not as we walked hand-in-hand to his hotel, not as I followed him up the narrow staircase, not as he slid the key into the lock—one of those old-fashioned kinds, not the plastic keycard sort—not as he pulled me past the threshold and into his arms.
My lips shifted against his easily that time. The first kiss back in the restaurant lav had been awkward with its greediness, our teeth clacking and our tongues in the way. In his room, the kiss was like slow dancing, languid and in sync, and though I was not often very big on kissing, I could have stayed in that embrace, our mouths locked, for hours.
But of course there’d be more than kissing, and it wasn’t until we were on his bed and his hands reached for the buttons of my long-sleeve blouse that I began to panic.
I put a hand up to stop him, and before he could ask for an explanation, I cupped my palm over the thick bulge in his crotch, which turned out to be an effective distraction for all of about five minutes. Soon enough, he was fumbling with the buttons once more.
This time putting up a hand wasn’t enough. “Could we…” I’d never stumbled on this request before. I didn’t know why it was so hard to voice it this time. “Do you mind if we keep most of our clothes on?”
He let go of my shirttail and cupped my face, pulling me in for a searing kiss. “Whatever you need,” he said, and I knew he meant it. He had the patience of a wildlife photographer, after all. “Just, you should know how badly I want to touch you.”
I could have let it go at that. Skin-to-skin during sex is a beautiful thing, definitely heightens the intimacy, but since beautiful and intimate are not ever my objective, I am apt to not care about the absence.
Most men don’t care either once they’ve got their cock inside me. It’s helpful in this that they tend to have a one-track mind.
But there with Hendrix, pressed up against him with my clothes on and still feeling miles away from satisfaction, it was harder to ignore his desires. His desires were my desires, deep and desperate and greedy.
I glanced across the room at the windows, covered with blackout curtains. The lamps around the room were already all turned off save the one on the nightstand. An excited sort of anxiety tightened around my chest, gripping tighter as the urge to speak increased, like a failsafe my body had set up in case of stupid decisions like this one, a warning that it would shut down my ability to breathe before it let me proceed.
But Hendrix made me feel brave. Because I was in love with him. Because I was in love with the person he saw when he looked at me. Because in that moment, I was happy.
“Turn off the light?” It was a question because I was uncertain about what I was doing, but he answered like it was meant for him to answer.
“I can do that if you prefer.”
I didn’t know what I preferred. I knew what was necessary because now that the idea was in my head, I needed to be naked against him as surely as I needed to not be seen. So I said, “Yes. Please.”
It was torture just to lose his presence long enough for him to roll over and reach for the lamp. He flipped the switch, and we were pitched into the security of darkness. Pretty solid darkness, too. Those blackout curtains earned their name.
It was more eagerness than nerves that had me fumbling with the buttons of my shirt. Then I was fumbling with his buttons, and quickly we were both bare, top to bottom, wearing nothing but the dark.
And God, had touch always felt that magnificent? Like a favorite blanket fresh from the dryer, I wanted every part of my skin wrapped with his. I can still feel