We've only just begun: Part two

The following day, at work, I was full of nervous anticipation.

I watched him go through slide after slide of meaningless computer drivel. I was day dreamy and impatient. He smiled at me often, as if to say “just you wait”.

We talked during lunch break outside, careful not to touch each other. Dating or sleeping with other employees was frowned upon.

He asked if I would like to come over that night and watch a movie. I said, “I’d love to...” and in my head added, “Have sex with you”.

I went to the gym after work. I’d been going consistently for a few weeks and really enjoyed it. That night, I remember nothing. I couldn’t tell you what machines I used, or how long I stayed. I floated in, did things, showered, and floated out.

His house was in a large subdivision and when I pulled up, it wasn’t quite dark yet.

I rang the bell and he let me in. I don’t know what I was expecting exactly, but it wasn’t his parents sitting in the living room...living there...watching the pre-walk of shame.

He introduced me, quite flippantly, and I awkwardly waved and said hello. Then I followed him up the stairs, glancing back at his parents to gauge their reaction. I don’t think they even glanced up from the TV after I walked in the door.

Once I was in his room, I forgot all about them.

We picked a movie (I’m pretty sure it was Eurotrip) and settled down on the bed. We talked about work and I asked him about the pictures of children around his room.

“I have three sons”, he said nonchalantly.

I balked. “THREE?”

He told me a little about them, their names and ages and the tiny little fact that they all had different mothers. Then he mentioned that he had a vasectomy. Of course, I thought, why wouldn’t he? Three kids at 28. (Ah, 18 year old Ally...your ignorance amuses your 24 year old self.)

I was surprised by all the information he was throwing at me. I’d never liked children and I’d never slept with anyone that much older. The truth is, after the first few minutes, I didn’t care. I had decided that he was pretty much perfect, kids or no kids, and I was determined that we would have a relationship.

I was lying on my stomach, chin in hands, watching the movie. He was propped up against the headboard, ankles crossed and nestled against my body.

I felt him slide his hand up the leg of my pants and rub my calf. I continued watching the screen while he shifted over me, lifted the hem of my shirt and licking the small of my back. I was biting the shit out of my bottom lip, which is what I do when I’m nervous or insanely turned on...or both.

He grasped my shoulders and I allowed him to turn me over. He leaned over me. One hand braced on the bed and the other cupping the side of my face, he stared directly into my eyes. I’d never seen that look in a man’s eyes before...because I’d never slept with a man. Boys...only boys. That stare was impossible to break, intense, knowing, calculating...scary. I was shivering before he even really touched me.

He pulled his shirt over his head and gawd, he was sexy...with just the right about of muscles and tattoos on his upper arms.

He made short work of my clothing and the rest of his, pausing to kiss me every so often.

I was on fucking fire. I was touching him, kissing him, and begging him to touch me more. He ran his tongue down my body, pausing to lick my inner thighs and I made a noise of protest. I’d never liked oral sex. But he grinned at me and moved in anyway, pinning my wrists to the bed when I raised my hands to say no.

He didn’t have to hold them long...they went limp, and then grasped the bed sheets tightly when he paused to bite my thigh. I think that was the first time I came, but who really knows? I felt like a bomb set to go off every few minutes and each explosion, though slightly different, left me more breathless and more...gone. I think my mind was gone. I had no idea what was happening, really.

My mind might have deserted me, but my mouth was clearly present. I believe he had to say “Shhhh” several times. When he finally slipped inside me, he had to cover my mouth with his to keep me quiet. It had been eleven months and, well, you guys know...right?

We didn’t have sex that night. I can’t call it that. He was intense, tender, achingly slow, and every single movement was made for me. At the time, I called it making love. Now, years later, I call it artful seduction.

But I’ll have to save that for next time.