Page 37 of Rejected Plus-Size Mate

“Ugh. There’s a thought. Hopefully, there are good things in the world that work on the same laws.”

“Hopefully,” I answer, turning to look at her for a second. She’s looking right back at me, a gentle smile on her face.

“Would you like to go out tonight?” I ask. I had the idea lurking in my brain for most of the day, but I wasn’t sure if I’d go through with it. Seeing how relaxed and comfortable she is makes my urge to do something nice for her stronger than my doubt.

“Sure,” she answers. “Where?”

“Just the theatre,” I say. “I could use a nice relaxing movie. We can get dinner, too, if you like.”

“No, that’s okay. I don’t feel like anything too formal. A nice relaxing movie sounds great.”

When we get home, Leslie goes to shower and change and I go to the kitchen, as far away from the bathroom as I can possibly get. I try to distract myself by making some dinner, but every second I hear the water running, all I can think about is Leslie’s naked body under the hot water.

In my mind, she stands in wafting clouds of steam, soaping herself up slowly. Her fingers slide across her slick skin, rubbing over her wide hips and huge breasts under the water. I can vividly imagine how her nipple would taste in mymouth, slippery and salty, hardening under the attention of my lips and tongue—

“Kyle? Are you alright?” Leslie’s voice blasts through my fantasy, bringing me back to reality with a crash.

I’m fine. Just crippled from the waist down.

“Yeah, sure,” I stutter. “Everything’s fine. I was just thinking about dinner. Did you want me to make something?”

“No, that’s cool. I’ll fill up on snacks at the movies.”

“Okay, I’ll do the same. Let me get dressed, and we’ll go.”

Leslie watches me leave the room, and I hurry to the bathroom to shower and change, hoping I haven’t completely given myself away. I don’t want her to feel any pressure from me, but I have no idea how to keep living with her and hide my attraction to her at the same time.

After I get ready, we head out to the movie. When we sit down with our arms loaded with snacks, I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m looking forward to about two hours’ worth of distraction, a nice solid block of time where I won’t have to stress about hiding my arousal from Leslie.

For a while, I lose myself in the action. It’s just a low-key shooter, car chase type of movie with a fairly weak plot. I watch the hero pull off daring stunts as he bravely fights to save the day—and, of course, his lady.

Then about halfway through the film, they end up alone together in a safehouse, and I suddenly have a very uncomfortable feeling that I know what is about to happen.

Even though the hero is covered in potentially life-threatening wounds, he miraculously recovers when the damsel throws herself into his arms.

I try to look away. I want to look away. But my eyes are glued to the screen. Close-up images of sweat-sheened skin, slippery lips and tongues, and grasping hands hypnotize me. The sounds of their moans cripple me. I sit there paralyzed, my hands gripping the armrests, internally begging for the scene to end.

The woman doesn’t even turn me on. She’s way too skinny for me. It’s just the visceral shock of seeing and hearing so much passion and sexual satisfaction, thrown violently on top of my simmering frustration.

As if I needed to get any ideas when my imagination has been pretty colorful all by itself.

I very carefully do not look at Leslie, and I keep myself frozen in place. I’m afraid that if I look at her, all my longing and desire will be exposed, and I’ll frighten her away again.

The sex scene ends, but my lust doesn’t die. It’s been turned up to its hottest level, and there’s no switching it off now. As we leave the theatre, I carefully leave space between my body and Leslie’s. I feel like if we touch, my skin will catch on fire.

Conversation on the way home is awkward. I completely blame myself. Obviously, she can sense my attention, no matter how hard I try to hold back.

“So, ah—did you have a good time?” I ask as we pull into the driveway.

“Sure, yeah,” Leslie says. “It was alright. Not really my kind of movie, though.”

“Oh. Maybe we should go out again tomorrow and see something else.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

I feel like a kicked dog. I’ve fucked up. She’s upset.

“Leslie, wait—”

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