Page 47 of Way Down Deep

How do you do it, honey? Seem this real?

Isit possible to swoon while still staying conscious? I think at the very least I need a fainting couch. Honestly, what are you trying to do to me?

Speaking of couches, where are you? I’m in the chair by the window again. But if you were here, we could move to the couch. It’s rainy and clammy here. Probably the same where you are. The radiator’s cranked, but since some genius parked it directly under a single-pane window, it doesn’t do much. But we could get under a blanket.

Forget the blanket. Just imagine me tunneled underneath the jumper you’re probably not wearing. I’m somewhere around your left armpit, still recovering from the Song of Complete Swoonation. And so cosy I could probably live right here forever.

Iam wearing a sweater, actually. And since I’m teasing you, it IS very cozy with a Z.

You can have it. I want all four of our arms free. I want us to dissolve into a big, sloppy octopus of cuddles on this couch. So you take the sweater. I’ve got a thermal on anyhow.

For a second, I thought the Z was for extra sexiness somehow. And then I remembered I’m just super British and you’re just super American. I’m not disappointed though—the thermal upped the steam levels by at least fifty percent.

Arethose levels in Celsius or Fahrenheit? I need to know so I don’t crank them to 85, thinking that’s a bit humid but actually I’ve boiled us alive.

And the Z was because, bless you, you just don’t talk American right. It’s not your fault. You’re not a cultured people, you English. Plus extra-sexy cozy is spelled COXXXY.

Thankgod you got the temperature right. I don’t think I could hit you with a teabag while being boiled. That’s the correct attack for a Brit, right? Teabag assault?

Or am I supposed to do it with a can of baked beans?

Either way, I’m very ferocious. You’re probably lucky you didn’t go with coxxxy.

What movie arewe pretending to watch on this couch? Tell me while I kiss your neck.

Something sexy. Preferably with all the things I want to do to you in it, so I can segue artfully into all of them. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” I could say, in a completely innocent tone of voice. And then hopefully you oblige.

There’sno movie with all the things I want to do with you. There’s no movie that filthy and sweet and hot and romantic and cuss-riddled, at least not with the right lighting, the right soundtrack. So let’s just say we’re watching Blade Runner because it doesn’t really matter—neither of us is going to remember a second of it.

Iguesswe’ll just have to make up our own, then. No artful, innocent segues. No suggestions. Just me telling you what I want and you telling me what you want.

There’sa thousand things I’m nearly literally dying to know about you. Like how you taste and how you smell, what your hands feel like on me. But even more than that, what I really want to know is how it would go if we were actually together right now.

Like, you’re… What’s the right word?

“Innocent” makes me feel creepy.

“Inexperienced” sounds weird too.

You’re… Fuck, I dunno. You are how you are. What I want to find out is, would you want me to lead? Need me to? Would you ask me to? Ask me to do everything to you first. I would. You have to know that by now. But I know things about you, too. And those things make me wonder just how long I’d lead for. Before you stole those reins and made a messy, grasping experiment of me.

You don’t haveto wonder. I think I’m already holding them. At the very least, I don’t mind saying that I want to push you back on that couch and lick you from the insides of your thighs to the slant of your jaw. I want to map out your body in bites—never quite going over into painful, but never quite giving you anything sweet, either.

And then when I’m done, I want to begin all over again.

Here’s what I want, then. I want your hand at my neck. Your thumb pressed hard to that little hollow behind my ear, tight, so you feel my pulse thumping there. I want those teeth on my other ear, just like you said—almost too hard. And I want that free hand wherever it wants to be. My chest, or under the hem of my shirt. Fingers wrapped around my belt buckle. Anyplace that’s almost there, almost there but not quite. And just hear me panting. Because I am.

Ican practically feelthat pulse through my phone. I can taste your skin. And that coolness against my fingertips is definitely your belt buckle. Now the only question is: how long do I take to give you what you’re panting for? A minute? Longer? I think it’s going to be longer. There’s so much more I want to do before I get to the main event.

Icouldn’t tellyou if it takes a minute or ten years—it’d feel the same, either way. Like an eternity. And I couldn’t even tell you what it is I want, aside from pleasing you. Teaching you, letting you explore me. But let me think.

I want your voice, I know that much. I don’t even know what it sounds like, but I want your voice, right there against my neck. Words, or just your breathing, or sounds. I couldn’t guess what you’d give me, only that it would drive me wild.

At this point, it would have to be all three. Me telling you things like give it to me, even though I barely know what I want you to give. Maybe some sounds every time I taste some new part of you, or hear you respond to whatever I’m doing. Because that’s what would get me: knowing how this was making you feel. God, I long to know exactly how this is making you feel.

It’s making me feel like I’m slowly melting and maybe exploding at the same time. My skin is practically vibrating, and so far I haven’t even taken off your pants.

Fuck, I need you in my bed.

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