Read an Excerpt
I don't really love sex. I mean, I do. I love the thrusting, raw, powerful energy that two people create when they're really losing themselves in a moment, driven toward one single purpose of pure visceral satisfaction. Even more than that, though, I love the electric, tangible, skin-tingling energy that two people create when they want to fuck more than anything&38212;but can't.
You can't argue with me here&38212;the one touch you get as your coveted, yet completely unattainable, object of lust brushes her hand over your thigh while reaching past you to get her pen is unquestionably ten times louder than the slap of your wife's hand on your ass while you're pounding your cock into her a million times a minute.
Oh, how I craved that hand-over-thigh, that two-second brush of fingers against neck while exchanging a platonic hug good-bye&38212;so vivid you wonder for hours afterward if it lasted for two seconds or five, and what that three-second difference could imply.
I lived for knowing that, while pressed four to the backseat, squeezed against the door in just such a way that my hand had to rest innocently on my neighbor's leg, I could use every bump, every turn, to let my hand even more innocently slide up the leg, stealing moments to slip down the thigh, perhaps a bit too close&38212;but the car was moving, we were packed in, I was even carrying on a conversation at the time, it could not have been intentional&38212;but just close enough to run my hand down where the jeans were hot, grinning inwardly every time, knowing the jeans were hotter and the fit a bit tighter as a result,my poor neighbor struggling to keep his face calm while the four of us bounced along to our destination.
Did I want to fuck him? Absolutely not. I just needed my fix, like any junkie, and I took it where I could get it. I somehow always managed to be the first one without a chair&38212;don't mind me, I'll just sit on someone's lap&38212;knowing that my skirt was short and my underwear virtually nonexistent, and that, once seated, my skirt would rise up enough to expose bare thighs that he couldn't help but touch whenever reaching for his drink. I made sure he couldn't help it by spreading my legs just the right amount to make sure I created a tight traffic situation when his hands had to get by. I sat on the lap and made sure, every time I had to turn left or right&38212;which happened just often enough&38212;to swivel my hips and press while turning, each time feeling his cock getting a bit harder and just a bit more uncomfortable between the seams of his jeans.
I wasn't a tease&38212;I just lived for the thrill, the energy, the hot, tingling touches of unfulfilled, frustrated desire.
And then I hit a snag&38212;I fell in love with Peter.
At first, it was great. I was a junkie who had just discovered I could make my drug out of water. The thrill was everywhere. I reveled in its excess and accessibility. There is nothing like new romance to make energy out of nothing&38212;I took cabs to meet him rather than walk the extra blocks when I just couldn't wait a minute longer. We squeezed our schedules into silly putty, bending everything around when we could meet&38212;to kiss, to touch, to fuck. We never made it through a single movie. We couldn't sit in the same room without having to wrap ourselves around each other. Every party ended up with us locked in the bathroom, clothes on the floor, figuring out yet another way to fuck against the sink. Every dinner ended with us sitting next to each other, ignoring our food, busy trying covertly to slip hands inside pants and up shirts.
Like all young romance, though, it got old. We moved in together, and the electricity started to fade, competing with dog walks and alarm clocks, errand running and laundry. Suddenly, my most intimate interaction with the sink was cleaning it. I couldn't even remember the last time Peter pushed me to the floor and fucked me before I'd even taken off my coat&38212;and now that I'd known what fucking with Peter could be like, I knew there was no way I could go back to feeling satisfied by stolen thigh-strokes or an extra three seconds of fingers on neck. I needed that energy back with Peter, or I'd waste away.
One afternoon, I figured how to do it. I had lain down to take a nap, when Peter decided to come and sleep beside me. He didn't usually take naps, but we'd both been up late the night before, and I guess he decided to try it. By the time he'd gotten into bed, I was already half-asleep. He curled up against me, his boxer shorts against my underwear, his bare chest against my T-shirt, his arm around my waist, while we tried to fall asleep. I was practically there already, so his warmth just helped me drift off. However, not a nap taker by nature, and still awake, Peter did not have as easy a time.
While I tried to sleep, I could feel his cock start to harden between my legs. He shifted away from me, not wanting to disturb me, but, almost unconsciously, my hips followed his, and I slid my ass back into the curve of his pelvis. His cock was officially hard, and it began to press between my legs. I let myself hang there, still half-asleep, feeling the delicious sensation of being desired, knowing that he wanted to take a nap but that his cock had a mind of its own. I could tell that his cock had slipped through the opening in his boxer shorts, and I could feel his skin against my thigh. I shifted imperceptibly, still feigning sleep, just enough to allow his cock to slide between my legs.Seduce Me. Copyright © by Dahlia Schweitzer. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.