disappointment. "Okay."
I hesitated.
"Don't you think you should teach me how to kiss?" I asked.
He cracked a grin that mixed modesty with mischief. "You don't need to learn how to kiss."
"How do you know? You've never kissed me."
"I don't need to kiss you to know that kissing's not your problem."
"What is my problem?"
"Your problem is that you think you're a bad kisser; you think you're a bad lover. You think too much. Just do it, Andi. Be a good kisser. Be a good lover."
"Ha. Easy for you to say."
"Easy to do, too."
"Then what do I need you for?" I asked. Sarcasm aside, it was a good question, I thought. And I wanted him to answer it.
"You're so good at avoidance," he said. "You're supposed to be showing me how you get your guy in the mood."
I frowned, irked by his assertion. But rather than fuel his claim and further avoid the task by arguing the point with him, I stood and slowly approached him, feeling silly in this role-playing mode. He was six-foot-two, and the 2 1/2 inches on my shoes helped me reach up and run my fingers through his hair. It was short and full and silky and layered, and I moved even closer. He followed my hand as it moved through his hair by putting his own hand on my arm.
"I used to do this with Andrew," I said softly, in almost a whisper.
"Who's Andrew?" he replied in the same quiet tone. It suddenly occurred to me that I'd never mentioned him.
"My ex-fiance."
"No kidding. I didn't know you had a fiance."
"Well, I did."
"And his name was Andrew?"
"Yep."
"Did people ever call you Andy and Andi?"
"You think you're the first jackass to think that's funny or original?"
"Well, did they?"
"He's always 'Andrew'."
"Not Drew ?"
"Good God, no. I picture guys named Drew wearing argyle sweaters and Dockers and loafers."
"When'd you break up?"
"About a year and a half ago."
"Is that why you moved back to New York?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I caressed his face, now cupping it with both hands, and then followed my fingers along his neck and down his bare chest. His skin was firm, his muscles tight, his arms full and massive. God, I wanted to kiss him. As I moved my hands back up to his shoulders and massaged them almost like kneading bread, my nails slightly digging into his skin, he grabbed me by the wrists.
"Okay, that's good enough," he said. I looked in his eyes, but quickly looked turned my attention to his hands, which now took hold of my own and squeezed them--I couldn't tell which of us was trembling. He took a breath, as if to compose himself.
"Wanna know what I think?"
"What." My breathing slowed down.
"I think you're doing what you want a man to do to you, and you don't even realize it. I think you'd like someone to, for instance, touch your hair..." he tucked a strand of my hair behind my left ear, "to run his fingers along your neck..." the back of his hand glided over my left carotid, along the edge of my chin, and down the center of my neck, stopping at my cleavage, like a melting ice cube, "to just completely saturate you with touch..." he whispered in my ear.
I closed my eyes and my breathing deepened. When his index finger barely grazed my left breast, I let out a soft sigh that turned into a moan, and fell into him. He caught me just as I snapped out of his sexual trance. Once again, his eyes burned into me.
"Can I have some ice water?" I asked foggily, still staring at him. He commanded me to sit on the sofa and got me a bottle of Dasani and a glass of wine for himself. He then sat next to me. After a few sips, he began talking.
"It's all about communication," he said. "You wanna let him know what you like, and find out what he likes. And like readers, each one is different. What one does well, another may suck at--forgive the pun. One guy may like when you run your fingers through his hair, while another may want you to run them someplace else. Lovers aren't mind-readers, Andi. Never assume he knows what you want--you gotta tell him. And trust me: he'll
I hesitated.
"Don't you think you should teach me how to kiss?" I asked.
He cracked a grin that mixed modesty with mischief. "You don't need to learn how to kiss."
"How do you know? You've never kissed me."
"I don't need to kiss you to know that kissing's not your problem."
"What is my problem?"
"Your problem is that you think you're a bad kisser; you think you're a bad lover. You think too much. Just do it, Andi. Be a good kisser. Be a good lover."
"Ha. Easy for you to say."
"Easy to do, too."
"Then what do I need you for?" I asked. Sarcasm aside, it was a good question, I thought. And I wanted him to answer it.
"You're so good at avoidance," he said. "You're supposed to be showing me how you get your guy in the mood."
I frowned, irked by his assertion. But rather than fuel his claim and further avoid the task by arguing the point with him, I stood and slowly approached him, feeling silly in this role-playing mode. He was six-foot-two, and the 2 1/2 inches on my shoes helped me reach up and run my fingers through his hair. It was short and full and silky and layered, and I moved even closer. He followed my hand as it moved through his hair by putting his own hand on my arm.
"I used to do this with Andrew," I said softly, in almost a whisper.
"Who's Andrew?" he replied in the same quiet tone. It suddenly occurred to me that I'd never mentioned him.
"My ex-fiance."
"No kidding. I didn't know you had a fiance."
"Well, I did."
"And his name was Andrew?"
"Yep."
"Did people ever call you Andy and Andi?"
"You think you're the first jackass to think that's funny or original?"
"Well, did they?"
"He's always 'Andrew'."
"Not Drew ?"
"Good God, no. I picture guys named Drew wearing argyle sweaters and Dockers and loafers."
"When'd you break up?"
"About a year and a half ago."
"Is that why you moved back to New York?"
I didn't answer. Instead, I caressed his face, now cupping it with both hands, and then followed my fingers along his neck and down his bare chest. His skin was firm, his muscles tight, his arms full and massive. God, I wanted to kiss him. As I moved my hands back up to his shoulders and massaged them almost like kneading bread, my nails slightly digging into his skin, he grabbed me by the wrists.
"Okay, that's good enough," he said. I looked in his eyes, but quickly looked turned my attention to his hands, which now took hold of my own and squeezed them--I couldn't tell which of us was trembling. He took a breath, as if to compose himself.
"Wanna know what I think?"
"What." My breathing slowed down.
"I think you're doing what you want a man to do to you, and you don't even realize it. I think you'd like someone to, for instance, touch your hair..." he tucked a strand of my hair behind my left ear, "to run his fingers along your neck..." the back of his hand glided over my left carotid, along the edge of my chin, and down the center of my neck, stopping at my cleavage, like a melting ice cube, "to just completely saturate you with touch..." he whispered in my ear.
I closed my eyes and my breathing deepened. When his index finger barely grazed my left breast, I let out a soft sigh that turned into a moan, and fell into him. He caught me just as I snapped out of his sexual trance. Once again, his eyes burned into me.
"Can I have some ice water?" I asked foggily, still staring at him. He commanded me to sit on the sofa and got me a bottle of Dasani and a glass of wine for himself. He then sat next to me. After a few sips, he began talking.
"It's all about communication," he said. "You wanna let him know what you like, and find out what he likes. And like readers, each one is different. What one does well, another may suck at--forgive the pun. One guy may like when you run your fingers through his hair, while another may want you to run them someplace else. Lovers aren't mind-readers, Andi. Never assume he knows what you want--you gotta tell him. And trust me: he'll
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