I stood in front of the oversized mirror that held court in Pais' bathroom and brushed my hands down the front of the black cotton dress I'd put on.
It was Friday night, D-Day. And while Pais and I had decided on a sharp leather trimmed pencil skirt and lace blouse for my date I liked the playful vibe the short summer dress gave off.
At the advice of one, LePetitPainInMyAss, I paired the dress with a suede fringe jacket that screamed: "I'm trying really hard to fit in with the Texas-Vibe so you will marry me up and make this a permanent fixture in my life." At that point, though, it was 7:26 pm and given he'd promised to pick me up at 7:30 I only had about 14-minutes left to try to remember how to breathe.
I was always nervous before seeing him. In a good way. Like the little thrill bubbles, you get as you near the top of a roller-coaster.
Tonight was different, for obvious reasons. One, we were going to be alone, like, a lot alone; away from prying eyes and left to our own devices. Two, our heated text exchange had evolved into a full-blown bonfire status by that point and if he fulfilled even a tenth of the things he'd promised to do to me I was in for a VERY long night.
We drove and chatted, and I scratched my perfectly manicured middle finger gently across the plump, fleshy part of my palm - avoiding running my hands across him at all costs.
I needed him to make the move. I didn't want to be in charge tonight. I'd spent the better part of the last two months fighting my way back into his life after the grand fuck-up of 2014, and I was tired of not knowing whether these feelings were REALLY reciprocated or if these were merely sweet nothings whispered through the safety net of sexting.
His apartment was everything I anticipated - all bachelor academic, with that subtle longing for a "woman's touch" in the areas of decor and fridge fullness. But it felt so natural to sink into his plush brown couch and let myself be rearranged to intertwine with him snugly.
He made the mistake of putting on a documentary which instantly captured my attention and held it for the entire 90-minutes, so as much as his hands roamed my thigs and across my hips - I was too enthralled in Timothy Treadwell to give up the goods.
"We'll finish this one here, then start up another one in the bedroom?" he asked, and I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
I was starting to consider tattooing "Jack; this is a sure thing!" across my forehead by that point because he'd asked in several different ways if I still planned on spending the entire night with him.
"Did you need me to bring you home tonight?"
The Grizzly Man came to a tragic end, and he suggested I get comfortable for our next docu-fest venture. I slid my dress down my body and surveyed the lingerie I'd selected wondering why sex didn't always happen the way it does in the movies. You know, where the guy slowly undresses the woman to find her dripping in lace - all corset and stockings.
I stepped out of the body suit which had missed it's time to shine twice now and let my tank top fall over bare breasts - at least I was giving major side-boob in this ensemble. The ruffled panties I'd selected to sleep in curved like a heart over my round ass and provided a plumped up effect I couldn't be mad at; this would have to do.
Walking out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, I let his eyes roam over me. "That'll do." His voice was a whisper, but the irony of his sentiment mirroring my own wasn't lost on me.
My eyes were heavy by the time he settled in next to me having spent the better part of the previous two nights on mouse patrol - a story for another time - so I knew I needed to kick things into high-gear if I was going to make it through round one.
Turning to him I trailed my fingers against his chin and let him explain all of the must-know back details for the movie we were never going to get to see until finally, he stopped, mid-sentence, and kissed me.
Being caught off-guard by a kiss is potentially one of the most romantic moments one can experience, and after six years the feeling of his lips on mine was a shot of adrenaline that made me forget how exhausted I'd been only moments earlier.
"So, this is goodnight then?" He whispered against my mouth, and I nodded while a soft moan escaped - the bastard.
In a flash, my hands were pinned to either side of my head, and his frame was pressed over mine, his weight on me the most excruciatingly sinful thing I'd felt in a very long time.
My hips went rogue at that moment and bucked up into him, wanting to feel his need for me, to confirm it was as heated as my own.
Gripping both ankles in one hand, he pulled me across the mattress and wrapped my body around him - instantly answering every what if, how come, and why not I'd ever had about us.
He continued to answer those questions, over and over until the exhaustion I'd felt earlier seemed like child's play in comparison. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pressed my back to his chest, trailing kisses along my neck and collarbone while I fell into a deep and satisfied slumber.
There were no whispered promises or proclamations of love. We fucked. At moments we fucked like two people who hated each other and at others like two people who couldn't stand the idea of being apart. We repeated this same lusty routine the next morning, and as we lay breathless and fully sated, I couldn't help but reflect.
I'd given up control and submitted to the dominance he naturally exuded, and I knew with no uncertainty that I'd always be this way for him - I'd always be his.
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