“Yes,” I breathe.
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
“You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that. I told you I am not going to
touch you until you beg me and tell me what to do.”
My inner goddess is writhing on her chaise longue. I am lost; he’s not playing fair.
“Please,” I whisper.
“Please what?”
“Touch me.”
“Where, baby?”
He is so tantalizingly close, his scent intoxicating. I reach up, and immediately he steps
back.
“No, no,” he chides, his eyes suddenly wide and alarmed.
“What?” No . . . come back.
“No.” He shakes his head.
“Not at all?” I can’t keep the longing out of my voice.
He looks at me uncertainly, and I’m emboldened by his hesitation. I step toward him,
and he steps back, holding up his hands in defense, but smiling.
“Look, Ana.” It’s a warning, and he runs his hand through his hair, exasperated.
“Sometimes you don’t mind,” I observe plaintively. “Perhaps I should find a marker
pen, and we could map out the no-go areas.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That’s not a bad idea. Where’s your bedroom?”
I nod in the direction. Is he deliberately changing the subject?
“Have you been taking your pill?”