showing me just how much he
approves. I brace myself with one hand on his chest and feel his
heartbeat pouring out from underneath it. Then I lean down and kiss
him, closing the distance between us. And not just the physical
distance, the emotional one. If I want to truly know Ryan, I need
to walk a mile in his shoes, although tonight, I feel like I’m
running a marathon.
I go to slip off my dress when Ryan stops me,
“Not here.”
“Why not here?”
“Because, I don’t want our first time to be
on a leather couch that has a hundred thousand miles on it in the
back of a crowded night club. Or anyone getting a glance of your
ass in the air either, it’s mine.”
“You also don’t want to give the other women
any ideas?” I quip.
“Something like that.” He sits up so we’re
nose to nose. “You’re so fucking incredible,” he says, then kisses
me slow and hard, boiling the blood in my veins and roasting the
muscles in my body, signifying exactly where this night is headed.
And I can’t wait.
“You ready to get out of here?” He wraps my
dress back around me and ties the string, double checking to make
sure the knot is tight; the look in his eyes is carnal, almost
predatory.
I nod, because there is suddenly a lump in my
throat the size a boulder from the anticipation and fear. Oh God,
sex with Ryan, and Jack the Stripper. Reality has just kicked
in.
We barely get into Ryan’s apartment with
clothes on.
We did nothing but paw and pull and press on
each other in the elevator and down the hallway to his front door.
My whole body is screaming for him to touch me, anywhere,
everywhere. Right. Now.
He pushes me back onto his bed and
aggressively attacks my neck with kisses, stroking every inch of my
body with his hands, shoving my dress up past my waist. He groans
as he grinds his hips into mine. He’s ready. We both are. I think.
Shit. That’s my problem. I think too much. I think about Ryan
slipping out from between the beads with another woman, I think
about what we did behind the curtain and wonder if he enjoyed
himself as much with her as he did with me. I think about all the
women he’s had; and all I’ve had is him.
I need to stop thinking and get out of my own
head.
“Alana?” he’s kissing me. “What’s wrong
baby?”
“Nothing, why?” I try to kiss him back, but
I’m losing momentum. Shit.
He pulls his face away with a don’t be a
bullshitter expression. “Don’t lie to me Alana, I can feel it,
something’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I try to pull his lips
back to mine, but his head won’t budge. He just stares down at me
with a forceful glare.
Resigned, I ball my fists over my eyes and
sigh. “What do you want me to tell you? I’m insecure? I’m trying
not to think of all the women you have all over you? Or of all the
women you’ve had?”
“You’ve been with other people?”
“ One other person Ryan. One other
person besides you, and it was a disaster. I don’t even think it
counts.”
“What do you mean?” he asks confused.
We never did dredge up my intimacy issues or
talk about my sexual past, if you could even call it that. One boy
my sophomore year of college, the all-around nice guy I could never
pull the trigger with. Even though I tried, desperately. I couldn’t
muster up enough courage to go through with it. I was so messed up
after Ryan; I had trouble letting anyone in.
Sexually that is.
We’d start but never finish. And the one time
it got to the point of penetration I absolutely freaked. We stopped
speaking after that and I swore off men ever since.
“Intimacy was hard for me,” I tell him,
“because I was always afraid I’d wake up, and whoever I spent the
night with would be gone. I didn’t want to hurt like that again.” I
look away from him. This conversation sucks. I don’t want to look
weak. It’s a character flaw embedded by my father. Remingtons
aren’t weak. They don’t show emotion. They don’t even
approves. I brace myself with one hand on his chest and feel his
heartbeat pouring out from underneath it. Then I lean down and kiss
him, closing the distance between us. And not just the physical
distance, the emotional one. If I want to truly know Ryan, I need
to walk a mile in his shoes, although tonight, I feel like I’m
running a marathon.
I go to slip off my dress when Ryan stops me,
“Not here.”
“Why not here?”
“Because, I don’t want our first time to be
on a leather couch that has a hundred thousand miles on it in the
back of a crowded night club. Or anyone getting a glance of your
ass in the air either, it’s mine.”
“You also don’t want to give the other women
any ideas?” I quip.
“Something like that.” He sits up so we’re
nose to nose. “You’re so fucking incredible,” he says, then kisses
me slow and hard, boiling the blood in my veins and roasting the
muscles in my body, signifying exactly where this night is headed.
And I can’t wait.
“You ready to get out of here?” He wraps my
dress back around me and ties the string, double checking to make
sure the knot is tight; the look in his eyes is carnal, almost
predatory.
I nod, because there is suddenly a lump in my
throat the size a boulder from the anticipation and fear. Oh God,
sex with Ryan, and Jack the Stripper. Reality has just kicked
in.
We barely get into Ryan’s apartment with
clothes on.
We did nothing but paw and pull and press on
each other in the elevator and down the hallway to his front door.
My whole body is screaming for him to touch me, anywhere,
everywhere. Right. Now.
He pushes me back onto his bed and
aggressively attacks my neck with kisses, stroking every inch of my
body with his hands, shoving my dress up past my waist. He groans
as he grinds his hips into mine. He’s ready. We both are. I think.
Shit. That’s my problem. I think too much. I think about Ryan
slipping out from between the beads with another woman, I think
about what we did behind the curtain and wonder if he enjoyed
himself as much with her as he did with me. I think about all the
women he’s had; and all I’ve had is him.
I need to stop thinking and get out of my own
head.
“Alana?” he’s kissing me. “What’s wrong
baby?”
“Nothing, why?” I try to kiss him back, but
I’m losing momentum. Shit.
He pulls his face away with a don’t be a
bullshitter expression. “Don’t lie to me Alana, I can feel it,
something’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I try to pull his lips
back to mine, but his head won’t budge. He just stares down at me
with a forceful glare.
Resigned, I ball my fists over my eyes and
sigh. “What do you want me to tell you? I’m insecure? I’m trying
not to think of all the women you have all over you? Or of all the
women you’ve had?”
“You’ve been with other people?”
“ One other person Ryan. One other
person besides you, and it was a disaster. I don’t even think it
counts.”
“What do you mean?” he asks confused.
We never did dredge up my intimacy issues or
talk about my sexual past, if you could even call it that. One boy
my sophomore year of college, the all-around nice guy I could never
pull the trigger with. Even though I tried, desperately. I couldn’t
muster up enough courage to go through with it. I was so messed up
after Ryan; I had trouble letting anyone in.
Sexually that is.
We’d start but never finish. And the one time
it got to the point of penetration I absolutely freaked. We stopped
speaking after that and I swore off men ever since.
“Intimacy was hard for me,” I tell him,
“because I was always afraid I’d wake up, and whoever I spent the
night with would be gone. I didn’t want to hurt like that again.” I
look away from him. This conversation sucks. I don’t want to look
weak. It’s a character flaw embedded by my father. Remingtons
aren’t weak. They don’t show emotion. They don’t even
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