Missionary Position by Daisy Prescott

eyes, but I’d had enough revelations from him for one afternoon.
    “I think I need to lie down.” I stood up from the table.
    “I’ll walk you to your room,” he offered, standing as well. When I rolled my eyes at him, he continued, “I don’t want you overcome and fainting again before you get there.”
    “I don’t have a room here. I’m renting one in Ama’s house.”
    “Oh.” Without his typical confident swagger, his shoulders dropped.
    “Are you staying here?”
    “No, I’m at the hotel where the conference will be held, the Ambassador, over on Barnes road.”
    “I know it. I walk by it on my way to the museum.”
    “Could anyone miss it? It’s enormous. So, if you aren’t staying here, where were you planning to lie down?”
    “That’s a good question. I guess I’ll have Kofi take me to the house if he’s still around.” Expecting to see him magically appear, I glanced around the space. He didn’t.
    “I’ll go with you. He can drop me off at my hotel or I could wait at Ama’s.”
    Blinking at him, I tilted my head. The day had rendered me stupid. That was the only logical answer.
    “You could. I don’t really need supervision.”
    “I know, but for some reason I’m afraid to let you out of my sight. You might disappear.”
    “Or reveal my name is really Cindy, and I’m not even a professor.”
    He laughed. “This will take a lot more time to get over, won’t it?”
    “It throws off everything. I thought I knew you, or at least was beginning to get to know you. Now, you’re this whole other person. You dress differently.” I let my gaze wander down his wrinkled shirt and khakis to his sneakers. “You have a different name. I’m beginning to suspect you aren’t really a banker and maybe have dozens of secrets yet to be revealed.”
    He gave me a little grin, his eyes searching my face. “I may be a spy and have a closet full of skeletons, but I’m still the same man you met in Amsterdam.”
    I met his eyes.
    “I can prove it.”
    “How?” I asked, my voice breathy.
    He stepped closer, close enough for me to inhale his spicy scent now mixed with sweat—not stinky sweat—good, man smelling, pheromone laden, salty sweat.
    “This,” he said, leaning down.
    He cupped my face with both hands before his lips met mine—soft, smooth, firm. The same sensation from when he kissed me before slid down my body, settling between my thighs. I closed my eyes and kissed him back in case he evaporated into my memory. When I opened my mouth, he deepened our kiss, moving one hand to my hip, pulling me against him. His other hand curled around my jaw, his fingers entwined through my hair while he proved his existence with his lips, tongue and teeth, hands, torso, and hips.
    I moaned, and he smiled against my mouth. This type of kiss led to more. More required privacy, not a veranda restaurant in Ghana, a country that frowned on PDA, and this kiss was capital D display.
    We broke apart, breathing heavy.
    “Um, I don’t think Ama would appreciate us making out in her restaurant,” I said, catching my breath.
    “She’d kill me.” He grinned, his own chest moving rapidly with his breath.
    I affected him, too. This fact delighted me.
    “Your place or mine?” he joked.
    Tempting.
    I gasped, pretending to be offended.
    “I’m kidding!” He wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “We’ve only just met. I’m Kai, by the way.” He stopped and faced me, sticking out his hand to shake.
    I laughed. “Hi, Kai. I’m Selah. But you can call me Dr. Elmore.”
    We shook hands and snapped our fingers as we pulled apart.
    “Aha!” I shouted at our success.
    He laughed at me. “I see you’ve learned the Ghanaian handshake. Kofi must have taught you.”
    “I’ve been practicing with him, but could never achieve a nice loud snap. How’d you guess?”
    “Who do you think I learned it from?” He winked and grabbed my hand, pulling me outside to find Kofi.

    I NEVER DID lie down and rest.