Logically, I know he won’t ease the ache in my body—there’s no way he could know how—but I want him anyway. I want his kisses, his caresses. I want him close. Most of all, I want him to want me. My kisses acquire a wild edge. I slip my hands under his shirt and test the firmness of his stomach, his chest, his back. Even without the light, I can sense how strong he is, how fast. I am neither of those things, and I delight in our differences. When I register the hardness pressing against my lower belly, I rise instinctively onto the tips of my toes until we line up . . . just right.
