Page 85 of Bedroom Therapy

“You’re thinking about jumping Zach’s bones, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Amanda answered, although she knew Beth didn’t understand the import of her question.

“Well, try to keep your focus on business for a while. Because over lunch, I want to discuss some ideas with you.”

“Like what?”

“Like writing some articles for Vanessa under your own name.”

“Oh my. What did you have in mind?”

“What would you think about a piece on controlling men? Hum—I mean men who need to control their women.”

Amanda swallowed. “I guess Tony Anderson made you think about that?”

“Um hum.”

Actually, she’d already started contemplating writing about the subject—as a way of exorcising her own ghosts. “Yes, I’d like that,” she answered.

“Good. And I have some other ideas we can discuss over wood-fired pizzas. Or white bean and tuna salad.”

“Sounds good.”

In fact, lunch was delicious—and productive. Beth gave her several more article ideas, and she left the meeting thinking that she might actually be able to make a living from her writing. Certainly her name on articles in Vanessa would make it easier to sell her book. And maybe she could write for other publications—if that was okay with Beth.

She was on her way back to New Jersey before rush-hour traffic could bog her down.

Pulling up at the curb, she stopped to admire Zach’s house. She’d been afraid he’d pick something new and modern, but he’d bought a thirties bungalow with a wide front porch and a roof held up by real stone columns. The neighborhood was old and settled, with large trees, quiet streets, and big backyards.

Inside, Zach had done a lot of work. He’d remodeled and enlarged the kitchen. And he’d refinished all the beautiful woodwork and hardwood floors.

It was a house where she’d love to live. A house where she’d love to raise children. But both of them had been careful not to talk about the future. She suspected that Zach wasn’t going to do that until he resolved the problem that had been hanging over him for a year.

And no amount of talking about it was going to make him feel okay. He had to see for himself that they could make love like any other couple.

Actually, she’d done a lot of research about his condition since he’d told her what was wrong. The chapters of books and articles she’d read recommended exercises to help a dysfunctional couple get in touch with each other physically. Starting with touching and kissing. Giving back rubs and massages. Physical closeness with no pressure to progress to intercourse.

The concept was sound, but she honestly didn’t think either one of them could go that route. Not right now. She wanted Zach too much, and he wanted her. And if they got into anything explicit, they’d end up in bed. And it might not work out because all the old cues would be ready to assault him.

He’d be worried about “failure.” And she was pretty sure he’d be upset if they tried intercourse and he didn’t have an orgasm. On the other hand, she was taking the long view, knowing it might require time for Zach to get back to what most people would consider normal.

Because of that, she was still holding off any sexual contact—although it was getting more difficult each day. Each hour. Each minute. She was starting to think of alternatives. What about manual stimulation? Could she bring him to climax with her hand—with her mouth? Perhaps they could start with that.

She was making herself hot just thinking about it. And she had to sit in the car for a while, getting her breathing back to normal before she entered the house.

When she walked into the kitchen, Zach was standing in front of the stove, stirring a large pot of soup.

He looked up, and she could tell immediately how glad he was to see her. She wanted to tell him she could come home to that look on his face for the next hundred years, but she didn’t want to make him feel any more pressure than he already did.

She settled for, “Hi. I’m glad to be back. I always forget how much I hate the city.”

“Hi yourself.”

“What’s that?” she asked, gesturing toward the soup.

“Oxtail soup.”

She peered into the pot. “You’re kidding. Isn’t that something from the Middle Ages?”

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