When he is nervous, he plays with his hair. He strokes it. When he's thinking of something important he wants to say and is halfway between self-conscious awareness that it might be corny and his real need to say it anyway, he scratches in over his right nipple, using his thumb. When he is feeling defiant, he folds his arms in this particular manner that makes his biceps bulge out. When he's lost in troubled thought, he flicks a pencil or anything else handy in his fingers and ignores the world.

As you should note, I have gotten to the point with Johnny Ryan that I am noticing his body language, as opposed to only noticing the parts of his body that you may think is all I have concentrated upon.

Ever since I gave him a hickey on his neck, I have noticed how often he rubs his nape, all open-palmed and coltish. This is a mark of the boy coming through in the man.

It's funny how interested I am in finding out how the boy became the man. I am dying to learn the steps he took from that awful night of fleeing through the dark countryside of Junee, New South Wales, Australia. But I restrain myself. Sometimes the restraint is only possible because the man I see is restraining his own desire to really touch me.

Not that he hasn't touched me. And not that I haven't touched him. But none of it has proceeded beyond what my grandmother would euphemistically call the heavy petting stage. This seems sweet to me. I am falling hard. I am enjoying the feeling of falling because I have faith inside me that it won't be long before I'll fall into love. I no longer consider that quite so silly. But maybe that's what it's about when you're my age...still young enough to believe the thrill of it all is that it's fun even when you're dying inside when you think you've lost your chance with the guy. I don't want to give that up...it's much too wonderful a feeling when he looks at you and you wonder where this is going.

Like how Johnny looked at me right when he made his boldest move the first time we really came close to going all the way.

It happened after our second date. I invited Johnny inside my little house when he walked me to my door. It's my place, but my dad helped by putting up the down payment. He says it's what fathers do for their daughters when they let them break free...it comes with this bungee-cord connection to him so that he knows he's still being my dad.

I told Johnny about that, about my dad putting up the money that made the loan possible for the house. It's got two bedrooms, a really nice living room and this great kitchen. I think I fell in love with the kitchen first and the rest of the house grew on me.

Johnny asked me, as he stepped inside, if I realized how nice it all was. He was kind of looking around like he was afraid he'd break something and I don't even have a lot of knick-knacks or girly fru-fru stuff. But what I do have is quality. I save until I can buy the piece I want. I want things around me that are well made but that have style, class. I like that.

I just looked at him when he said that to me about whether I realized I had it so good. Well, that's what he was really saying, wasn't he? When he looked back at me, I said to him, in a very soft voice so he would see this was important to me, that I figure I just got lucky that way, being born into a family that had some money. But that sure didn't mean my folks handed me anything on a silver platter. People who work for what they have, I said, it means more to them. They put more value in it. That's how I was raised, I said, and that's why I work for what I want. He gave me a little smile in return, said he agreed with that, and seemed to visibly relax.

After I handed him a beer, I took him on the two-cent tour of my house. I even opened my bedroom door and he walked in and then stood in the center of the room, staring around. After he got his fill of seeing inside where I spent my nights, he just looked back at me, standing there, as I leaned against the doorjamb to watch him as he surveyed my bedroom. He got this cute, very devilish smile on his face as he bent over and tested the mattress with his hand. Waggled his eyebrows at me. I had to look away. It was like he was tempting me but also testing me. What I really wanted to do was run at him, tackle him and toss him on my mattress to give it a real go.

But I was still waiting on him to really take the lead. So I stood there, waiting to see how far he'd take it. He didn't take it any further. Instead, he ushered me out of the bedroom, like I wasn't ready for it or something.

We sat on my couch and watched a movie that happened to be on television. That was so odd; we didn't fool each other. We'd just spent the night having dinner and going to a movie. We'd done a tiny bit of necking in the movie. I'd touched him, over his jeans. He'd grown hard. He let me do it, his hand clenching and unclenching over my shoulder. His mouth had been at my neck, this long, wet kiss followed by him whispering to me that I smelled so good. It's why my hand slipped from his thigh to his groin.

I'd closed my eyes. There was something about the way he started breathing. Like he was struggling with how much he enjoyed me touching him in that public theater. He whispered to me that if I didn't stop, he was going to embarrass us both.

Neither of us handled it well. We just seemed to break apart. And I couldn't look at him. But when the movie ended and the credits started rolling, he grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the theater.

He feels things inside so strongly sometimes, I think. It just gets stuck inside him when he most would want to let the words out.

We stood on the porch for a moment after he kissed me goodnight. It wasn't like the first date; this time, it was like he was scared to get carried away inside the kissing. I invited him inside for a nightcap. He didn't say no.

After the tour of the house and watching the movie for a little while, we were very close on my couch. I thought about how I'd laid there after our first date, dreaming of him...of what had happened and what I wanted to happen eventually.

"You could touch me...if you wanted," I said softly to him.

He blew out a breath. "I want to. But a girl like you, love...I don't know if I could stop."

I turned to look at him full on. And he just kissed me. Like nothing would stop him. And we ended up on the couch, me on my back. And we kissed. For a long time, that's all we did. Kiss and squirm a bit against each other...and then dive harder into the kiss. You have no idea at all what it felt like, to have his body weight on me like that, both of us hot, me dying for him to take it further, him being a man struggling to not go further than he thought he should. But then it went beyond kissing.

He undid my blouse and I let him touch my breasts when he asked if he could. I even told him he could kiss them if he wanted. He acted wilder then, like he was close and didn't care as long as he got closer.

I undid his belt, then the snap to his jeans. I held him in my hand for the first time. He groaned around my nipple and ground himself against me, like he just couldn't stop himself from seeking even more friction.

We didn't so much fumble as we did simply stop. Mainly we stopped because when he paused at this one point and looked at me just as he put his hand on my zipper. For some reason, it had such impact on me, like I knew that from here on out, everything changed for him. I bit my lip and felt my body tremble in anticipation. He thought I was thinking he was going too fast. He apologized. I told him it was okay. He almost ran out of my house.

He had said he'd take me to the stock car races that Saturday. I was looking forward to it. So it really took me by surprise when I saw him in the bar on Friday and he said he'd changed his mind, that it wasn't such a good idea.

I didn't want to look like a total loser that he'd changed his mind about ever dating me again, so I smiled and said, "Maybe another time?" But what I wanted to know is how can a man act like he cares about me so much one minute and the next he's just breaking a date like it's nothing to him.

He never called me. I waited days and he never called. I went into the Come On Inn and he ignored me as he played cards with his friends. What a creep, I thought, just blowing me off publicly like that when everyone in there knew I was falling for him hard.

Turned out it was all a misunderstanding. Seems one Chili Palmer, dating guru, told him that taking me to the stock car races was a tacky, low-class third date. But I didn't know that, of course, until after I yelled at Johnny in front of everyone and accused him of playing games with me. Johnny had to stand there, rubbing his hair, wincing and then stammering through an apology. Saying he'd made a mistake in his desire to not blow it with me.

When he said that, that he'd been afraid he had blown it with me and all...we were both what I think you'd call hot and bothered. Him standing, almost leaning over where I sat on the bar stool, my body arched toward him...our emotions right out there and both of us seeing real clear that things were okay again. We just couldn't let others interfere with us. We had to find our own way.

This, you see, I think is my first real adult what you might call relationship. When I was a lot younger, a fight like that and I'd have flounced off to make my point and I would have found another guy to dance with or take me home just to make sure everyone knew I wasn't going to be ill-treated by some moron of a guy...but none of that ever crossed my mind.

Johnny, I remember this so clear, he said he didn't even know how to play games. I felt like saying to him that I never even thought about playing games when it came to him. No doubt about it, we were both telling the truth about that. I think that means something, don't you?

We still went to the races. We just left, right then and there...after I yelled at him and he told me Chili'd told him the stock car races was a date without class. Neither of us was really dressed for going to the races, mind you. I was wearing a short skirt so the wind cutting through the stands about killed me. He was wearing a light sweater atop his jeans and, after wrapping his coat around my bare legs, he shivered in the cold. I made us leave but only after making him promise to take me back there another time so he could teach me all about this sport.

On the drive back to town, I told him about this wine tasting at a rather nice wine store. That I'd seen the advertisements for it and thought of him because he was so interested in wines. And at least we're dressed for it, I said with a playful grin.

It was crowded inside the small shop. Wooden display racks of wines made the store hard enough to manipulate in when you were in there shopping; with all the people packed in for the wine tasting, it was too tight. The good part was, it forced us close as we made our way to each station set up with selections of so many wines.

I really liked the way he took care of me in there. He'd shelter me, like, in this way that got to me. He never once let me get jostled; he'd just pull me inside this space near him. His arms would move me this way and that, leading me to the tasting tables or keeping me out of the harm of someone bumping into me as they made their way past us.

Johnny suggested we stick to Australian wines as I'd given him such a teasing our first date when he'd selected a California wine for us to share. At each station, he'd look over the wines and select for us. Then he'd tug me along with him to find some small space where we could pretend to be sampling our wine while we snuggled in close and whispered to each other about the wine, about how it tasted on each other's tongue, about how sexy he looked in that sweater that clung to his angles, about how cute I looked with the flush of alcohol blooming in my cheeks and along my chest.

"This chest?" I said at one point, opening the top of my shirt and flashing him as he leaned into me. We were right up on top of each other.

He licked his lips; his eyes flashed. "Wonder how that nipple would taste with this wine dripping from it?"

"I bet you do wonder that."

"Love, it's about all I'm thinking of right now."

"That's all? Not about any other area of my body you want to taste?"

He didn't even have time to really react more than to reach down and kiss me hard and grind himself against me just a bit.

That's because I happened to be looking over his shoulder and saw this couple that lived down the street from my parents.

There're lots of things you think about in a moment like that. Had they seen me yet? Had they been watching me flash Johnny? Was I embarrassed? Should I be? Were they going to come over there and confront me? Could we sneak on out of there without them seeing if they hadn't seen me yet?

They weren't looking at us. So I figured we should get out before they noticed us.

I give Johnny lots of credit. I said we should clear out because it was too crowded...he took my hand, charged through the crowd and got me out of there like he was a paid bodyguard.

On the way back to my place, I told him about seeing friends of my parents. That I didn't like having our good time cramped by worrying about what they may tell my parents about me and some guy necking at a wine tasting. That my father in particular would think I was trying on purpose to embarrass them.

He was real quiet on the drive. I didn't realize he was angry until we pulled up at my place. I asked him in; he said he should go get some sleep before the hockey practice the next morning. I still hadn't caught on so I asked if he'd like to come to my place the next evening for dinner. He said maybe he didn't want to keep seeing a woman who was embarrassed for her parents to know about him.

Sure, we had a pretty knock down drag out fight at that. He takes one little comment, a prudent observation on my part, and blows it up into me being ashamed to date him?

The silliest part was that I was blistering his ears and he was sitting there behind the wheel, his jaw working, his eyes darting around...like he just didn't know what to say or do but he was so angry and hurt. What's silly about it is that when I shut up after asking him wasn't he going to say anything, I should have kept my mouth shut.

Instead, as I waited on him to say something, anything, I felt this wave of injustice...that he was going to hold me to some standard so high I couldn't even see it. That he thought I was failing to live up to his standards where another woman he put on a pedestal precisely for not living up to his 'rules' for women he thought of as special to him.

"You treat her like she's some kind of princess and I don't understand your double standards. If I had gone to bed with you the first night I met you, like Ann did, you'd consider me a tramp. Never mind that everyone knew what was going on up there with the three of you. But her? I see how you are around her, how you look at her. Is she the reason you don't want me? Because you want her and not me?"

I honestly never even really knew I was feeling this way. Nor that I'd put all these things together in some big vat of relationship angst, stirred and come up with a rivalry for him.

He whipped around and I swear I think he was going to say something but then...he dragged me over to him and was kissing me so hard I thought my mouth would break.

I fought him at first. I was too upset. But then...I've never felt that with a man before. Where you're insane and passion just takes you where you didn't expect.

One minute we're at each other's throats and the next, I'm giving him a hickey on his.

We almost did it. Right there. In his truck. I would have. I think he would have, too. But then a car drove down the road and the instant after its lights swept over us, Johnny was covering me up...apologizing to me for being rough.

"Johnny, you know I'm not ashamed to be with you. Tell me you know that," I whispered to him as he buttoned up my shirt.

He just nodded at me. He drove me crazy like that.

"Let's go inside," I panted out to him.

"Not like this," he said. He took a long swallow and then held my face in his big hands, just looked right in my eyes. "Ery...I do want you. Not her. There never really was...we're mates now. I like her. I do. But not...It's nothing like how I feel for you. Nothing."

"I believe you. I don't know why I said that."

He whispered, soft, but very firm, still looking right in my eyes, like it was so important for me to understand him. "Whatever you heard about that night, only three people know what happened. No one else. Don't ever say that about her again."

"Okay." I felt my face flame. I slid away from him. My hand was on the door handle, inches from leaving his truck and fleeing into my house. "You should know something. I'm falling in love with you. I am. I think about you all the time. I never realized until this moment that I was getting all worked up over something that happened before I really knew you. I had no right to say that. I don't know why I did."

"You are?" he whispered, in this rough voice. I knew what he meant; he'd only heard as far as the part about me falling for him.

"I am," I whispered back. I looked over at him. He looked so serious. "Is that all right?"

"Yeah, love. Very all right."

But he wouldn't come inside that night. I know he had to have wanted to but he wouldn't. I suppose it wouldn't have been the way to go. But talk about sexual frustration.

We only saw each other once before the hockey game. Between work and his hockey practices, we just didn't take the time. Truthfully, I think maybe we were both a bit scared that we'd gotten carried away in his truck...that maybe we'd said more than we should have.

I saw him at the Come On Inn. He was with his friends; I was just dashing in during a dinner break before having to head back to the law office for an all-nighter before some big civil case that started the next morning. About all we had time for was a bit of flirting over a quick dinner. I promised him I'd be in the stands to watch the big pond hockey game between the pub teams.

He walked me to my car; we had a bit of a necking session but who could blame us? After all, he kisses like a dream. But more importantly, it was proof we hadn't done permanent damage to what we had together.

Just as he was releasing me so I could leave, I whispered in his ear that I was going to sleep in his soccer jersey...the awful green one he'd given me a few days before...and dream all sorts of good things for him to be victorious in the game. He swallowed hard, leaned in and told me he would give a lot to see me in that jersey.

It's odd how much that one little statement of his made me tremble. And feel like I was on top of the world. I suppose it was just that hunger in his voice when he said it; because I knew he meant it. I knew he was seeing in his mind what I'd look like. I figured that night in his dreams, he'd be envisioning taking it off me or, more like it, lifting it up only as far as it took to fuck me. I know I did, anyway.

So then there was the game, right?

Damn, he was incredible. Sex on skates. Well, I suppose they all were. But he was the one I was concentrating on. When he came out that first time, he was looking around the stands and when he saw me, he got a great smile on his face and gave me a shy nod.

He didn't really pay the stands much more attention except after he scored a goal in the first period. Everyone on his team piled on him after the goal to congratulate him. But after they left him sprawled out on the ice, he popped up on his knees, looked right up at me, pointed at me...I felt like nothing so much as his gal. It was pretty cool.

After the second period, he didn't head right for the locker room. He skated over near where our little clump of women was sitting. I jumped up. He skated right up to where I stood at the edge of the rink.

"You look so good out there, Johnny," I said, handing him a bottle of water and watching as he guzzled it down. "Is it fun?"

"What's fun is smashing into the oldsters," he grinned at me. "You see me hit Palmer?"

I laughed. "Getting him back for that dating advice?"

"You got it," he said, looking around and then pulling me in as close as he could with all those pads on. Getting ready to kiss me but first saying low and nasty, "I'm feeling dangerous, Ery. No telling what I'll do next."

And that's when he kissed me. It was hard. Deep. Tongue-intensive. He released me only when Colin yelled at him to get in the locker room. I couldn't talk or walk. I could barely stand. It was all I could do to just live through it, wondering what he'd do if he knew how very much I wanted him. How he'd just made it worse.

After the game, he told me to go on to the pub. Said he'd join me after he'd had a shower.

When he got there, he was part of this big knot of guys sauntering in, so full of themselves and their exploits...and their friendships. Him, Colin, Dom, Steve, East, Chili, Jeff, Paul. Didn't matter they'd played on opposing teams; that's the thing about sports, isn't it? Seeing them, it was sexy, yeah, but it was also sweet in its own way.

Didn't surprise me in the least when he said he was going out later with some of them to celebrate their day on the ice. Just a few of the guys, to let loose. I didn't mind because I like that men form friendships like that. And I have two brothers so I know a bit about how men feel after a big game...I imagine that if Johnny and I had already been intimate, he'd have wanted to expel some of that extra adrenalin with a romp in the hay with me, but as we weren't, a rousing round with his buddies was probably about all his emotions steered him to.

He told me about his plans while we were sitting next to each other in this back booth. He felt big, imposing next to me. We were in the shadows; we were making out a bit, but nothing scandalous. I felt shy with him in that moment; something about the aggression, I suppose. It was arousing, I wouldn't lie about that, but it was an edge that emphasized his masculinity to me. It shone a spotlight on an aspect of him that awed me in some way; it made me see there was a part of him that he'd held back, in check, and I suddenly wondered just how much he'd put into making love if and when we ever finally did.

You couple that with what I already knew about him and sex...that when he had it with me, it was going to mean a whole hell of a lot of important things about love and fidelity and affection and loyalty. That's why I know I got shy. It's another reason, I know, that I didn't mind too much that he was going to let off some of that energy in a night out with his friends.

This madness must be mostly hormones and total insanity.

But if it's only hormones, then why oh why did it make me cry that night?

Why did it make me cry to find that damned green soccer shirt of his inside my drawer, to find it when I was rooting around inside there for a t-shirt to wear to bed? To pull it out, the touch of it foreign because I wasn't used to having it. To look at it like I'd never seen it before, because he'd let me keep it when everyone was tossing sport shirts in so Zack and John Biebe would pick out hockey teams for the coming week's game. To hate it, because I wanted to wear it and feel surrounded by him.

I know it was frustration. But it was also...I wanted to be with him. I did. I was being adult about him going out with his friends. But alone in my bedroom, I wondered what it was ever going to take to get him to be my lover. To think that he chose going out with them over being with me?

But I still wore that soccer shirt to bed that night. Not that I slept. I tossed and turned for a while before finally giving up. Out came the book I'd been reading. I snuggled in against the pillows and read. I paced down the hall to the living room in search of something, not knowing what. I watched TV for a while but that bored me more than the book. I got the book, sprawled on my couch and read.

When my phone rang, I jumped for it.

"Hello, love," he said softly.

"Oh, Johnny," I said softly. "I'm so glad you called."

"I miss you."

"I miss you more."

He chuckled. It was a rich sound. I liked it so very much. "What are you doing still up, Ery?"

"Oh, just couldn't sleep. How was your night with the guys? Have fun?"

"It was a rip, y'know?"

"Well, good then. Hey, I really liked the game today."

"So you said, Ery. I'm glad you were there."

"So you said, Johnny."

We both chuckled then.

"Y'know what, though, love? All night now, been wanting to leave these drongos to be with you. Why you suppose that is?"

My heart hammered. "Maybe you should have followed your desires, Johnny, and come over here to me."

"Maybe I did."

"What?"

"Your lights are on. Your house looks inviting."

He was at my doorstep. I opened the door and we stood there looking at each other. He was leaning on the doorjamb, imposing in his masculinity. I stood before him wearing only his soccer jersey. I felt nude. Exposed.

His hands were cold when they touched me. He put them on my thighs. Like my skin there was a magnet. When I reacted, jumping at the icy fingers, he moved in closer. Moved in until I backed away; he kicked the door shut behind him.

He shoved me, more gently than that implies, against the wall of the foyer. His hands, still cold, went up my thighs to my hips, lifting the shirt's bottom. Until he leaned sideways, tilting his head, so he could see under...see that all I wore was that shirt.

His tongue flicked out a time or two as he concentrated on me and on his hands.

"You're so cold," I said.

"Been standing out there, watching your house, getting up the nerve to call you like that."

"I'm so glad you did, Johnny."

He nodded at me. And then he leaned in to kiss me. I could taste beer. I could smell that distinctive smoky haze of a barroom lingering on his hair and coat. He held my body to his but he also pressed me in against the wall. I felt almost claustrophobic; caught between two hard surfaces that weren't budging.

When he lifted his mouth from mine, we were both panting. And our bodies shifted against each other, as if we just needed that friction to survive, some instinct maybe. He licked over my neck; he sucked my ear lobe into his mouth and then told me how he wanted to be with me that night, to know me. His hands cupped my rear and drew my groin in firmly against his.

I don't know if I've ever felt that before. That feeling of denim pressed against my bare sex. Of feeling his hard length, rounded and firm behind the denim, the heat of it seeming to come through the fabric...and feeling it not over my clothes, but over those tender areas that were weeping from the moment I opened the door to see him that night.

His clothes were cold, you see. But that stretch of denim, it was warm.

"Stay with me," I said, meaning to whisper it but instead it came out in this hoarse voice I barely recognized.

"I want you. Tonight. I can't leave. Not now."

"I want you, too. I just don't know what we do from there," I said in a voice that was still hoarse, still not totally what I expected it to be.

He stepped back from me, just looked at me. I thought this insane thought: was that testosterone in his eyes?

I bit my lip. He took his coat off. I smiled at him, nervous but still a smile. He looked around, walked over to the couch, draped his coat there.

Rubbed his hand through his hair as he looked for a long, pregnant pause down the hallway that led to my bedroom. And still I stood plastered to the wall in the foyer where he'd left me.

He turned to me. Held out his hand. His chin rose; his eyes smoldered.

I walked to him, took his hand, accepted his smile, fleeting though it was. And then he walked down the hall, with me in tow, until he entered my bedroom.

The silliest thoughts flicked through my mind. I wished my bed had been made. I wondered why on all nights I'd leave my clothes littering the floor. I tried to remember if the bathroom was clean. I was glad I'd shaved my legs that morning. I wished I'd showered after the game. Why couldn't I have been wearing something sexy? I should have brushed my teeth before I opened the door. Did I have stuff for breakfast to serve him?

Would I be any good?

Would I lose my heart?

Would he love me back?

"Breathe, love," he whispered to me, his hand leading me into his embrace. "Let me hold you, Ery. You hold me."

I started undressing him. I wanted his skin against mine. I wanted to get him to the point of no return. I wanted to be with him that night, no regrets, no turning back, only going forward.

When I had his sweater and shirt off, he took over. He simply ran his hands up under the jersey and lifted it off me. It was this one move. And it was gone. He backed up to the bed, sunk down, drew me over onto his lap. So simple. His mouth at my breasts. His hands pulling me rhythmically into the soft grinding of his hips. As if it was all just mindless instinct of him doing what seemed natural.

His body under me shifted; I looked down to see him shoving his shoes off. He laid back on the bed, drawing me with him. Making me be there, hanging over him. My hands braced my body over him; my breasts hung down to where he could suckle at his leisure.

He stopped to concentrate on what he was doing with his hands. His hands made me sigh and move and gyrate. He asked me to help him with his jeans. I slinked down to the floor, between his knees, my hands finding unerringly the snap and zip of his jeans. I'm good that way.

When we were nude, we just rolled together on the bed. Kissing. Snuggling. Feeling. Exploring. Seeing. Touching.

I liked the way it felt with one of his big thighs between mine. He said he liked the feel of my wet pussy riding his thigh. That made me giggle and then he did, too. I said I liked the way his fingers felt like they wanted inside me. He said they did. Silly things you say when you're going to become lovers.

Later, he asked me if he could taste me. I blushed for some reason. I suppose it was the way he was looking right in my eyes, as if this was the most important question he'd ever asked in his entire life. I said yes. I also said that I wanted to taste him, too.

A frown on his face reflected his concentration at that. Okay, he mouthed out to me. We shifted in the bed. I felt us take twin deep breaths before we simply touched each other. He was bolder than me; he went first. He nuzzled in; he whispered something I didn't catch. His tongue flicked out. It grazed my clit. I jumped. He held my hips more firmly. He explored.

I felt like exploring, too. And this is how we did it. Learning as we went. His cock was nice. I guess that sounds silly, doesn't it? But it's awkward putting it into words for me. What else can you really say, right? No, I know other women can go on for pages about such things, but all I knew was that it was...nice. It felt nice. It looked nice. It tasted nice. It worked nice. In fact, it worked really nice. Really, really nice. The taste was really so very nice.

I'm rambling, aren't I? Bear with me.

Guess the thing that was most important to me was when we reached that magical moment of no return. Of knowing we were taking the step. Of holding hands for that moment before and looking deep into his eyes to see the meaning of this was there, inside him.

Inside this man who felt things so deeply, so permanently, so intrinsically. This man who made me feel deeply, insanely. This man who'd once been a boy who survived an experience that might have brought others to their mental knees. This man who'd grown up bearing the weight of that. This man who could still be a boy in a moment like this even when he was at his most manly. Such a complex man.

He had chosen to be here with me. He had chosen this night to be with me.

It was surely the thrill of the cascade of testosterone from the intense game of hockey that had finally worked that night to overcome whatever high walls he'd placed between his desire to do right by me and his desire to have me.

He felt the potential of me in his life. I know he did. I know he had for a while. Since that second date for sure. That's when, I think, he began driving toward this moment.

And I had told him I was falling in love with him.

In this moment with him between my thighs, holding hands with me, pausing to show me this meant something really good and important to him...I was so glad I had told him that. And gladder still that I had told him before this happened between us, because he'd know it wasn't only passion talking. It was me.

He let my hands go. I touched his chest. My fingers trembled.

"I'll be gentle," he said softly, deeply.

"I know," I said back.

"Falling in love should always feel this good," he said, under his breath, as if that wasn't meant for me to hear.

So I didn't say anything in response.

I felt his tip as he moved it, slowly, through my wetness. I put my hand down there, guiding him in, showing him that I wanted him. And then I let him go, my damp hand sliding around to his back, feeling his muscles, and showing him that I trusted in him.

The sensation of fullness; that's a sweet, deep, utterly feminine sensation. I pity men that they can't have that in the way we do, to feel the most feminine attributes we own filled with their most masculine attributes. It takes my breath away.

He took my breath away.

That's the kind of night it was. The kind of first time it was. And the second. And in the morning, the third. I was so glad I didn't have to work that day because I'd have had to call in sick. I wouldn't have been able to walk anyway...well, I could walk, but in that specific gait that I didn't think would have looked too good in the law office. Besides, I couldn't stop smiling. No, I could stop, I suppose, but every time I noticed myself that day, I was smiling and I knew it was the kind of smile that everyone knows means that you've just been well-serviced. Only it was more than well-servicing, you know. It was well-loved. That's what it was.

Well-loved.

I like the sound of that.

I like the sound of him breathing next to me as he holds me in those wonderful, crushing moments of beauty after he's come into me.

I like that we waited. But I suppose I like even better that I know him in this way now. Because he is incredible to love.

Damn but this is so indescribably exciting.