She loved to kiss.

Now that they were seeing each other but others as well, he knew she would be kissing some boys. It pained him, but he understood. It is where they are now. It was what her ego needed and even she was unsure why.

He was kissing others too. The kisses lied, of course, the expected end of dates he really hadn’t enjoyed with women who were smiles and perk and banality. He was feeling the weight of it.

But he was scared. Scared to trust. Scared to give up. Scared to commit himself fully to a maybe. Scared of becoming less him. Scared of not having an escape plan for his ego.

He was committed to himself. To being himself. To not losing himself in service to another. He was always going to have his own place. His retreat.

Over the weekend they had talked. She had expressed fully and articulately what she wanted. Marriage. Someone who would not retreat to his retreat. A true life partner for good and bad.

She made too much sense and it threw him. He wanted to rail against it. Find the logical flaw in her reasoning. He couldn’t.

If he wanted to have the true intimacy he desired, he had to give himself completely. Not have a plan B. To risk everything.

People often talk about wanting to find “their last first kiss.” He didn’t care about that.

All he wanted was to be her last.


The Perfect Kiss

I love this piece from Laurie…reminds me of something, someone…



Looking down into her eyes

One hand brushes her hair away from her face and neck, followed by the other

A palm on each cheek and jawline, cradling her head

First, a brush of the lips, and another

Then he consumes her mouth, wrapping his lips all the way around her

His tongue explores, then invades, dancing with hers

He presses his lips firmly against hers, taking and taking

But giving by taking

A hand moves to her shoulder, her back

Another moves to her hair…or her neck

The intensity shifts and increases

He disconnects long enough to change the angle before diving in again

Taking her breath with the kiss

Her lips feel swollen, tingly when he is finished

And she has no choice

But to lean into him

Until she can stand on her own again.

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For a Minute

Faceless Woman

The other women were faceless. Placeholders. Time fillers. As she would say, “for a minute.”

On days like today, when she had interrupted his busy business with an unexpected call, he realized this. Maybe it wasn’t fair to them – for her to have most of his heart while they vied for his attention. There were texts and calls and dates and smiles and flirting. For a minute. Until she would flood his soul again, out of the intentional void of his thoughts, and his mind would go to her smile, her eyes, her softness. The feel of his body against hers, his hands on her curves. Her hair tangled in his fingers, kissing her, more…

Then he would remember he was in the middle of a “thing” and he would force his mind back to the girl de jure.

For a minute.



The text had come unexpectedly, out of the blue.

It was common: just some housekeeping. He was going to “run” a 5K in Chattanooga on Saturday and she wanted to join him. It would be nice to see her. He had been busy and not thinking about her much this week – business was good and that meant busy. Lots of writing. Lots of client phone calls.

But now, at 1am, as he lie in bed, her simple, mundane text had brought his attention back to her. He found himself longing to kiss her again, to feel his body pressed up against her.

It was how they began. Their first date was too cheesy to put into a book. They met the first time for dinner after 10 weeks of talking and texting, teasing, intimate talks about everything.

When he saw her for the first time, he was surprisingly smitten. He kissed her immediately.

During dinner he had slid his hand onto her thigh. She quivered. After dinner he walked her to her car. It was raining. He kissed her again. Deeply. Holding the umbrella, he pushed her against the wet car and kissed her again. And again. His suit jacket was soaked. His free hand found her breast through her clothes. She felt him grow against her thigh.

That was months ago.

Now, tonight, lying in his lonely bed, he longed to kiss her again. Everywhere.

The Magic


“What do you want?” she asked him.

“I want this.” he replied, saying nothing.

“What do you want?” she asked again, this time more pleading.

“I want you.” was his frustrating reply.

But now, since The Terrible, he knew.

He wanted The Magic.

The magic of seeing her smile, her eyes.

The magic of imagining her in Texas, in California, in Vegas, in Michigan.

The magic of missing her, knowing when he saw her again, the magic would be stronger.

The magic of the first kiss of the weekend, and the last.

The magic of movies and Dateline and Rain.

The magic of the talking, the laughter, the inappropriate jokes.

The magic of drinking coffee together on the deck.

The magic of a vacation together.

The magic of sharing even the little fears.

The magic of reassurance.

The magic of her warmth next to him.

The magic of her bed, her body.

The magic of truly seeing her and being truly seen.

She had been smarter than him, and more cautious, but the magic was undeniable to either of them.

He knew she wanted The Magic too.