I kept my eyes on him until his hand stilled. When I looked down, I read his message on the table: OK to your place, but no talking.

I couldn’t help the small tilt of my lips. Alex had no cause for concern, as I had no plans that involved talking.

***

I took the no-talking rule very seriously. In fact, neither of us spoke again. We ate our food in silence and made eyes at each other over plates of sushi. I hoped I read his expression correctly. It either said, I want to lose myself in your exquisitely beautiful body, or it said, You were right—this eel is fantastic.

He paid the check and I objected. Alex was a waiter and, for better or worse, I was pretty sure I made quite a lot more than he did. But I didn’t press the issue because my objection was met with an insulted glare and stony silence.

Usually I don’t dispute or offer to go halfsies. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, maybe it’s because my father brainwashed me, or maybe I’m a free-loading cow who is a blight on feminist principles, but I typically staunchly believe the man should pay for dinner, especially if it’s early in the relationship.

The other rule of early dating etiquette I usually follow is no intercourse until the seventh date or one month into declaring exclusivity—whichever came later—and they had to be real dates, not hanging out, meeting for lunch, or having a night at home watching TV.

They needed to work for it and show me they were worth the price of my birth control and the awkwardness that comes from trying to unroll a condom two sizes too big onto an oddly shaped banana.

And why did men insist on buying the largest size? Didn’t they understand the concept of sizes? Did they think buying a magnum-sized condom was going to fool me into thinking their fishing boat was an aircraft carrier?

No.

But I digress….

My unwritten (and unspoken) rule was that dates one, two, and three progressed from kissing to second base.

Dates four, five, and six progressed from second to third base.

If the guy lasted to date seven, then we were on the precipice of a relationship, and I was ready to determine sexual compatibility. Only three men had made it this far; of the three, one was dismissed the next day. He had no concept of rhythm or the fact that my vagina wasn’t made of reinforced steel.

He also had mommy issues, so…no thanks.

However, with Alex, I had a problem with my heretofore-perfect dating plan. I’d demonstrated willingness to have sex prior to my usual schedule and timeframe because he was never supposed to last seven dates. He wasn’t even supposed to last one date.

As we walked into my apartment—where I’d invited him and, honestly, wanted him—I wondered about our next step and his expectations.

I also wondered what I wanted.

By his own admission—his, i.e. need for assurances, as he’d put it—Alex and I had three months to figure things out. Logically, I could see no reason to go balls first into our experimental time together. The best course of action would be to take things slow.

I repeated the word slow in my brain as I listened to Alex’s footsteps echo mine. Long before he’d hijacked my dinner three Fridays ago, I’d wanted to climb him like a tree. Knowing he was so close now—silent, watchful—made my bones feel rubbery and my stomach climb to my throat.

The feeling manifested itself bodily, akin to the dread and anticipation one feels as a child, running across the room and jumping into bed really fast after turning off the light because of monsters in dark.

Instead of dread, the anticipation of a night with Alex in my apartment was seasoned with a delightful fear. Fear tensed my muscles; shallowed my breathing; heightened my senses. It was fear of the unknown, with a suspicion that the unknown was going to be earthshaking, mind blowing, and soul shattering, with rockets’ red glare bursting in air.

Slow, I reminded myself again when I flinched for no reason and my heart jumped to my throat.

I unzipped my coat, pulled it off along with my hat, and let them fall to the catchall bench at the end of the entranceway. I heard him release the snaps of his lightweight windbreaker; each one sounded like a rifle shot in the otherwise silent space. Goosebumps prickled my shoulders and arms.

I didn’t know why, but I was holding my breath.

I marveled at how tightly wound I’d become.

It wasn’t like this was my first trip to the rodeo. Furthermore, I wasn’t this nervous that first night, weeks ago, when he took me up to his apartment, and I was all-out prepared for a one-night stand. That night had ended with him redecorating his apartment with broken glass, while I fled like a coward. Maybe my nerves at present were on edge due to the fact that we were in my apartment rather than his.

This time there would be no easy escape.

You can’t think of any other possibility? Alex’s words, from that fateful Saturday encounter, reverberated in my head as clearly as if they’d been spoken aloud.

Maybe I was feeling tense because of the dark.

I moved to flick on the light, surprised that my hand trembled as I did so. He stilled my movements, caught my hand in his, and held it in place on the wall just inches from the switch. Alex’s chest met my back as he stepped forward, his thighs against my bottom. He removed my hand from the wall, threaded our fingers together, and wrapped his arm around my middle.

“No lights.” The words against my neck and ear weren’t even a whisper; they were more like a thought carried to me via his hot breath, almost indecipherable from the beating of my heart.

I nodded, feeling somehow soothed by our contact—or intoxicated by it—and let my head rest against his shoulder. Almost at once, he captured my chin with his free hand and turned my face toward his. Before I could draw breath, he kissed me.

Alex’s mouth was punishing with hunger. He hummed and it became a growl. I felt the reverberation of his chest, and my toes curled in my shoes.

So that actually happens…huh.

How he held me—my throat exposed, his arm like a vise around my middle, my soft pressed to his hard—made me feel both vulnerable and exhilarated. On instinct—because in another life I’d obviously been a horny cat—I arched my back, rubbed my bottom against him.

He was either pleased or surprised, because he bit my lower lip and barely stifled a moan.

Alex used the hand around my waist, still holding mine, to spin me around to face him. It was my only reprieve from his demanding kisses; no sooner were we facing each other than his mouth was affixed to my jaw—nipping, nibbling, biting a passage to my neck, then the crook of my shoulder.

And we were moving.

It took me a few minutes to realize that we’d already crossed half the expanse of my apartment. My feet seemed to know that we needed to get to my bedroom. When I felt the back of my calves connecting with the edge of the bed, I took a split second to silently, internally applaud my feet.

Smart feet. Good feet. They would be rewarded later with a pedicure; maybe even paraffin and a fancy toe ring—even though, as a rule, I thought toe rings looked creepy.

Everything was… progressing. His hands were under my shirt, unclasping my bra with skill. My hands were under his shirt, touching everything that warranted touching—which was everything—because, holy heckaroni, this man was perfectly made.

All the calculations I’d done—regarding our three months and my usual schedule and whether to count our first date as today or the one from Thursday two weeks ago—completely fled my mind.

In fact, lots of things fled my mind: inhibitions, concerns, plans, dreams of normalcy. All my preconceived notions took a great migration, forced out by feelings of longing and stirrings of hope for this man.

My hands moved to the button of his pants, dipped into the band of the jeans, felt just a tease of the hard and smooth flesh before he caught my fingers. He didn’t stop kissing me, but he did move my hands away, behind my back, and distracted me by licking my earlobe.

Another explosion of goose bumps was followed by an acute shiver. I felt his smile against my skin, and he hummed—like I was delicious.

I remembered that he did this—he hummed when we kissed, when he was pleased with me, or my reaction to his touch. It was sex-ay, and I wanted to hear it again.

I placed his hands on my bottom to encourage him to squeeze. He hummed again, his fingers flexed, and he pressed our centers together in a jolting, rough movement—like he hadn’t meant to, and his body had disregarded a direct order from his brain.

Once more I tried to unbutton his pants, and again he caught my hands. This time he distracted me by pushing me down to the bed and climbing on top, forcing my legs apart to straddle my hips, kissing me. He again threaded his fingers through mine and held them hostage against the comforter away from my sides.

The only places our bare skin met were our hands and our mouths. When I attempted to touch him again, he lifted my wrists over my head and held them in one of his very capable hands. This freed him to use his other hand to touch me where he liked.

I melted into the mattress and struggled to breathe.

Although I appreciated the foreplay—and I especially appreciated his next hum of satisfaction when he lifted my shirt, palmed my breast, kneaded it, and delivered a wet kiss to my nipple through my lace bra—I began to wonder whether I’d said the word slow aloud when we’d first entered the apartment instead of just thinking it.