I watch her as she stretches. I watch her as she goes through positions. She is beautiful—her lines so elegant. She may look small and unobtrusive at any other time, but when she’s in her element, she radiates and takes over the room. Her face is confident and calm, seductive but not intentionally so. The way she moves is so effortless, and her body is so amazingly balanced as she easily forces her body into positions that would make the average person groan in pain. I almost burst out laughing as I remember the acrobatics she attempted just shortly ago outside on the sidewalk.
Watching her body move is mesmerizing and does nothing for my vow to control my desire for her. Gay as Anthony most definitely is, I’m unrealistically jealous of the way he is allowed to touch her, pushing her legs into exactly the position he wants, turning and spreading her hips at his leisure, even sliding his hand around her firm buttocks to catch the back of her thigh and lift her leg at just the right angle. I catch myself holding my breath on more than one occasion, and by the time her hour is up, I’m her number one fan. I love ballet. She strolls over to me and sits down. She looks down before I even notice and sees just how far I’ve not made it in my book. I’m still on page one.
She smiles shyly before commenting. “Must be a boring book.” She has no idea…
“In comparison to other things, yeah, you could say that. Are you ready?”
We say our good-byes to Anthony and head back out into the frigid Michigan weather. I don’t want to take her home, and in a moment of weakness that has been building for weeks, I break my own rule by asking her to stay with me. The moment the question comes out of my mouth, I know I’ve made a mistake, but I’ve denied myself with her for so long I can hardly bear it. I can see her looking at me from the passenger seat, and I resist the urge to look back, afraid she’ll see the desperation in my eyes. She finally says sure, and we say nothing on our way back to my place. I know full well I’ve broken the rules and have no good justification for doing so.
When we return to my place, we set about making dinner. I love being in the kitchen with her. Cooking is something I love to do, and I especially love her company when I’m doing it. We talk and laugh the whole time. She tries to help but can’t even manage to cut a carrot without sending it sailing across the kitchen. She resorts to reading some of the research material I’ve brought home to work on out loud to me while I’m working. It is surprisingly helpful, and I absorb far more information than I thought I would. Besides, listening to her talk is a complete turn on, and I’ve given up stifling my desire for the night. I have no intention of acting on my urges, but I won’t deny myself the pleasure of those feelings.
We sit at the kitchen table, eating and talking some more about the classes we are taking. I behave in a civilized manner and thank God she can’t see what’s going through my mind. I keep imagining her straddling me as I sit in my chair. She is riding me gently but taking all of me inside of her. My hands are on those slender hips of hers that Anthony had worked over so enticingly for me just a short while ago. I’m moving her back and forth to me. I imagine running my hands down her back and around her bottom, clutching her there and my finger stroking her anus. I imagine the initial shocked look on her face as my eyes lock on hers. I gently push my finger into her there. I’m gentle and go slow; even in my fantasy, I know she’s not experienced, and I want to savor every moment of her pleasure. She accepts my intrusive touch and looks at me pleadingly. I slowly push deeper into her most secret entry, feeling my cock pumping her warm, wet pussy through the thin wall separating my finger from my dick. Damn, I have an active imagination.
The intimacy of my thoughts is intense, and by the time dinner is over, my body is more than ready for her. But I know my place. Instead of in bed, we end up on the couch watching TV. The weather is continuing to get worse, and the snow keeps falling. She falls asleep with her head near me on the couch, and as she sleeps contentedly, I reach out and stroke her soft silken hair. It shines in the soft lamplight of the room, and it feels as silky as it looks. I shouldn’t be crossing this boundary, but I can’t help but steal this touch. At midnight, I decide I can’t keep my eyes open any longer, and even though I’m not ready to say good night to her, I rouse her. She staggers off to bed, and I do the same. It will be another long, lonely night alone.
I feel so comfortable I could sleep forever, but I roll over and the alarm clock says six-thirty. I know I’ll have to get up soon. I roll back over and close my eyes tight to try to squeeze in a few more delicious moments of sleep. When I wake next, it is because I feel the bed move. I roll over, and Logan is lounging on the pillows. He brushes a few strands of my hair caught in my eyelashes away from my eyes as I look up at him, and he quietly wishes me a good morning. I respond the same and start to sit up. That’s when I get the good news. Everything is closed down. Snow day. The university, schools, even all non-essential city jobs and most private companies as well.
It doesn’t matter how old you are, when you hear the words “snow day,” life just gets better. I get up as Logan continues to lounge on the bed and look out the window. There is at least a foot and a half of snow on the ground. My cell starts to ring, and I run over grabbing it from my bag. It’s Sara calling me in case I haven’t gotten the good news yet. She asks how I will be spending my free day, and I lie that I’ll likely just watch soap operas and binge eat. After chatting for a few more minutes, I let her go and join Logan on the bed. He comments on my poor lying skills.
I can feel the discontentment showing on my face. “I know. I don’t like lying to Sara.”
“I know you don’t.” He looks at me for long serious moments, understanding blatant in his expression. But he doesn’t allow either of us to linger on this thought too long. “Come on. Let’s make breakfast. Or why don’t I make breakfast while you try not to injure yourself on any cooking utensils.” Now I’m smiling again. I love being with him.
We eat pancakes and lots of them. Afterward, I help with the dishes—the only thing he’ll let me do in his kitchen at this point. As I wash, he dries, and I feel so comfortable that even this simple task is pleasurable. I watch as he stretches to place things on high shelves, and I’m struck when his shirt rises up, and I see his flat and tight stomach. It’s not that I haven’t seen his stomach before. But I’m caught off guard like the first night I spent here, and I gasp at the sight of him. He doesn’t notice fortunately, and I do my best to act normal. When we finish, we watch a movie that happens to have enough “strong sexual content” to make me blush, and I swear he senses it. We are sitting close on the couch, and I am rigid with nerves.
He finally reveals his apparent psychic abilities when he speaks without ever even glancing at me. “Relax. You look like you’re going to come unglued.”
Yeah, right. I’ve never wanted to be touched more. I keep imagining his hands on my breasts and his mouth on my neck. I want that and more. I’m wet and wanting him to touch my wetness so much it aches, but he doesn’t. To add insult to injury, Amy calls. They talk for a few minutes. Now that the roads are clear for the most part, she wants to come over, and of course he has to refuse. He finally hangs up with her.
“You could take me home if you want.”
“If I didn’t want you here you wouldn’t be here.”
“If Amy wants to come over she should be able to. She is your…”
“I thought Amy came over if I wanted her to? Or am I wrong?”
He sounds annoyed with me, and I instantly fall silent. We are still sitting close on the couch, and after a few uncomfortable moments he reaches over and takes my hand and offers a quiet apology. We finish watching the movie, but he doesn’t immediately take his hand away from mine when the movie ends, and I find my body is pulsing with excitement at his touch. But eventually he moves away from me, and I’m left missing the warmth of his hand on my skin, the gentle caress of his palm, and his apparent comfort at being so close to me.