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“I’m not,” I lie.
He moves a bit closer, looking down at me. He’s quite a bit taller, maybe six-two, with broad shoulders and a vast expanse of chest. My fingers tingle at the thought of tugging up his shirt and sliding onto his warm skin. He fills my thoughts and my senses, and I’m getting to the stage where I can’t think of anything else when he’s close to me.
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he states gently. “I’m sorry about the kiss this morning. I have a feeling that threw you.”
“It did. A bit.”
“I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. I don’t know how to explain that I liked it, but I’m worried more like that will mean I’m not going to find it easy to keep my heart in its padlocked box.
Sex for me has usually been hard and fast, with the guy desiring the quickest route possible to his destination. I’ve always thought foreplay a creation of moviemakers and romance novelists, like heroes who are kind and considerate rather than only concerned with themselves. Daniel declared he loved me, but his lovemaking was as uninspired and brief as my few previous lovers. He seemed to want to sleep with me purely to achieve a climax. Men seem to assume women find it sexy to be pounded into, and either don’t know or don’t care that it takes some gentler focus on certain areas of a woman’s body to enable her to orgasm.
Marc’s comment a few days ago when he asked, “If you communicate what you like and what turns you on, why should it be any different with the man in your life?” was an eye-opener for me. None of the men I’ve been with have seemed interested in discussing my pleasure, and as a result, I’ve never thought to bring up the subject. I feel sort of stupid now, as if, as a modern woman, I should have put my pleasure on an equal level with a man’s, but the truth is I just didn’t think about it. I assumed this is how it is. Men don’t pick up their socks, they sit with their legs wide apart, they eat a packet of chips in two mouthfuls, and they climax before a woman. It’s nature, and a woman would be foolish to expect anything else.
Despite Marc’s promises of multiple orgasms, I realize now I’d still expected him to be the same as the other men in my life. But even that one kiss was different from any other kiss I’ve ever had. If I’m honest with myself, I’ve never been super keen on kissing. Guys have always wanted to force their tongue into my mouth, and wet, squelchy kisses turn my stomach. But he was so gentle, his lips warm and dry as he pressed them to mine. I’ve never been kissed like it.
I want him to kiss me like that again. Is that terrible?
He’s watching me with a strange smile, and I don’t know what to say, so instead I move closer, slide my arms around his waist, and give him a hug, resting my cheek on his chest.
“Aw,” he says, and wraps his arms around me.
He smells of aftershave and freshly washed clothes and the scent of warm, clean male. My mouth is an inch from the V of his open-necked shirt, and I’m tempted to turn my head and press my lips to his skin. But even though we’re here for sex, and I don’t think he’d mind, I’m too shy to do it.
He lifts a hand, though, tucks a finger under my chin, and lifts it until I meet his eyes. He studies mine for a moment, then lowers his lips to mine.
I close my eyes, breathing in his scent, and concentrate on the kiss. He’s so gentle. He holds his lips there, then presses them again, long, tender kisses that give me a deep ache inside—I’m not sure if it’s in my heart or further down. Maybe both.
He kisses me for a long time, while the sun pours over us like melted butter, and seagulls swoop and cry overhead. He doesn’t seem in any rush, and I think I could stand here forever like this, being kissed, my arms around his waist, enjoying being so close to him. It’s so innocent, just a brushing of our lips, but I feel as if someone’s poured hot water into my veins. Heat rises in me, and by the time he lifts his head, I’m yearning for more.
But he studies my face, smiles, and says, “Why don’t we go to that bar Fiona mentioned and get some dinner?”
I nod, half disappointed, half relieved. I know he’s taking it slow on purpose for me. I’m so incredibly touched. But it’s only putting off the inevitable. Later, he’s going to take me into the bedroom above us, undress me, and make love to me. He’s going to brush his tanned hands across my skin, and maybe his lips, too. I already know he’s going to be gentle and slow, and I’m starting to think he might have been right when he said he gives a woman pleasure every time he has sex.
