anything evidential since our last smooch at the Coffee Factory.
I was a little surprised when Robert Downey Jr. stopped transforming from human genius to combat machine and the credits started rolling. I had been so caught up in my own conundrum.
I stood up.
"I'll do the dishes."
"Okay," Ryan said without taking his eyes off the screen.
I swayed into the kitchen where I hyperventilated for a minute or two. After I had accomplished that, I set out to tidy up. He had fortunately created far less of a chaos than I had expected.
I started by filling the plates into the dishwasher and continued by wiping the surfaces. My large IKEA wineglasses did not fit into the machine and I ran hot water into the sink. Then I looked up and saw him standing in the doorframe, silently watching me.
"Are you leaving?" I asked, hoping my voice did not betray my anxiety.
"Do I have to?"
Images of skyscraper high index fingers waving from left to right crept up in front of me. All the voices in my head were screaming in unison. YEEEEES!!!
"No." I bowed over the sink again.
He came up behind me. Very closely.
"Good," he breathed into my hair.
One of his hands slid under my sweatshirt and rested on my stomach. He brushed my braid aside and his warm mouth came down on my neck.
"Because I want you…", the first hand was joined by the second, but this one went slightly higher, stopping just underneath my breasts, "…rather badly."
I turned around. "Good."
Without another word he lifted me up and sat me down on the edge of the sink. My legs came apart and he pulled me closer.
"This doesn't feel like practise," I murmured into his ear.
"This is strictly off the record."
"I see, don't you think we should—"
"Hush—" he looked at me sternly. "We've talked enough for the day."
Strangely, from the moment our mouths connected, I underwent a weird kind of personality splitting.
On one side there was I, experiencing what was going on, while on the other side there was another me, commentating the event like a football match.
"Now he's carrying you into the bedroom, now he's laying you down on the bed. Now you're taking his shirt off, now you're admiring his body. Now he's taking your sweatshirt off, and your t-shirt, and your bra and your track pants. Now you're kneeling in front of him while he's kissing you really, really deep, ooh. Now you're opening the top button of his jeans, and the second, and the third, and the fourth, and the last. Now you're pushing his jeans down. Now he's pushing you back onto the bed. Now your hands are sliding into his boxers and onto his butt. Now he's biting into your shoulder. Now you're pulling his boxers down. Now he's pulling your panties down. Now he's naked, now you're naked. Hail, here comes the rubber. Now he's pushing your legs apart, now you're wrapping them around him." Then he thrust into me, deep and hard and fulfilling, and forced all thought from my mind.
Eight
An hour later I was lying face down on my bed, revelling in those little shivers still gently roaming through my body in the aftermath of lovemaking.
Ryan was stirring next to me and shortly afterwards I felt his breath between my shoulder blades.
He kissed the nape of my neck.
"Now I know how your cello must have felt," he murmured.
"How?" My voice was somewhat muffled by the pillow.
"Happy." His mouth went downwards. "Stirred."
I chuckled and moved to rest on my cheek. "You know, you were right."
"About what?"
"You are a far less talkative partner when you're doing something you're thoroughly dedicated to."
I felt him smile against my skin. "I think we managed excessively well despite my limited vocabulary. What was there to say, really?"
"You mean except 'harder' and 'faster'?"
" You said that." He had arrived at my lower back.
"Okay, what about 'turn around' and 'fuck, you taste good'?"
"I said that," he conceded and his teeth dug gently into my behind. "Actually,
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