smooth his hair.
Emma's comb was on the counter, but to use it would be too intimate.
He breathed a laugh at that. Too intimate to use her comb without permission, after what they'd just done?
And yet it was true, and he dressed without using any of her things beyond the washcloth, which he tossed into her hamper. When he finished dressing he glanced around the small room, at the embroidered details on the shower curtain; at the porcelain toothbrush holder; at the framed series of small black-and-white photos of various foreign toilets. A bit of her humor there, he thought.
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He glanced around once more, remembering the noises she had made before coming to the bedroom.
What had she been doing? There was no clue to the mystery, and he couldn't ask her.
He left the bathroom and found her in the kitchen, wearing a silky floral robe and loading the dishwasher.
The bright overhead light and the homely chore dispelled whatever lingering hint of romantic intimacy there might have been, and he felt he had overstayed himself already.
"I'll be going, then," he said, feeling exposed and vaguely ashamed of himself.
She straightened and turned around, holding a dirty dish in one hand and a too-cheerful smile on her lips.
"Oh, okay! I hope that tonight... Well, you know. That it was what you were hoping for. Was it okay?"
Christ. She was asking for a performance evaluation.
"Everything was wonderful. You obviously put a lot of thought and hard work into it." He grimaced at his own words. "I mean, into the meal. Into the other bit as well." He snapped his lips shut before he could dig himself in any deeper.
"I'm glad you liked it. The meal, I mean. And the rest." She bit her lip, then her eyes widened. "Oh, I almost forgot!" She grabbed two plastic containers off the counter and thrust them at him. "Leftovers, if you want them."
"You don't?"
She shrugged. "I can cook. You can't. Besides, I still have the ice cream."
He accepted the containers. "Thanks. This should last me through the weekend."
"Good." She smiled, and a silent moment stretched between them. "I'll—" she started.
"I'll—" he said at the same time, and stopped. "You first."
"I was just going to say, Til see you Monday, then?' Same time?"
"Yes."
"Great!"
They went to the door together and there was another moment of tense awkwardness. "Good night, then," he said.
"Yes, good night."
He opened the door and looked back at her, trying to read her expression. Trying to see if she wanted a goodnight kiss, or if she just wanted him gone. He couldn't tell.
"Sleep well," he said, and then gestured to the containers. "And thanks."
"You're welcome. Drive safe."
"Good night."
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" 'Night."
He turned and walked down the corridor, and heard her gently close the door to the apartment.
When he was back in his car and driving home, his brain began to torment him with self-doubt as he mentally replayed the events. He'd bored her at dinner; he'd been stiff and awkward in conversation and action; he hadn't given her an orgasm.
He felt the burn of embarrassment on his face. He hadn't given her an orgasm.
Maybe she hadn't enjoyed any of it. Maybe the moans and writhing had all been for show, to make him feel good about his prowess. He'd never been with a woman who made so much noise. "Vm here to please you," she'd said. Maybe writhers and moaners existed only in the land of make-believe.
Ah, Christ. He'd just had the most surprising, most erotic, most weirdly exciting sex of his life, and all he could think was that she probably hadn't enjoyed a bit of it. She'd probably been imagining herself anywhere but in bed with him, her mind a thousand miles away. He may as well have been masturbating.
This was no way for a man with self-respect to entertain himself. He'd call her tomorrow and end
Emma's comb was on the counter, but to use it would be too intimate.
He breathed a laugh at that. Too intimate to use her comb without permission, after what they'd just done?
And yet it was true, and he dressed without using any of her things beyond the washcloth, which he tossed into her hamper. When he finished dressing he glanced around the small room, at the embroidered details on the shower curtain; at the porcelain toothbrush holder; at the framed series of small black-and-white photos of various foreign toilets. A bit of her humor there, he thought.
Page 52
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
He glanced around once more, remembering the noises she had made before coming to the bedroom.
What had she been doing? There was no clue to the mystery, and he couldn't ask her.
He left the bathroom and found her in the kitchen, wearing a silky floral robe and loading the dishwasher.
The bright overhead light and the homely chore dispelled whatever lingering hint of romantic intimacy there might have been, and he felt he had overstayed himself already.
"I'll be going, then," he said, feeling exposed and vaguely ashamed of himself.
She straightened and turned around, holding a dirty dish in one hand and a too-cheerful smile on her lips.
"Oh, okay! I hope that tonight... Well, you know. That it was what you were hoping for. Was it okay?"
Christ. She was asking for a performance evaluation.
"Everything was wonderful. You obviously put a lot of thought and hard work into it." He grimaced at his own words. "I mean, into the meal. Into the other bit as well." He snapped his lips shut before he could dig himself in any deeper.
"I'm glad you liked it. The meal, I mean. And the rest." She bit her lip, then her eyes widened. "Oh, I almost forgot!" She grabbed two plastic containers off the counter and thrust them at him. "Leftovers, if you want them."
"You don't?"
She shrugged. "I can cook. You can't. Besides, I still have the ice cream."
He accepted the containers. "Thanks. This should last me through the weekend."
"Good." She smiled, and a silent moment stretched between them. "I'll—" she started.
"I'll—" he said at the same time, and stopped. "You first."
"I was just going to say, Til see you Monday, then?' Same time?"
"Yes."
"Great!"
They went to the door together and there was another moment of tense awkwardness. "Good night, then," he said.
"Yes, good night."
He opened the door and looked back at her, trying to read her expression. Trying to see if she wanted a goodnight kiss, or if she just wanted him gone. He couldn't tell.
"Sleep well," he said, and then gestured to the containers. "And thanks."
"You're welcome. Drive safe."
"Good night."
Page 53
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
" 'Night."
He turned and walked down the corridor, and heard her gently close the door to the apartment.
When he was back in his car and driving home, his brain began to torment him with self-doubt as he mentally replayed the events. He'd bored her at dinner; he'd been stiff and awkward in conversation and action; he hadn't given her an orgasm.
He felt the burn of embarrassment on his face. He hadn't given her an orgasm.
Maybe she hadn't enjoyed any of it. Maybe the moans and writhing had all been for show, to make him feel good about his prowess. He'd never been with a woman who made so much noise. "Vm here to please you," she'd said. Maybe writhers and moaners existed only in the land of make-believe.
Ah, Christ. He'd just had the most surprising, most erotic, most weirdly exciting sex of his life, and all he could think was that she probably hadn't enjoyed a bit of it. She'd probably been imagining herself anywhere but in bed with him, her mind a thousand miles away. He may as well have been masturbating.
This was no way for a man with self-respect to entertain himself. He'd call her tomorrow and end
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