My heels click smartly on the highly polished floor as I wander the lobby while waiting for you to check us in.
"You really are nervous," a touch of amazement tinges your voice as you take my hand in the elevator and find it’s shaking. No one else is in the elevator, but you don’t kiss me.
"I always tell people that nervousness is a sign you care. That if you didn’t give a rip, you’d never be nervous…" Even my voice is shaking and the words tumble out–too fast.
"Shhhh." You put a finger on my lips. "Enough talking, Princess. Let’s–"
Your words are cut off by the chime of the elevator. As we exit, I feel your hand on my waist as you lead me down the hall to the room.
The bellman will be up with the luggage soon, so I sit on the sofa that faces the TV. Curiosity wins out and I ask, "You started to say something?"
"Oh. Yes. Let’s just go right to the art museum. We have several hours before dinner."
I nod and then the luggage comes and you’re occupied and I rummage in my purse for more lipstick, realizing even as I apply it that it was never intended as a force field and maybe we shouldn’t have come and maybe you’ll think I’m too fat and I sure said some ridiculous things in the car like I tend to do and you’re going to be sorry you brought me here and then there’s dinner and after that we’ll come back here and you’ll want to "unwrap me like a wonderful gift" which sounded so romantic it almost made me cry and gave me butterflies for the entire trip but I think they’ve all flown away because
"Earth to Ginevra…" You snap your fingers in front of me and I startle. "Those heels are very, very sexy, but I think you’ll want flats for the museum." I start to get up, but you put your hands on my shoulders. "No. Stay here. What bag are they in? I’ll bring them."
You find the shoes, bring them, and move the coffee table. "This is the only pair we have in your size ma’am."
I laugh because you really do look like a shoe salesman kneeling there. But you don’t act like one since I’m pretty sure they’re not ever allowed to tickle the client’s ankles. When your hand moves up to my calf the butterflies wake up and it feels like they’ve invited some bumblebees. But then you’re standing and you offer your hand. I stand and you draw me over to the window.
The midday sun filters through the sheer drapes and the sounds of some street musicians drift up; barely audible through the closed windows.
I open my mouth to say something and you stop me. "Age before beauty. Ah! There’s a smile! No; let me finish. I know you’re nervous. It’s very alluring. No; wait. I’m not done. I’m not going to force you to do something you don’t want. That’s just wrong. I’ll lead you, but I won’t force you. Ginevra, princess, hush. Listen to me. We can go very, very, very slow. Scratch that. We *will* go very, very slowly. Exquisitely slowly. If we end up doing nothing but kissing, all night long–that blush makes you even more desirable, you know–I’m fine with that. Whatever the Lady wants. You know that, and you have known that. Now, if I have to, just this once, I’ll go down on one knee and beg. I have been dreaming and fantasizing about your beautiful, kissable lips for weeks. May I, please, kiss you? Even just once?"
Because we’re standing about a foot apart, I shift my weight to step towards you. You stop me again, saying, "I want this to be perfect." I feel your fingers under my chin; tilting my head, and then your lips are on mine and it’s gentle and soft and almost holy. And you kiss me again, and then a third time.
I open my eyes and see your smile. Your eyes are laughing as you whisper, "Would the Lady like some more?"
And all I can say is, "Yes."
After the Ecstasy, the Laundry . . . 