His mind worked like no other she had seen before.
For years, conversations flowed from discussions of existentialism in one breath to Dr. Seuss in the next. His love notes were Wikipedia articles on math theorems because he knew how much she loved reading them.
She was the poet and he was the thinker. A role reversal she relished reliving because in her real life, she was always the leader the doer. She never had to translate her stream of consciousness into digestible bites because he always understood the colors outside the lines. He read her words, thoughts, and whispers with the ease of Yo-yo Ma playing Mozart.
He mentioned how he was sexually conservative. She knew it was a lie and that he just held back his wants and desires for fear of being chastised or misunderstood. She could read it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. Mmm…His voice, a chocolate baritone making other parts of her body vibrate. Funny he never knew she would replay their telephone conversations in her head at night when she was alone while she rubbed her nipples. Funny he never knew she masturbated while rereading their old messages to each other. Innocent to the outside, the cerebral discussions worked better than the Hitachi magic wand for bringing her to the edge as she thrashed her hips against the bed, fingers alternating between her clit and penetration. Getting to a frustrated ending.
Shoot. She never even knew if he was attracted to her. Always a willing participant, he never initiated any of their word play. Did he think she was pretty? Was he only attracted to their free-market exchange of ideas?
Or did he he have a fantasy of her in heels and a skirt? Coming up behind her and grabbing her breasts telling her in THAT voice how he was marking her pussy for good while bending her over and doing just that? Teasing her by going so slow she offered to do his taxes because it felt so good. Teasing her pussy so much he could feel her juices dripping on his balls when he finally went deep. Knowing with every stroke that he was laying primitive claim to her.
Did he know about the dream she had of sitting on top of him fully clothed and kissing him for hours while Nova played in the background? She imagined straddling him. Feeling him through layers of clothes that only offered physical protection. She imagined their tongues exploring. Sucking. Biting. Another primitive claim of scent, of taste, of anticipation.
How after he worked a double shift, she wanted to put him in a hot shower, lay him down and massage all his stress away. Despite not having touched him more than a church hug, she could imagine her hands on his back. On his shoulders. To whisper how much she loved his ethic and hustle and appreciated his taking care of everyone but him and how now it was his turn and he had a respite even for just the hour. Even if only for him.
She was caught – between her imagination and his perceived limits.