"You're never going to believe what just got delivered to my place."

"I believe everything you tell me, Eris."

"Be serious!" But I couldn't help laughing. He has this way of knocking me for a loop that I enjoy immensely. He likes doing that to me. It's an indulgence for us both. Or perhaps it's a liberation. "It was a rug."

"A rug?"

"Yes. Two big guys came bearing this box with a large rug inside."

"What kind of rug?"

"I think it may be magic." I couldn't hear him smiling but I knew he was. I knew what the smile even looked like. I knew if I had been there to see it instead of talking to him over the phone that I would have had to touch his smile. "Look here, Terry, you know you shouldn't have done this. But as you have, I so want you to know how very much I adore the gesture. And the rug. It's gorgeous. I have never owned anything like it."

"What makes you think I'm responsible?"

"The box had a customs tag. Do you know where the rug came from? Marrakech."

"There you go." I heard other male voices from whatever room he was in. I could tell that he was just this side of distracted and trying hard to concentrate on me because it was what he would have preferred concentrating on just then. "So, this rug... where are you going to put it?"

"In front of my fireplace. Can you picture it there?"

"Yeah. I can."

"I am going to get a few floor pillows to put there. Every night, I plan to settle in there and read. But I'll probably have a hard time keeping my mind on the book because I'll touch that carpet and won't be able to help thinking about you. And about how special you make me feel."

"You are special. I'm glad you like the carpet, Eris. Thought you would."

He did that for just that reason... because he could, because he knew, because he was generous that way. And the fact that I appreciated it for all the right reasons, that meant more to him than anything else. That is the kind of man he is to me.

"Wherever you are, I am thinking of you. And I miss you. When you come back, I want to try this carpet out. See if it's really magic. If it is, it could take us anywhere, right? Where would we go? It would have to be someplace exotic, I think."

"Eris?" His voice was suddenly deeper, serious, meant just for delivering confidences to me. "When you think of me, be kind, hey?"

"On one condition. When you think of me, remember what you mean to me."

"Deal."

When I answered my door, he was facing the wrong way. Instead of standing there, nervously trying to hide his nerves, he was calmly looking out into the courtyard. I knew he heard me open my door. I wondered what it meant that he was looking out instead of in. I wondered what it meant that he let me walk right up to where he stood at the railing.

I slid my hands around his waist and hugged him to me.

"These are for you," he said, pushing stems into one of my hands.

"Lovely," I said as I looked at the tiger lilies. "What's preying on your mind?"

His body shifted. "Nothing but you."

"I don't believe that for one little minute. But I sure appreciate you saying it with something approaching conviction."

He took my free hand in his as he turned around to face me. He moved me to arm's length. His eyes traveled down my body. "Very nice, love."

So he came to me distracted and troubled.

"Let me put these in water. Then we can go." I pulled my hand from his; he released it with no hesitation. He was inside my living room, looking at a painting that hangs alone along the wall that faces my couch. I put the vase of flowers down atop the high table there and waited until his eyes looked into mine. "Ever since you asked me to dinner, I've been humming this Crosby Stills song ... Marrakech Express."

"Eris..."

"I know... Morocco's probably nothing like that; maybe never was. Just one of those silly word associations you make and..."

"You're nervous?" he asked me. There was such surprise in his voice. There was also wonder there. As if it just had never dawned on him that he could make me nervous.

"No. Never."

"Don't lie to me, Eris." He moved in closer. His voice was low and confidential. I felt the breath of air he blew across my hair as he moved it back so he could plant a soft kiss upon my shoulder. "You've never been nervous with me before. It's incredibly arousing to witness. I plan to give you reason to be nervous... but later, hey?"

I swallowed hard. He read people for a living. I was just some open book to him. I wished I could have been a mystery. Maybe there was a final twist; maybe I would surprise him again.

My nerves settled his. I find that ironic, even today.

His back felt solid, strong, dependable. My fingers clung in there while he kissed me. If he had been facing the door when I'd opened it, he would have kissed me then and I would never have been nervous.

He kissed me; I have begun to feel that he kisses me sometimes to give me messages he cannot verbalize. Or perhaps he feels it is simply more efficient to put complicated messages into a kiss... it's at once more basic, simpler... but it's also a delivery system that never fails him.

I wasn't nervous anymore. Either was he.

There is no way to describe it.

Maybe that is a description all of itself. No, I'll try to describe it but mostly what I remember is how it affected my senses. It was like being transported into the fairy tale lands of my childhood dreams. I was mesmerized, totally rapt, even before the moment he opened the door to this restaurant. He had promised me a new experience. He had no idea what this was like for me... not until later, until he really just settled back to enjoy my ride.

He had accused me of suspecting ulterior motives on his part when he first issued the invitation to dinner; but when he said it, he was pleased I had. It was part of the fun for him: to keep me guessing, to keep me running after him wondering what surprise he had up his sleeve. But, at the same time, he also knew I was aware enough to understand that ulterior motives aren't in and of themselves a bad thing... sometimes, I even believe that nothing ever happens simply and without being in some way provoked by other things happening around them. What's that saying about the effect of a single swish of a butterfly's wings being felt across the world in the repercussion of events it begets?

In this case, it was the timing and the scope of his gesture, you see. It was that he wanted to put on a show for me, to give me this one night in which he did his utmost to stay ahead of me, knowing and showing all along the way what a handle he had on what would delight me.

He issued the invitation on a night that his beleaguered heart was tested yet again by Uma, a woman frustratingly just not quite connecting with him despite all appearances that they both wanted it like they were behemoths about to beget a new and superior race. One day, these two will engage on a level and open field... on that day, hearts will be for the taking.

On the night he asked me to dinner and did so by making it clear that he was going to make this an evening to remember for me, he had not failed to notice that Uma seemed to be making an obvious play of her own for another man, Alex, who had shown up the night before and appeared to have swept her off her feet. Lord knows, it may well have been genuine, that joy Uma was radiating because of the presence of Alex in her life. I won't begrudge her that chance that maybe there's an easier man for her out there. I rather understand how even the simplest of wants can be unmercifully complicated.

Am I somehow less a person to Terry because he had an ulterior motive of wanting to show her that he wasn't annoyed or hurt by this turn of events and that he himself had another woman he could shower his charms upon? No, I don't really imagine that's so. It's that way in life. We all see it happen. Even though Terry and I didn't yet know each other that well or know all that we'd be to each other in the grand scheme of life, I was in the bag, so to speak. She was not. Thrill of the hunt and all. I'd be a fool to forget that. I am a sure thing. I really am.

That doesn't make me less to a man like him. And it in no way negates the honesty of the attraction we both feel to be getting to know each other and the discoveries we've made that lead us to want to risk more. But it does leave me prey to being unconsciously used to cover the way she made him feel like he needed to prove something. However, of far more importance, I can be someone he wants to have there to reach for; someone he knows will be there for him when the time comes he needs her.

Like the last time we saw each other. We were there for each other that night.

Maybe that's why I was nervous for the first time with him. Because I had exposed myself to unintentional hurt and he would care about that. It would have meant something to him. Of course, he was exposing himself in a similar way with me; I cared about that. And I took heed of the lesson of Zack, who fell for someone despite his reservations because he forgot that good people lie to themselves before they lie to you. What we had just witnessed happen to Zack wasn't lost on either Terry or me.

He took me to a Moroccan restaurant. He'd been smugly pleased that I'd been so pleased he was taking me somewhere for a totally new experience. When we drove up to the restaurant, I applauded. I truly did... because from the first glimpse at the building, I knew this was going to be like nothing I'd ever done. He shook his head at me but he loved it nonetheless.

The restaurant, Dar Maghreb, was in a sandy colored, stucco building with window and door casings that had obvious Moorish shapes. But it was the inside that blew me away. He knew it would. He tucked my hand under his arm as he escorted me in. He paused in the perfect spot for me to be dazzled. It looked for all the world as if we'd just stepped inside a huge tent with rich colors of burgundy, orange, persimmon, ochre, saffron that were everywhere, from the fabrics drooping from the ceiling and layering the walls to the rugs and furniture.

"It's a replica of a famous Moorish palace from the 15th century just outside of Marrakech," Terry told me as he led me to the bar. It was a room unlike any I'd been in. The bar itself was heavily carved, deep hued wood. Low cocktail tables with tufted divans filled the room. He pressed me into one of the seats because I just kept looking around and depended on him to take me where I should be. When he came back with a glass of soft white wine for each of us, he said, "You'll love the rest of this place, too, Eris. To get to where we'll be served, we go through a courtyard..."

Past the tiled courtyard's fountain, I walked with him behind the man in an ecru caftan who led the way after we'd finished our wine. In another part of the building, he escorted us past dinner guests sitting on plush pillows or low upholstered benches around hammered brass tables. At the end of the main room of the restaurant, he stopped before a small, circular tent and pulled back a flap. Inside was a low ornate wood and ivory table. Around it, I could see richly colored pillows. All of this was layered atop Persian rugs the likes of which I'd seen in photographs and in antique shops.

I looked at Terry and raised my eyebrows. He gestured for me to enter. I tried not to giggle. Truthfully, the experience was so much more than I could have foreseen that I felt shy and fell silent inside this private oasis. As I settled on a pillow and he settled in next to me, I reached for the reassurance of his hand.

He leaned in and gave me a quick nuzzle at my ear lobe. "Having fun?" he whispered. When I smiled and nodded, he said, "Don't ever say I didn't give you a new experience."

"This is amazing. Thank you for doing this."

Our escort knelt before us to pour water over our hands from a brass pitcher; Terry said it was a ceremonial wash before the meal, traditionally eaten with the hands. I got an instant mental picture I know he wanted me to have... of feeding him; of him feeding me.

He never asked me what I might like to have for dinner; he just said he was ordering for me. I watched his mouth as he looked quickly over the menu. Once Terry placed the order, the waiter withdrew and pulled the tent flaps closed behind him.

Inside, we were suddenly so alone... and so close. I said something inane about the beauty of this place, about how the colors were incredible. He said nothing. He just studied me as I looked around and sipped mint tea. I could sense his eyes on me. When I glanced back at him, he leaned in toward me and just kissed me.

He didn't paw me or yank me in tight; he didn't try to throw me down in the privacy of the tent and have his way with me upon those pillows. He just kissed my mouth. Thoroughly. Until I was light-headed. Until I was reaching inside him, my tongue wanting all of him. Until all that was left to do was draw our mouths apart and sit there so close, our foreheads resting on each other, our breath coming out as pants, impacted by what he'd wanted to learn in that searching kiss.

Dinner was composed of dishes I'd never had before. The only one I'd even heard of was cous cous. The arrival of the food seemed to bring us both gliding softly to earth.

"Been looking forward to giving you cous cous... which is actually a double meaning, I shall admit that much. It means something quite saucy if you're from North Africa," he said as he gave me a tiny taste of the spicy dish.

When he says something like that, he has that way about him... it makes me smile and go along. "I have no idea of what the double entendre is... care to enlighten me before I say something that is misinterpreted by others in this restaurant?"

"Cous cous... use your imagination... if a guy comes up and asks you to make a little cous cous with him... international language, love," he said, that smug tone of his that is having a good time and wants you to join in on his terms. "There's a floorshow later. What's the betting we end up in it? Should have dusted down my yashmak."

"A floorshow? Will we be belly dancing or what?" He raised his eyebrows and teased me with a bit of honeyed lamb that I licked from his fingers once he finally plopped it atop my tongue. "I find it so amusing the things we talk each other into doing in public! Still, for the man who willingly danced a hula only because I asked... you know I shall try very hard to keep up with you and be game as long as you are there with me, Terry. And... what's a yashmak and why do you have to dust it?"

"Yashmak... old term... little veil worn by a belly dancer... I was joking. The dancing. too... but now you've got me... Maybe I can distract you with some cous cous?"

Just being with him like this... distracting? Lord. I looked down and tried not to lose it. "Hey, these rugs are amazing, aren't they? When I was a kid, I think my favorite fairy tale was about Aladdin. I used to have such dreams about riding a magic carpet. Did you ever do that?"

He frowned at me; leaned away to drink tea. Shook his head. I asked him his favorite fairy tale from childhood; he said the only ones he remembered were the Walt Disney-fied versions of Rumpelstiltskin and Cinderella.

"You've been there, haven't you?" I asked him. "To Morocco, I mean."

"So you used to dream of flying on a magic carpet, did you? Weren't you scared you'd fall off? Nothing to hold on to, I mean..."

"I held on to the fringe," I said. There was a long pause. "What's it like? Morocco? It seems like it would be so exotic, so fascinating."

"It's not. Probably not like you'd think."

"Bad memories?"

He gave me a sour face. "Just because I do what I do does not mean every place I go to has bad memories, Eris."

I wasn't sure about the sudden shift in him. But I also wondered if this was one of those times when he was testing me, wanting to see if I would press instead of glancing off him. I have done that to others in my life; wished for them to breach my inner sanctuary, to prove worthy of any revelations that would cost me dearly to make. "That's fair. Yet, you brought me to a Moroccan restaurant knowing this would be a new experience for me. You seem to have some knowledge of the culture. I suspect a man as traveled as you might have been there. The idea of seeing that kind of place, a place that seems so exotic to me... to see it through your eyes, Terry, would be something I think I'd enjoy. Will you tell me about it?"

"Let's talk about the magic carpet rides of your dreams instead."

I took a long time to answer. I had to figure out if I trusted my instincts enough with him. I had to remember that they were the only bellwether I ever trusted anymore. I just instinctively knew that if I was true and honest with him, he would ignore my blunders.

And so I said, "You like to make other people's dreams come true, don't you?"

"You think dreams are meant just to watch."

His eyes observed me closely as I placed a bit of pastry stuffed with chicken and almonds in his mouth.

"Sometimes, Terry, that's all a dream ever is. Just the play of a person's mind. Meant to be observed. Not meant to be lived."

"Sometimes, Eris, a man wants nothing more than to see a woman's eyes when he makes the dream reality for her."

"Then look closely in my eyes, Terry. Because being with you tonight is better than any dream I ever had."

He gave me this smile that was half sad, half satisfied... half yearning, half remorse. I don't know how he feels so many conflicting emotions at once... how he can be tortured and still be loving. How he can be so practical and still hope.

We heard music deepen outside our shelter; the jingles in the air, he said, must have been the movement of the dangling metallic trim of the belly dancer's costume. I asked him if he found belly dancing to be sensual; to see the control those lithe women had over their bodies.

The waiter pulled the flaps of the tent back, exposing our little world to the exotic allure of ancient rhythms and a woman's skillful artistry at belly dancing.

He snuggled in next to me; I leaned back into the support of his chest and shoulder. We watched the show with his arm draped casually around my waist; his hand, hidden from view, stroked along the damp seam of my gauzy slacks. It embarrassed me that I was wet enough there, in public, for it to leak through. That he would touch it, make it worse, aroused me more. He put his mouth next to my ear and began to tell me of his memories of Morocco. He described the unexpectedly crowded city streets of Casablanca. He told me of cherry orchards and mosques he saw traveling through Fez.

Marrakech was home to a huge public market with stalls selling everything, he said. Everything, I had asked. Everything that made the local culture what it was, he said... from Berber jewelry to oil lamps made from stone, embroidered leather, provincial pottery, cumin and other spices, marble pots, carved chests... and the finest carpets like the ones under us. As I ran my bare foot along the carpet under the table, he said Marrakech was so much more than the song that was my only knowledge of that far away place. It was more than my dreams of magic carpets. What else is it, I whispered to him. I closed my eyes and let him paint a verbal picture of magnificent palaces, gardens, a unique mix of cultures and peoples, and mountains off on the horizon. There was too much to tell me, he finally said.

"But now I can dream about it. I can dream about you there once upon a time, wandering around, storing up memories that you never could have known that you'd share with me on this night."

"Then it was all worth it, Eris."

All worth it... everything. Everything he'd gone through whenever he'd been in Morocco... good and bad... mixed all together until he maybe couldn't have one without the other.

"If you ever go there again, I will wish for you that you make more memories for sharing with someone who will feel like I do to hear them," I told him as we watched the final belly dancer make her last, lingering shimmy of a dip before gliding from the room.

"The last time we were together..."

"Don't say anything negative about that."

"Not about to." He advanced on me. I felt something shift. He was in charge. He put one hand on me, touched my hair... and just stood there, waiting until I looked in his eyes. "Was going to say only this... that that's not the best I can be with you, Eris."

My heart shook. It was the way he was touching my hair; it was the way his eyes searched mine; it was the way he was calmly proceeding even though he was this side of uncertain if he should while he was positive he knew exactly what he wanted to do. I remembered he had said he was going to purposely make me nervous before our night was through. I knew this was intentional. I wasn't sure quite how to respond.

"You're tense."

"Maybe I need a drink... maybe we both do."

"Maybe you need a massage."

He turned me away from him then gently moved me back a step or two as he leaned against the edge of my dining room table. I felt him play with my hair for what seemed like so long; stroking it back and around so it all fell on one side of my neck. And then the warmth of his palm stroked gently against the back of my neck. When his fingers pushed in on either side, finding tension spots like they had homing beacons, I couldn't help the sigh. It felt good.

He settled in a bit until he was sitting atop the edge the table; he drew me between his legs. I felt this light kiss on my neck; his fingers undid the back of the halter top I wore. I reached up to hold the straps. He got both hands involved in the massage. My neck felt so warm; I felt tension I never knew leak from me. His thumbs pushed in hard along the ridge under my shoulder blades; more tension left. Where had it come from? I would never have thought it was there.

His hands massaged gently down my back over the fabric of my top; he went so slow. I could feel his breath, soft and even, against my bare shoulder. He made me go with him, move into the pleasure of his touch. His chin rested at the top of my spine; his lips were dry where they grazed my neck.

All he was doing was touching my back. Why then did it feel... well, not sexual... but... intimate? No... I am wrong... it was sexual. It was. It was sexual because it was him and he knew. He just did. He knew so much about a woman, knew the way to touch her... just knew.  And I got the strongest sense from him that he almost regretted that he had this knowledge... that it almost felt like cheating to him that he would use that knowledge on me that night. I rather believe that he wanted to earn the right to have this specific knowledge of me... and it was that sense of him that invaded me in that one moment.

When his fingers began lowering the zipper that ran down the back of my top, I turned my head to see if... I don't know what I thought I'd see; he was behind me and hidden. But I could feel his hands. All I could do was hold my halter straps up; my arms were tucked in this protective hold across my breasts as if I thought somehow that shored up my heart. He'd said tonight would be about what he wanted. He had me off balance.

When the zipper was lowered, he massaged my bared back, from my waist to my shoulders. His strong hands and fingers worked the muscles and knots there. I thought I might slink to the floor. He never said anything. He started at the bottom again; I sighed and my head dropped forward.

Anything he wants, I thought. He knows. I know he does.

Mid way up, he simply slid his hands around my sides and deftly edged under the clasp of my protective arms and the material they were holding up. I closed my eyes when he touched my breasts. I took in this tough rasp of air when he slowly massaged them. But when he gave a soft little release of air and I realized he'd been holding his breath, I leaned back against his shoulder and gave myself to him. I felt his head turn and then he nuzzled in at the side of my neck.

He made me want to fly. I wanted to be reckless.

His breathing quickened. I turned to find his mouth.

"I need you, Eris," he said against my lips.

It took me a moment to respond. "I know. I need you just as much."

He turned me. I turned him. We found the way inside each other's hold. But he was always in charge. Always. He just is so able to put his wishes into action. He wanted me; he had me. He lowered me to the table; our limbs tangled. My top was down. His pants were open. We were gentle with each other.

Tender.

Exposed to the other.

We made it to the bed because that's what he wanted. He wanted it to last. He wanted to show me skill, not overwhelm me with any dark emotions. He wanted to play and be playful. He wanted it to mean something more than just good sex. He wanted us both to show the other that we cared, that we liked, that we enjoyed, that we wanted.

The very fact we stayed so far from the edge was telling.

For so long, we just snuggled against each other. Our legs entwined; we pressed into each other's groins. We touched, we kissed, we whispered, we rocked in each other's arms. He asked me to keep my eyes open. I asked him to tell me how it felt. I found it telling: he wanted to see into my soul; I wanted to see into his mind. At least, that's how I've come to think of it.

We matched vulnerability for vulnerability.

His strength with me is that I am open to his possibilities while aware I couldn't possibly really know his reality. He asked me where I wanted to go... I told him I wanted to experience what he would show me.

He gathered me back to him. His hardness pressed against me; he rubbed himself over my mons. I bit my lip; he asked me to voice it instead. When my eyes widened, he dragged my leg up over his hip and got into position. He told me that when he was like that with me, he felt like his cock was bigger than the rest of his body and that its appetite was insatiable. He wanted it to feed.

I closed my eyes as my back just arched because my own body had one goal in mind. He growled out to me to watch what was happening between us. He told me to open up; that he could feel resistance as he entered. I groaned because it was everything good and bad.

And then there was no more resistance. He took it from me. In return, he took me somewhere only he could.

For so long after he left me, I heard his voice inside me. I believe he saw enough in my eyes to understand.

Days after the rug was delivered, I was in my office when the courier came bearing a large envelope. I tried to wait until I got home to open it, but I just could not deny myself. Inside, a piece of hotel stationary with a note:

"Magic carpets can be such an unreliable means of traveling."

Somehow, I knew what the folder that was also inside the envelope contained. I took a deep breath before opening it; wondered if his hands had touched it; knowing they had because he just would, I think.

One round-trip plane ticket. First class. To Marrakech. Leaving the next day.

This man. Fascinating.