Laughing again, I tackled him to the ground. He could have resisted, but he totally let me. “Listen to me! I will not be hiring a male escort. Not now, not ever.” I kissed him, nibbling on his delectable bottom lip, then lifting my head. “If I can’t handle the thought of you hiring a female escort for research, then I can’t ask you to be okay with it for me. That’s not fair, and that’s not right.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” I was lying atop him now. He pushed a hand into my hair and used his other arm as a pillow. “So what are you going to do?”
I rested my elbow on his chest and my chin on the palm of my hand, considering him. “I’ll have one of the other staff writers do it. It wouldn’t kill me to have another contributing writer. And I can re-interview the guy I was going to use—over the phone—and maybe a few of his colleagues.”
He nodded, his eyes on where his fingers combed through my hair. “If this compromise bothered you, you would tell me. Right?”
“Right. But this doesn’t bother me. This feels right.”
“Good.” He took a deep breath, and when he exhaled, it sounded relieved. “I’m glad you changed your mind about that other thing.”
“What other thing?” I kissed him again. I couldn’t help it. His lips were addictive, so close to that chin I loved.
“The orgasm thing.”
I stared at him, my body tensing. “What?”
His eyes cut back to mine. “The orgasm meditation place.”
“Um . . . ” I tilted my head to the side. “No. I’m definitely doing that.”
“Excuse me?” His hand stilled in my hair and the wrinkle I found so adorable appeared between his eyebrows. “You’re not.”
“Yes. I am.”
After a protracted pause, he rolled me to the side, his fingers digging into my hip. “Marie. I’m definitely not okay with you going to an orgasm meditation place and getting fingered by some stranger.”
“Matt—”
“No. If you do this I will be really fucking pissed off.” His voice lifted with each word, and the way he was moving his jaw told me he was serious.
Really fucking serious.
I tried not to smile, but it was impossible. I loved how angry this made him. And what did that say about me? Clearly, I was still crazy Marie. Sick-in-the-head Marie. Loony Marie. The wearing-a-sweater-dress-in-mid-May, and running-after-my-hopes Marie.
His eyes moved over my face and he clenched his teeth. “Is this funny?”
“Listen, just listen to me—”
Abruptly, he sat up, shaking his head. A flush had appeared high on his cheeks.
Jeez, he’s really pissed.
. . . Yay!
“Matt.”
He shoved his fingers into his hair, causing an accidental and haphazard Mohawk. “I can’t look at you right now.”
I reached for his arm. “There’s no touching, Matt. No one is going to touch me. It’s all instructional. No one was ever going to touch me.”
He stilled, moving just his eyes to mine. Several seconds passed. Then a few more.
“What?”
I sat up and straddled his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck. “They don’t allow people who arrive without a partner to stay for the actual meditation. I was always going to go just for the instructional sessions. No one was ever going to touch me. That was never going to happen.” I finished by rubbing my nose back and forth against his.
He released a huge breath, wrapping his arms around me and squeezing tightly. “You’re going to pay for that.”
I tried not to laugh, but it was difficult. Rolling my lips between my teeth, I snuggled closer, whispering in his ear, “I love you, Matthew Simmons. And I don’t want anyone but you to power on my CPU.”
“I’ll start.” Matt lifted his hand.
I glanced at my boyfriend askance.
“Okay, Matthew, why are you here?” The OM instructor turned to Matt, her smile looked gently encouraging.
I shook my head subtly, disbelieving of . . . well, everything that had happened since I woke up.
The day had begun like any Monday. Matt had slept over and awoken early—as usual—to make coffee and get ready for the day. Except, after making coffee, he’d rejoined me in bed. And that’s when he’d informed me that he’d contacted the OM studio and added his name to the roster. As my partner.
I don’t think I actually believed him until we walked into the building and he’d given the receptionist our names. But, here we were, sitting on the floor in a large, spacious room that reminded me of a tastefully decorated high-end yoga studio. And Matt had just volunteered to go first, sharing his reasons for attending the session.
“I’m here because I’m invested in self-improvement, and strengthening my relationship with my partner,” he said with his trademark honesty and lack of embellishment.
I kept my eyes studiously forward, trying to mask my smile and the warm blush staining my cheeks. He was the best. The absolute best.
“Thank you, Matthew. Anyone else?”
We went around the room, each person taking a moment to say something about themselves, and explain what had prompted them try orgasm meditation.
One woman shared that her ex-partner had wanted only intercourse, and she’d had a difficult time encouraging him to engage in foreplay, that he would rush or make her feel guilty for wanting it. She said it had affected her relationship with her current partner—who was with her—and that she needed to re-learn how to experience and trust playful touch.
Her partner said he wanted to be supportive and encourage her journey of self-discovery.
One man spoke up to say he couldn’t achieve orgasm unless he masturbated and, even though he grew hard with a partner, he could never finish inside someone. He hoped orgasm meditation would help him relax, focus more outwardly, and truly engage with another person.
A few women said they wanted to become more in tune with their own bodies, what brought them pleasure, what they liked.
Another of our group said he was there because he wanted to improve his technique, which drew a few amused chuckles.
One of the couples explained that they’d been in marriage counseling for the last few months, wanting to save their thirteen-year marriage, and realized they’d never really talked about sex, what the other person wanted or expected, so they thought OM would be a good place to start the dialogue.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. I hadn’t expected everyone to be so open, candid. I hadn’t expected . . . well, normal, everyday people.
Part of me had expected exhibitionists and hedonists, horny people looking for a cheap thrill, or damaged people looking for an escape.
Shame on me.
Finally, the instructor turned to me. “Marie?”
I managed a smile, but it felt too big. “I’m here because I want to know more about orgasm meditation,” I said, swallowing stiffly. My heart beat strangely in my chest, somehow both racing and sluggish. I felt everyone’s eyes on me, as though they expected more. More of a reason for my presence. More sharing. More.
Or maybe I expected more.
From myself.