Let me stop wondering what the rest of you feels like.
I did not send that either.
Instead I let myself be honest in a different direction.
Me: I want you honest. That’s why this is a problem.
Micah: Then be honest too.
You want to see me tonight?
My thighs pressed together before I could stop them.
Because yes. Yes, I did.
Wanted him in my space. Wanted his hands on me without a booth and a table and a room full of strangers forcing us to pretend at limits. Wanted the night. Wanted the possibility of him taking my face in those big palms again and kissing me until I forgot what the polite version of this was supposed to look like.
I closed my eyes for one second and imagined telling him to pull up.
The townhouse would be clean enough. The lights low. Music easy. Mena would probably cuss me if she knew I was about to let a man into my house while I was already this gone over him, but that was not Mena’s business unless I made it hers.
I stood and crossed to the window, phone still in my hand, city light moving faint across the floor.
There is a special kind of trouble in being old enough to say yes and wise enough to know every yes has a consequence.
I wanted him. I also wanted the wanting.
Wanted the space between now and next time to keep building instead of burning itself out the first moment we gave it a room.
Me: I want to.
Then, before he could get too satisfied with himself:
But if I tell you to come over right now, I’m not pretending I don’t know where that ends.
That one sat long enough to make my pulse shift again.
Micah: And you think you’re the only one who knows?
Damn.
I typed back:
Exactly.
His reply came quick this time.
Micah: Then tell me what you want.
That moved through me exactly the way it was not supposed to.
Because there was something about a man asking directly instead of assuming, instead of leading the answer where he wanted it to go, instead of deciding for both of us what came next. It made me want to be just as honest back.
I looked down at myself. Bare legs. Thin little house dress. Nipples tight all over again because his name was on my screen and my imagination had already started cutting up.
Me: I want more than a rushed version.
There. That was true.
