are.” He
took advantage of our position and stroked my back. I could almost
feel the details of the pads of his fingers through the lightweight
material of my dress. A remembered heat built in my chest and
meandered throughout my torso, searching out his touch. “You can’t
let me touch you like this and not give me anything. You love me.
You said it.” He placed tender nips at my bottom lip and all
logical thought fell away.
“I did.”
“You’re mine again,” he inquired
sincerely.
I nodded. But I should’ve known the lack of
words wouldn’t suffice for him.
“Do I need to pin you down again?” He
teased.
I argued, “There’s more going on here. It’s
bigger than me and you.”
He narrowed his smoky eyes and tightened his
hold on me. His fingers pulsed, as though they were trying to draw
out more of a verbal reaction. When that failed to work, his lips,
those delicious, truth serum-like appendages descended on the curve
of my neck. The short hairs on the side of his head tickled my
cheek, bidding caged goose bumps freedom.
But when those lips reached my earlobe, I
lost it.
“I’m yours.” I finally relented. All
movement froze.
“Is it getting easier,” he asked in secret
next to my ear. I wish that expressing my emotions was like
recovering from surgery—the more you did, the easier it got. Nope.
Not for me.
No,” I answered truthfully.
“It will, Querida . I’ll help
you.”
Of course he would.
Must he be so damned—Theo all the time?
“There are more important things at stake
here,” I attempted to change the subject to anything but me.
“There are.” He again took up his luscious
assault on my neck. “And now, with all of this settled, I can
finally concentrate on it.”
Too bad I couldn’t concentrate on anything
but how low his hands had gone. He was going for the thighs. I just
knew it.
“I’m hungry.” I grasped at a straw, not
quite ready to jump all the way back into our relationship so
quickly. I knew it would throw him into ‘take care of me’ mode.
“Okay. Let’s go into the village for soup or
something.”
“Sounds good.”
We flashed down to a valley near the town,
courtesy of one of my satellite apps. Walking into town, I watched
the people go about their business. Each country had its own feel
and smell. Tibet, so far, smelled like candied incense and mustard
powder. Bells and the bustling of street vendors selling their
product filled my ears.
Monks dressed in orange garb paraded down
the street in a perfect line, chanting prayers, probably for
themselves at the news of who would arrive the next day—nosey
foreigners. One of the monks, the last one in the procession,
caught my eye. There was something not quite fitting about him
amongst his brothers. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what the
difference was. Thinner than the others, his carriage and gait
registered differently than his predecessors. He held my gaze and
immediately came to a halt.
“What?” Theo followed my stare.
“There’s something different about that
one.”
Theo popped a shoulder in nonchalance and
dragged me away. He was always afraid I was going to start a
cultural faux pas while in other countries—especially those where
caning was a prominent punishment. Really, I think he was saving me
from possibly setting the domino that would lead to WWIII, because
that’s something I would accidentally do.
No, really, it’s something I would do.
He was completely justified in that line of
thinking.
We settled on the only vendor who seemed to
speak some English. The enormous hunks of meat had me squelching a
gag. So when we sat on the curb of the street, our makeshift dining
table, the first thing I did was scoop out my hunk, which I swore
was a hoof, and plopped it into Theo’s bowl.
He chuckled at my blatant disgust for all
things meat related. I wasn’t a vegetarian as a rule. But eating
heavy foods usually stagnated my flashing and made me feel
sluggish.
“Should
took advantage of our position and stroked my back. I could almost
feel the details of the pads of his fingers through the lightweight
material of my dress. A remembered heat built in my chest and
meandered throughout my torso, searching out his touch. “You can’t
let me touch you like this and not give me anything. You love me.
You said it.” He placed tender nips at my bottom lip and all
logical thought fell away.
“I did.”
“You’re mine again,” he inquired
sincerely.
I nodded. But I should’ve known the lack of
words wouldn’t suffice for him.
“Do I need to pin you down again?” He
teased.
I argued, “There’s more going on here. It’s
bigger than me and you.”
He narrowed his smoky eyes and tightened his
hold on me. His fingers pulsed, as though they were trying to draw
out more of a verbal reaction. When that failed to work, his lips,
those delicious, truth serum-like appendages descended on the curve
of my neck. The short hairs on the side of his head tickled my
cheek, bidding caged goose bumps freedom.
But when those lips reached my earlobe, I
lost it.
“I’m yours.” I finally relented. All
movement froze.
“Is it getting easier,” he asked in secret
next to my ear. I wish that expressing my emotions was like
recovering from surgery—the more you did, the easier it got. Nope.
Not for me.
No,” I answered truthfully.
“It will, Querida . I’ll help
you.”
Of course he would.
Must he be so damned—Theo all the time?
“There are more important things at stake
here,” I attempted to change the subject to anything but me.
“There are.” He again took up his luscious
assault on my neck. “And now, with all of this settled, I can
finally concentrate on it.”
Too bad I couldn’t concentrate on anything
but how low his hands had gone. He was going for the thighs. I just
knew it.
“I’m hungry.” I grasped at a straw, not
quite ready to jump all the way back into our relationship so
quickly. I knew it would throw him into ‘take care of me’ mode.
“Okay. Let’s go into the village for soup or
something.”
“Sounds good.”
We flashed down to a valley near the town,
courtesy of one of my satellite apps. Walking into town, I watched
the people go about their business. Each country had its own feel
and smell. Tibet, so far, smelled like candied incense and mustard
powder. Bells and the bustling of street vendors selling their
product filled my ears.
Monks dressed in orange garb paraded down
the street in a perfect line, chanting prayers, probably for
themselves at the news of who would arrive the next day—nosey
foreigners. One of the monks, the last one in the procession,
caught my eye. There was something not quite fitting about him
amongst his brothers. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what the
difference was. Thinner than the others, his carriage and gait
registered differently than his predecessors. He held my gaze and
immediately came to a halt.
“What?” Theo followed my stare.
“There’s something different about that
one.”
Theo popped a shoulder in nonchalance and
dragged me away. He was always afraid I was going to start a
cultural faux pas while in other countries—especially those where
caning was a prominent punishment. Really, I think he was saving me
from possibly setting the domino that would lead to WWIII, because
that’s something I would accidentally do.
No, really, it’s something I would do.
He was completely justified in that line of
thinking.
We settled on the only vendor who seemed to
speak some English. The enormous hunks of meat had me squelching a
gag. So when we sat on the curb of the street, our makeshift dining
table, the first thing I did was scoop out my hunk, which I swore
was a hoof, and plopped it into Theo’s bowl.
He chuckled at my blatant disgust for all
things meat related. I wasn’t a vegetarian as a rule. But eating
heavy foods usually stagnated my flashing and made me feel
sluggish.
“Should
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