not changing my mind and as he opens the automatic gates with the touch of a button, I reach over and let my hand slide over his thigh and then up, letting him know my intentions, my desires, my willingness to go forward.
He breathes out of clenched teeth as if it’s all he can do to keep himself from grabbing me, pulling me out of my seat, and taking me right here in the street, before we even have a chance to get to his intimate little driveway.
But like the car, he restrains his power and pulls us delicately into the driveway, then into the open garage waiting for us.
There is no other car there, though there is a motorcycle. It’s not chic or dignified like the Spider. There’re no special chrome accessories or add-ons to speak of. The seat has seen better days. Mud clings to its narrow black tires.
I love it. I love that this man with his exquisite car has a motorcycle that emanates nothing but rugged and gritty masculinity. Again I look at Robert’s hands: beautiful, rough, strong but at times so very gentle.
Yin-yang. And as he puts his hands on my face, as he holds me still, as our eyes lock and my own hand coaxes out another primitive and powerful reaction, I feel our wholeness.
“I don’t often invite people over,” he says. “I don’t entertain. But ever since Vegas, I’ve wanted to bring you here.”
“Why?” I ask. “You’ve had me in your hotel room, your office, on the screen of your computer . . . why do you need me here?”
“Because,” he says, then pauses as he searches for an answer. “I’ve been inside your walls,” he says slowly, “and this is the only way I can think of to bring you more fully inside of mine.”
I’m unsure of how to respond, so I wait for the kiss I know is coming. It starts soft but then quickly becomes more demanding—his tongue sliding against mine. He holds my head still and I press my breasts forward trying to bring myself closer to him. My hand toys with him. I have no patience. I want him, every part of him, now. His erection is full and complete and I wonder if anyone has ever made love in a Spider.
But Robert pulls away. He removes my hand as he takes a breath to calm himself and bring his body back under his control.
Well, partially under his control. His body, like mine, aches to explore.
He gets out of the car and I wait as he comes around to open my door. Again we fall into silence as we step into the driveway. The house doesn’t look like much. I can see only a wall and a door that looks like it leads to . . . maybe a small closed-in front yard? Maybe nothing at all.
But when he opens it, I am greeted with everything. The entire city is beyond this wall. A view that stretches to the beaches of Santa Monica. We stand on top of a hill, feeling a thousand miles away from the lights that decorate the vast city beneath us. But of course we’re not so far. Only a two-minute drive to Sunset, where the hot dog restaurants complement a few strategically placed nightclubs.
I feel his fingers dance up and down the back of my neck, sending shocks of heat through my nervous system. The house that goes with this private front yard is to my right. It’s built onto the slope of the hill, which is why it’s virtually invisible from the street that leads to it. Stilt beams hold it up, fragile-looking things that have the strength of Greek gods.
I let him lead me through the front door; the home has walls of windows and I imagine what it must look like in the daylight: bright sunshine illuminating dark wood. But for now the only light is the light of the city. He finds a dimmer switch and gives me enough illumination to see the room’s design a bit more clearly. The place is hardly immaculate but it feels comfortable. There’s bold and abstract artwork on his walls.
One painting in particular draws me in. I can’t say for sure if it’s of lovers or even if the figures depicted are fully human. But it has the essence of unbridled passion.
He breathes out of clenched teeth as if it’s all he can do to keep himself from grabbing me, pulling me out of my seat, and taking me right here in the street, before we even have a chance to get to his intimate little driveway.
But like the car, he restrains his power and pulls us delicately into the driveway, then into the open garage waiting for us.
There is no other car there, though there is a motorcycle. It’s not chic or dignified like the Spider. There’re no special chrome accessories or add-ons to speak of. The seat has seen better days. Mud clings to its narrow black tires.
I love it. I love that this man with his exquisite car has a motorcycle that emanates nothing but rugged and gritty masculinity. Again I look at Robert’s hands: beautiful, rough, strong but at times so very gentle.
Yin-yang. And as he puts his hands on my face, as he holds me still, as our eyes lock and my own hand coaxes out another primitive and powerful reaction, I feel our wholeness.
“I don’t often invite people over,” he says. “I don’t entertain. But ever since Vegas, I’ve wanted to bring you here.”
“Why?” I ask. “You’ve had me in your hotel room, your office, on the screen of your computer . . . why do you need me here?”
“Because,” he says, then pauses as he searches for an answer. “I’ve been inside your walls,” he says slowly, “and this is the only way I can think of to bring you more fully inside of mine.”
I’m unsure of how to respond, so I wait for the kiss I know is coming. It starts soft but then quickly becomes more demanding—his tongue sliding against mine. He holds my head still and I press my breasts forward trying to bring myself closer to him. My hand toys with him. I have no patience. I want him, every part of him, now. His erection is full and complete and I wonder if anyone has ever made love in a Spider.
But Robert pulls away. He removes my hand as he takes a breath to calm himself and bring his body back under his control.
Well, partially under his control. His body, like mine, aches to explore.
He gets out of the car and I wait as he comes around to open my door. Again we fall into silence as we step into the driveway. The house doesn’t look like much. I can see only a wall and a door that looks like it leads to . . . maybe a small closed-in front yard? Maybe nothing at all.
But when he opens it, I am greeted with everything. The entire city is beyond this wall. A view that stretches to the beaches of Santa Monica. We stand on top of a hill, feeling a thousand miles away from the lights that decorate the vast city beneath us. But of course we’re not so far. Only a two-minute drive to Sunset, where the hot dog restaurants complement a few strategically placed nightclubs.
I feel his fingers dance up and down the back of my neck, sending shocks of heat through my nervous system. The house that goes with this private front yard is to my right. It’s built onto the slope of the hill, which is why it’s virtually invisible from the street that leads to it. Stilt beams hold it up, fragile-looking things that have the strength of Greek gods.
I let him lead me through the front door; the home has walls of windows and I imagine what it must look like in the daylight: bright sunshine illuminating dark wood. But for now the only light is the light of the city. He finds a dimmer switch and gives me enough illumination to see the room’s design a bit more clearly. The place is hardly immaculate but it feels comfortable. There’s bold and abstract artwork on his walls.
One painting in particular draws me in. I can’t say for sure if it’s of lovers or even if the figures depicted are fully human. But it has the essence of unbridled passion.
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