He had said I could bring a red wine. So I stood before his door with three bottles of red wine from the Riojas region of his beloved Spain. It had taken me five wine stores to find ones that I thought would be worthy of passing across his lips.

"I understand the idea of bringing a gift - it was one we also upheld when visiting - but do not feel any pressure to do so," he had said when he'd first invited me to dinner in his home. His finger had touched at my smile. He leaned in to whisper to me in the deep voiced way he has that never fails him. "You are the gift. Wrap yourself well - for the uncovering of a gift is part of the pleasure. So I am told."

An invitation to Max's home.

A continuation of the dream I'd been living since first meeting him. I might have still been cautious with him, but he was making this difficult. What woman can resist this man when he is determined to make his mark upon her heart? I didn't resist so much.

He opened the door wearing blue jeans and bare feet and a tucked-in, casual white cotton shirt. The white showed off the lingering tan. The blue showed off ... well, I couldn't help just a glance, could I?

"What smells so nice? Besides you, I mean?" I asked him as I leaned in close to give him a tiny kiss.

"Dinner," he said, this twinkle in his eyes.

He took the wine, he took my hand. He drew me inside, he drew me in.

It smelled of rich, deep food... I sniffed noisily. "You really cooked for me? I've never had a man cook for me before. I rather thought I'd show up to find you hopelessly mired in chopping and pureeing... and reading a cookbook you didn't understand and needing help to make the meal. But you are so calm, and it does smell great in here... so everything is under control? I'm impressed."

"My skills are limited but I am not without the abilities to whip up something simple," he said.

"God, Max. That is just so sexy," I whispered against his back as I held him to me even as he was putting the wine bottles down on this table behind a couch in his living room.

He moved; like uncoiling his body... and I was wrapped in his arms every bit as much as he was wrapped in mine. The taste of his mouth made me shake. Long after we should have finished lingering over that kiss, we were still standing there. Finally, I said, "I wasn't sure about the wine."

His fingers traced down my throat. It made me swallow deeply. My fingers traced down his jaw.

"I thought perhaps we could even have a taste testing of our own..."

"Can I take your wrap from you?" he asked me.

Sometimes, I have noticed, Max knocks me right off my stride. I enjoy that about him. It is a mix of him taking a natural position of thinking ahead, while I tend to think in the here and now; and of him knowing the art of strategically keeping an opponent off balance.

He had said to me one time, not that long ago, that he preferred the ways in which men fought personal battles as opposed to women. Two men would duke it out and when the dust cleared, so too would the hard feelings. Two women are more political, fighting their battles with words and whispers. And so we, Max and I, had exchanged barbs about the survival of one sex engaged in battles in the manner of the other sex. And then he'd made some scrumptious combative, suggestive comment regarding the battle of the sexes.

And in this battle of the sexes, we opposed the other on the field of glory.

Or was the battle between us really only pretend?

"My wrap?" I asked him. "You must take care with it."

I was looking over my shoulder at him as he lowered my coat from my shoulders. When it was off, he blinked hard as he really look at me. My hair was up; I had wanted him to have an unfettered view of the battlefield. The casual dress I wore was going to be difficult for him to remove. He would have a choice. He could simply raise my skirts and let me fend for myself if I wanted skin against skin ... or he could take the time to coax the 24 tiny pearl buttons from their loops that ran down my spine and were the only way to 'unwrap' the present I brought him on this occasion... well, after all, he had given me the idea.

There is a fascinating lack of spare details within Max's abode. He lives in a condo that features a view of the coast. I imagined he had a maid; I imagined she had little to put to rights each week. I imagined he was content as long as she did the laundry, left him dinner and made sure the major cleaning was kept up with; I imagined his habits were ingrained. I imagined he was one of those men who keep things just so. But as of then, I didn't have proof positive of any of that.

He had told me he had only the things he needed within his space. "My needs are simple. I fear you would think it a very sparse and unimaginative place," he had said.

He had been wrong about this being unimaginative. It was fuel to my imagination. I could see him in this place. I could see him, alone by choice... over there... I would have bet anything that when he sat in this living room, he sat only in that one dark green leather chair, turned on the lamp and read by its light. It served that function for him, I imagined. And, through there... his dining nook. It took me one glance and I saw him; always in the same spot at the small, square table for four; him always in the one chair that looked out the glass door to his balcony. I saw him sitting there, his simple meal before him.

I looked at his back as he walked into the kitchen. I could imagine many things; but I still could not fully imagine his heart.

"Maximus, did I remember to tell you how very honored I am to have been invited to your home?" I asked him as I leaned against the entryway to his kitchen and watched him opening the oven. His eyes darted to mine; was that a slight blush or the heat from the oven? "So, what are you serving me?"

Closing the oven door, he studied the dials for a moment, making no adjustment. And then he stood before the oven, lifting a lid from a large, brushed steel Dutch oven. With a wooden spoon that was dwarfed in his hand, he began stirring. Finally, he glanced up at me and smiled. Crooking a finger at me, he bade me to go to him. When I reached him, he pulled the spoon from the pot, laden with a light brothy sauce surrounding a small mushroom. He blew on it to cool it. I watched vapor rise from the spoon, circle in the current from his breath and then drift around until if finally dissipated above his eyes.

With one hand underneath to catch spills, he held the spoon out to me... but not too close for he was intent on me coming as close to him as he could get me. When I was almost right upon him, I opened my mouth and leaned in to sip from the spoon. My eyes never left his. I tasted mushroom but within the sauce was also the unmistakable tang of dried tomatoes and olive oil and basil and sage and other herbs I could not place at first.

"Oh. That's... really good," I said, actually surprised at just how good it was. "Is that mint in there as well?"

His mouth opened to reply and then he shut it tightly.

"What? You don't want to tell me your recipe? Max, come now!"

"It is not that, Eris. But enough questions about the meal. Why not..."

"Max."

"Eris."

"You know very well that I'm curious. And I think you're being evasive just to increase my curiosity."

"The wine has been open a fair amount of time, would you not say? Let me pour you a glass."

He reached above me into a cabinet for wine goblets. I touched his face as he brought the glasses down. "You're changing the subject. And I have been dying to know what you'd do for me. I just never imagined all this."

I swept my hands about his kitchen. Plates ready to be filled with the main course stood on the countertop near the stove. On the table, salad plates waited for us; a basket of crisp bread was between our place settings at the square table. Candles, even a vase with flowers... silverware, napkins... He had gone to so much trouble.

"You told me not to expect much from you. That your skills in this area were limited. And here, I see evidence of a wonderful vegetable stew and something in the oven that smells suspiciously like rabbit..."

"I have cheese... look here... perhaps a small taste... I believe it is the custom of your land to offer something to whet the appetite?" he interrupted me, reaching for a plate with at least four kinds of cheese, ranging in color from almost white to a light nutty color. There were grapes and sliced apricots on the plate.

"Max, you seem a bit nervous."

"I am not nervous."

"Okay."

He served the salad as the first course precisely because he knew it was my homeland's custom. Somehow the mixture of this... his Spanish lands and my American roots... It was right.

I had been right in guessing what smelled so good. Inside the oven, he had been baking sliced rabbit tenderloins, brushed liberally with sage, which he told me was a spice much in use in the region where he grew up. The vegetables were a medley of tastes ... I had been impressed that he'd obviously used whatever fresh vegetables he could get in a market here and then cooked them in a way he must have favored.

The bread he insisted I savor only after dipping it in seasoned olive oil.

And all along the way, we sipped wine, alternating between each of the Riojas I'd brought with me. Each bottle had its charms and we did sample them each rather liberally. I enjoyed the way he loosened even more. But I believe his high spirits and bright ease were as much a reflection on having me in his home as they were on having survived the meal preparation.

"I thought perhaps a light dessert would be best? I found some almond cookies; they are quite traditional and... What?"

"Max. Tell me you didn't bake?"

He shook his head and grinned, so boyish. "No. They brought these along with..."

I almost missed what he'd said as I was reaching for my wine. But when he stopped talking, I looked at him and realized... "They? They brought? Who are 'they' and what did they 'bring along'?"

Max rose and gathered our plates. I followed him the few steps into the kitchen and stood there, blocking him from leaving the sink where he'd placed our dishes.

"Eris, I... Well, I did tell you my skills in cooking were limited, did I not?" He put his hands on my shoulders and guided me into the living room. "I might be self sufficient but I was sure the daily ration of a Legionary boiled up in a pot supplemented by the occasional rabbit was hardly to your taste. And even that might tax my skills these days-- I was an officer too long and somewhat spoiled in that regard," he said.

He pressed me into the couch and retrieved our wine glasses along with one of the open bottles from the table. 

"What are you trying to tell me?"

"Surely you expected that I would make full use of modern facilities for entertaining. Let me keep my secrets-- enough honesty!"

He sighed when I started laughing and rolled his eyes to the ceiling when I could not stop. "You were trying to pass off a catered meal as home-cooked?" I sputtered out finally. "What were you going to do for an encore in the morning?"

His eyes blinked at me a few times; his head tilted down. "In the morning?"

"Surely you were going to cook me breakfast?"

I helped him clear the table and do the dishes. I listened to him tell me this tale of having found a local woman whose mother had been raised in Spain, in his old region, who owned a restaurant he adored because of its reminders of home. He had gone to all that trouble to have her prepare a meal he hoped would give me an appreciation for his past... he had done all that for me.

As he finished drying the last of the plates, I hopped up onto the counter across from him and watched him working. The movement of his shoulders beneath that white shirt was hypnotic, sensual. I was softened by the spirit of the wine, the aura of the man, the atmosphere of his feelings for me.

"Tell me about Spain," I asked him. "What are your memories of your homeland?"

"My homeland?" he said, as he turned to smile at me. He sighed deeply, leaned back against the counter as he placed the dish he was holding down on the tile surface. "I think of colors and scents when I close my eyes and think of home. Browns and blacks-- the earth and the dark eyes and hair of the women. Red and orange-- the mountains and the sun as it sets on a flaming hot day. Blue-- the sky and the sea. The flower scents, the herbs, the rich wines and the sweet nectar of fruit, the searing hot perfume of the fiery sun on the baked land mixed with the sweat of my horse and myself... my homeland is a feast of the senses. I was endeavoring to re-create that feast for you in my home..."

As he had been speaking, he had been advancing upon me. And as he finished, he stood beneath my knees and simply looked into my eyes.

"I am so touched, Maximus," I whispered. "That you would first of all invite me inside this private world of yours and then go to this effort... You could not have touched me more deeply if you had been trying."

"I was trying," he said softly. "Because you are worth that to me, Eris."

When he kissed me, I felt the worth I held for him. It is a gift men such as Maximus give to any women they hold dear in that way. You do know how he feels, even if he is not able to say it to you out loud. I remember reading something about him once, written by a woman who loved him. It always stayed with me, what she wrote. She said that Maximus never plays games but that he is inexperienced in love and he finds it difficult to speak his heart plainly.

When I read that, I read his love for her and her love for him.

I thought to myself, how could she have not known... for she seemed to understand that his actions professed his deep affection for her... his very unease with glib patter to whisper in a damsel's ears made him all the more eloquent.

"Perhaps I should go," I said as he released me from the kiss. "For if I stay, I may lose my heart in this night."

"I would keep it safe, Eris. Ever safe. You know what kind of man I am. Be with me tonight. I wish to wake with you in my bed, open and loosened from my love."

His bedroom is muted earthen tones interspersed with thin, sharp lines of black upon the bedspread and deep, riveting, infrequent splotches of orange and red on the matching sheets and drapes. I pictured him moving into this space and needing these essential, everyday, modern items. I pictured him inside some Sears store, looking at the jumble of choices before him and instinctively selecting colors that reminded him of home. I wondered if he realized how it touched me to see this evidence of his attachment to sentimental reminders of his past?

He had only one ornamentation in the room that captured my attention. It was a small tapestry that hung above his bed. It was a vineyard, with a distant hill, Italian cypresses and a bare hint of a stone villa hidden behind muted green foliage. The unexpected incandescence of the blue of the sky mesmerized me.

I stood studying this scene, wondering if it brought him peace or made him long to return to the past. He was behind me. I could feel his breath upon my bare neck when he joined me. His hands rested upon my waist; his lips pressed into my hair above my ear.

"You are always a pleasure for me, my lady." His deep voice was just this edge of husky. "I have longed to have you join me here."

He can touch me in ways I would have sworn had never existed before his fingers ever came near my skin. For the longest time, we stood there together, barely touching. We looked upon the tapestry; I thought of his home in the hills. I refused to compare myself to the woman he loved in that home. I refused to be sad for him. I refused to hurry him. I refused to stop being cautious with him.

But there did come the time when he would not be denied.

I delighted in the feel of his hands as he carefully unhooked each pearl button. He never cursed; other men would have... imagine those big fingers working those tiny buttons from fragile fabric? He simply took his time. I sometimes forget his stoicism; it's in moments like this that I feel its might and wonder if he could teach me some of that.

For I am instinctive in how I react. Except for the caution I take with Max, I am more inclined to giving in readily to flights of fancy for experiencing something. I like to touch and feel and absorb and learn. I have never been coy my entire life.

But I am also a woman who loves deeply when she loves. I love for a reason but I am not saying I am reasonable in love. I do not do this lightly; I do not do it inadvisably.

And I would never hurt this man by being careless with him.

I sense he is similar in this desire to be careful with any woman who bridges that place inside him. I can tell, if in no other manner, by the way he releases the pearl buttons.

His knuckles were rough; they graze lightly upon my spine as he moved his fingers carefully, opening me to him.

Unwrapping me.

He didn't speak while he did this. He only breathed. I heard him behind me; slow, steady, deep. He kissed in between my shoulder blades every so few buttons and allowed his hands to spread the opening wider with each button that was released.

When he was finished with all the buttons, he ran the knuckles of one hand down my skin, skimming my spine in intricate patterns. In my mind's eye, I saw him watching my skin prickle at the torture of a touch that was almost but not quite a caress.

I turned to look at him over my shoulder, my chin down, my lashes shielding my eyes from open examination. He walked around my body, his eyes taking in untold details.

"Am I the first woman you've had in this bed?" I wanted to understand all of this that would happen between us. He gave me the briefest of nods before sinking down to sit at the edge of the bed before where I stood. I drew my dress down my body, stepping out of it when I had lowered it almost to the floor. I draped it over a wooden chair in the corner of the room.

When I looked back at him, I saw him against the backdrop that was the memory of his homeland. It was a sight of rare and fulfilling beauty. I pictured him in the sun there, the scent of flowers lingering in his nostrils.

I was nude before him; under my dress, I had wanted no lines, no marks upon my fair skin. I had wanted him to understand that about me. I released my hair from the clip that held it up. There were no artifices.

On my knees before him, I stroked his hands where they lay casually beside his hips upon the bed. 

He has never once been shy about his body with me. I have always treasured the act of undressing him. I like the feel of a man's clothes; I like the way the buttons are wrong and the belt is tougher to release. I like what taking his clothes off reveals to me as the abject differences between man and woman.

His is a battleground upon which I am positive wars will ever be fought. I would believe that he is not a man whose heart is defeated; that it is a heart he will release willingly. I put my hand over his heart in that moment when he was nude before me, reclining back on his elbows, drawing me into his realm. I saw myself in my mind's eye, kneeling before him and seeing the marks of every love he'd ever lost just in the way he regarded me.

I had long since lost my shyness around Maximus. He had never once censured me or made me feel gauche for my need to touch and experience and revel in him. That he could recline like that before a woman and let her explore his body says wondrous things about a man of his passion. It says untold truths about the depth of his control, if nothing else ever did.

When he sensed I had tasted what I'd most wanted to enjoy, he was gentle with easing me from him. I was panting, racing. My hair was in my eyes; he did nothing about that. But then, my hair was in total disarray because of him, after all. I think he likes such evidence of my lack of inhibition with him. He pulled me up off my knees and walked me very deliberately around the side of his bed.

I joined him between his sheets.

They were foreign.

They were him.

They were a symbol.

They were not a barrier.

We loved deep into that night. We loved slowly. We loved how he wished for us to love. I willingly conceded to his right to dictate how we would make love this first time between his sheets, atop his mattress, in his bed.

We whispered to each other in the darkness of the heat of that lovemaking. He came into me when I was on my back beneath him. He thrust, sure and deep. I opened to him, stretching to accept him. I flexed around him as he pumped slowly in and out... until he groaned that he would not last. But he lasted despite my writhing beneath him; despite my pleading to him at last to release me from the edge of my coming.

When he came, his mouth was open upon my neck, as if this was where it had been designed to be. It was stretched obscenely around my tendons there; how they responded to the feel of him... open-mouthed, wet, hoarse gasps, teeth a dull pressure, tongue darting as he sucked air that made it through the scant space he allowed between my skin and his lips.

In the morning, I woke to find him smiling at me.

"You look much too smug," I told him as I stretched lazily.

"You lay there asleep next to me, in sheets that carry the heady scent of our bodies' joining. What man would not be smug?"

"Well, I notice you're flaunting your body's charms at me already. Not that I don't like looking at them, mind you, so don't pull the sheet up, Max! I always wondered something, speaking of your fine body. How do you keep it that way? Do you play any sports? Or maybe Romans didn't believe in sports?"

"All young men in my day did athletics-- a daily training at the gymnasium. Weights, running, javelin, triple jump, wrestling, discus-- pentathlon, too-- along with sword training and horse and chariot racing. The discipline of training the human body to perfection was essential both for good health and for war."

"I had never thought about that before. I guess it was really part of your training then."

He got this faraway look in his eyes and dropped back onto his back. His hand stayed where it had been, draped upon my belly. "Not to mention the entertainment factor, of course-- and the fact that women loved to hang about and watch... we were naked, you know? It seemed natural to us. I am sure it would have amused you greatly."

"Max! What? You did sport in the nude? And women watched?" I sat up and looked down at him, my mouth open in mock shock. This side of Maximus, playful with me, never failed but to endear him to me. "And, look at you. You try to act the innocent but you said that because you knew very well that the thought of you training and playing those sports in the nude with women watching was going to make me sweat, not laugh in amusement."

"So you like the image of a Roman gymnasium? Wicked girl. Then you would have enjoyed the bathhouse even more..."

"You are calling me wicked? You the man who places in my mind the thoughts of a nude you vying with other nude men in athletic contests while knowing women are watching and enjoying the display? For shame, Maximus!"

"Then let a nude me vie with a nude you in a different kind of athletic contest. Shall we enjoy the pleasures of the real battle... that of the sexes?"

"Do know that if you challenge me to battle, you must be prepared to lose that which you hold most dear. Dare you risk that? I see the fire in your eyes, Max. Do you see its twin in mine?"

"You think I would back down from any challenge-- particularly one as pleasurable as you describe?"

There are promises made.

I remain cautious with Max.

He pushes me, just as he warned me he would. I am not so much resisting as I am making sure he does not rush in so quickly that he leaves himself no escape.

I disobeyed his request that I only bring wine and myself as a gift upon visiting his home. I had brought a tiny, wrapped box for him to open but he doesn't know it yet. He will find it where I left it: at the place I know he must eat his meals. It is something I hope will have significance for him. It is something I hope will show him the value he has in my life without being ordinary or maudlin in the sentiment.

It is an old silver saltcellar that had been made in Russia. I got it for him because I had once read that salt was a dear commodity to Romans of Max's time. I don't have a clue if they used saltcellars; it wasn't why I got it. I got it because I believed Max would be touched by the gesture, as if I showed that I knew what is precious to him. This saltcellar was functional, not ornate and had obviously been used. But it was as ruggedly handsome as it was cleanly made with the most unexpected detailing around the slightly flared sides that lifted it from commonplace and marked it as quality. I like to think of the future this saltcellar will have and of the times when Max's fingers will touch it, with affection for the giver of the gift.

I am still learning about Maximus. I act on instinct with him.