I am distracted; thoughts of killing him had hopped a bus and promised to be back next week. Irritated at the man still stubbornly in my apartment, I don’t see his movement until it is too late. His hands are in my hair, hot breath on my face, and he is trying to kiss me—his soft lips pressed insistently on mine. I push against his hard chest and then he is there—in my mouth—his tongue tangled gently with mine. My own traitorous mouth responds, and my heart rate increases as my hands moved of their own accord up to his strong arms. His hands, entangled in my hair, cradle my head. The smell of him invades my senses. I have forgotten what it is like to kiss—to feel the response against my tongue, to feel his hot breath on my face when he pulls off me and stares into my eyes. His face is both tortured and confused. I don’t like the searching look, the invasion into my soul, and I grab his neck, pulling him back down. Everything is so foreign: the feel of warmth beneath my hands, the smell of something other than lube, books and food in my apartment. I taste him, greedy for every sensation, my hands roaming everywhere, grabbing at his shirt, hastily undoing the buttons. His hands move down, leaving my head, traveling hesitantly, slowly, until they reach my breasts, and brush my nipples, softly caressing the curve of delicate skin. I gasp and freeze.