And maybe that was my problem.
“And because,” I blurted, bracing but unable to stop myself, “when I’m intimate with someone, I can’t seem to stop thinking about whether he’s having a good time. I can’t . . .” I glanced at Matt, finding him studying me with surprise, but also concern and reassurance. “I worry that I’m being too selfish. And I have trouble getting out of my own head to fully enjoy myself.”
As I continued to speak, the surprise dissipated from Matt’s brow, leaving a small smile, his eyes infinitely accepting. Compelled by his compassion, I returned his smile with a hesitant one of my own.
“Thank you, Marie.” Our instructor gave a small bow, turning her attention to the rest of the class. “You are not alone, and your feelings and worries are not atypical. But the goal here is to feel, without shame or judgment. This isn’t about gratification. There is no finish. There is no climax. There is only feeling, trusting, listening to your body, and meditating on the lessons you learn.”
As I’d told Matt, only the people who’d brought their partner were able to stay for the guided meditation. What I didn’t tell Matt was that I was dreading the guided meditation.
Seriously, seriously dreading it.
Those who’d arrived on their own participated in the sharing session, the lectures, and the discussions, but had to leave once the last theory portion was over, which had been my plan. I’d wanted to learn all about the practice, but hadn’t wanted to actually do it. Not in a room full of strangers.
I didn’t want to share that part of our intimacy. I was selfish of him, of us.
So as the day wore on, I grew more tense. I knew he sensed it, but how could I tell him that I didn’t want to go through with it? He’d taken a day off work and I was going to, what? Turn his generosity into a waste of his time?
No.
I can deal.
I can power through.
These were the thoughts on repeat in my head when our instructor warned us that we had five more minutes until the last break was over. That meant everyone who’d arrived alone would be leaving. Matt found me chatting with one of the other couples, doing my best to wear my journalist hat.
He’d excused us both and pulled me away from the group, into the OM studio, to the main room where we’d be doing the guided meditation in a few minutes.
Gack!
“I’ve been doing some reconnaissance.” Matt leaned close, whispering in my ear.
It was becoming very real now. Pretty soon I’d be lying on my back with my underwear off, my legs spread and Matt’s fingers on me while I did my absolute best to meditate on what my body was telling me . . . I was pretty sure my body was telling me to take my sexy boyfriend and flee.
I glanced around the empty space. “Why are you whispering? We’re completely alone. Everyone else is outside in the courtyard.”
“It’s more exciting if I whisper.” He rubbed my back, smoothing his hand from my shoulder to just above my bottom. I’d noticed, since I’d made my confession earlier regarding my fears about being too selfish, he’d been especially handsy. I wasn’t complaining.
“Fine,” I whispered, playing along. “What kind of reconnaissance?”
“Turns out, some of the people who arrived alone are planning on meeting up later to try out OM without the benefit of the guide.”
“Hmm.”
“Interesting, right?”
It was interesting. It was very interesting, and would definitely make it into my article. “Good job, partner. That’s excellent information. Thank you.”
His gaze grew intense, as though he was trying to impart his thoughts without speaking them.
“What?”
He sighed, clearly irritated that I couldn’t yet read his mind. “Marie. Do you have anything you’d like to say?”
I felt my eyes grow wide and I held my breath, but said nothing.
“Say it.” He dipped his chin, his hand caressing me lower, over my backside, sending lovely tendrils of desire unfurling in my belly despite the anxiety churning there.
“I don’t want to disappoint you,” I blurted.
“And?”
My forehead fell to his chest and I spoke to his feet. “I don’t want to stay. I wasn’t planning on staying. I want us to leave. I don’t want our intimacy to be clinical, not that this would make it clinical, but I’m not ready to do this kind of thing in a room full of strangers. I want hot sex.”
His hand had come to my face, cupping my jaw, and he tilted my chin backward when I’d finished.
Gazing at me, a whisper of a smile on his lips, he kissed me once. “Then let’s go.”
“You took off work.”
“To be with you. No judgment for the couples here, but I’d prefer not to digit-tize you in front of people we don’t know.”
“Digit-tize. Nice.”
“I know, right? I’m going to use that one again.”
He lowered his head, covering my lips with his, giving me a soft, sensual kiss. He tasted me with a slide of his tongue, moaning into my mouth when I encouraged him to deepen the kiss, pressing my body against him. I melted, becoming more liquid than solid, and twisted my hands in the fabric of his shirt.
Abruptly, tugging on my hair, he broke away with one last biting nip. “I love you, Marie. And I want you to be selfish with me.”
Giving in to my smile, I nodded. “Okay. Then, when we get home, I want you to make dinner.”
“Sounds good.”
“Naked.”
He paused, one eyebrow lifting in surprise. “Sounds good.”
“And then, after dinner, I want you to talk dirty to me.”
Matt’s gaze grew hooded and he entwined our hands together. “Why wait until after dinner?”
Later, close to midnight, while we were lying in bed together—cuddling, naked—I traced the outline of his handsome face with my fingertip, feeling amazement.
Here. Now. Touching him as I pleased. My heart swelled with the sweetness of it, with gratitude. I hoped I would never take these moments for granted, never take him for granted.
“You like my face.” He sounded certain.
“No. I love your face.”
“I love your face, too. And your bosoms.”
That made me laugh, and I dropped my hand to his cheek, “Look at me.”
He complied, his eyelashes fluttering open until his gaze focused on mine.
“Beautiful,” he said, the single word full of wonder. Abruptly, his hand began stroking my hip and bottom, as though the sight of me made the action compulsory.
“Thank you.”
“No. Thank you.” His eyes followed the progress of his fingers as they slid to my lower belly, then up to the valley between my breasts. “Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Tell me what you want me to do to you.”
“How about you finally administer that questionnaire?” I teased.
His hand paused and his gaze jumped to mine. “Ah. Yeah. About that.”
“What? Don’t tell me you don’t want my data.”
“Oh, I do. But I can’t have it.”
“Why not?”