I Just Want to Dance With You
AS I TRUDGED THE last suitcase into Will's house, I started, "Now for that next kinky round—" but he interrupted me.
"Christ, give me a Gatorade," he groaned. "I have stamina, but shit, a man needs recovery time. I'm not fifteen."
I giggled. "We could go to a health food store and get you ginseng." He raised an eyebrow. "What were you planning before I hijacked your kinky?"
"No plans." He paused, giving me a heated look. "A lot of ideas, though."
"Ideas?"
"How 'bout I take you out to dinner tonight, and dancin', and tell you 'bout 'em?"
That evening, I put on a butter yellow, smocked sundress and my espadrilles and drove with Will, who had on a crisp, plaid, short sleeve shirt and jeans, to an Italian restaurant he liked. His hair was still wet and wavy from the shower, and he smelled utterly yummy. And the restaurant? Vegan paradise. Over my pasta primavera, he proceeded to tell me, in exquisite detail, the sexual things that he liked. Thank God we were squirreled away in a dark corner. My panties barely survived.
"Like that part of your neck, Marie, the part where your neck meets your shoulder. Good for bitin’." He reached over and traced his hand along my bare shoulder in my sun dress. He lowered his voice. "Like the taste of you in my mouth. Like it when you squirm when you're tied up. Like it when you come—any time, but especially when you beg for it, when you're pissed off about not getting it. Love your tits. I wanna eat every part of you. I wanna have some fun with whipped cream—"
"That's not vegan," I interrupted, as my stomach fluttered with the thought, and he grinned, reaching for a bite of his dinner.
"You're not the one eating it," he argued, fork held high.
Will's tongue all over my body.
Yeah, fuck vegan. At least for ice cream, whipped cream, and Will’s red meat. Another exception to my rule.
After dinner, he drove me to the same country steakhouse as before, but tonight it was filled with an after-dinner bar crowd, rather than restaurant diners. I noticed the dim light and country music playing, and as we walked in, Will held out his arm. "Dance with me."
He took me out to the dance floor and gave me a spin and I laughed and giggled as my skirt spun around. Then he took me in his arms and danced with me all around, totally in control. The song came to an end and he whispered in my ear, as the next song began, "This is George Strait, baby. Good song. ‘I Just Wanna Dance With You.’ How I feel." Feeling his muscles under his clothes, smelling his clean smell, holding him, I was in bliss. Then he leaned down and kissed me on the dance floor, soft tongue darting against mine, and I was done for.
"Let's get out of here," I whispered.
"Yeah," he agreed quickly.
We arrived home—my home now—and tumbled out of our clothes and into bed. No kinky this time. No games, no tricks. Just fingers, hands, touch, sensation, tongues, and lips all over. He traced my star tattoos on my hips with his fingers and gave each of them wet kisses. Then, when I was primed, he entered me, his cock filling me, giving me pleasure, connecting us together. After we both had climaxed, he fell onto me, his weight feeling secure, and then lifted himself off and gave me a sweet kiss. "Love you," he said. "Let's go outside, it's a nice night."
We slowly got dressed in sweatpants. He handed me his tie-dye and I put it on without a bra, giggling, and we walked down the stairs, Will whistling for Trixie to join us.
Hand in hand, we walked to the bluff, stopping every once in a while to look up at the vast majesty of the sky. Out here, there was no light pollution, no street lights to dim the stars, no sound but the ocean.
We’re all part of something universal. What we call it doesn’t matter. There’s not much separating us, We’re all connected. And it’s the most apparent under the night sky, where we look at the specks out there, and know that we are just specks on a blue marble looking back.
After a while, not saying much, he squeezed my hand, and we walked back to the ranch house, tucked in, and went to sleep.
I've moved in, officially, with Will, I texted Amelia two days later. Gave up my studio. Changed addresses. All my shit's in his house. It's gonna look like the Grateful Dead meets Little House on the Prairie.
Wow. That's . . . something. It might work out as a decorating style.
We're working out too. Amelia, I'm in love. Out of control, my whole heart, never to return, in love with Will Thrash.
<Sobs into her coffee>
On Thursday night, Will and I strolled, hand in hand, down San Luis Obispo's Higuera Street, enjoying the busy Farmer's Market. Table after table overflowed with fresh, local produce: shiny, plump, red tomatoes, piles of orange and purple carrots, green lettuce stacked high. An Andes band with those flutes played along a side street. Other booths advertised political causes, massages, crafts, and just about everything else you could imagine.
I looked up at my tall, divine cowboy, wearing a dark blue western-style shirt, and his Wranglers and boots. He looked like a lot of people here. I was dressed in a long, hippie skirt that went down to my toes, and a white tank top that showed off my tats. I looked like a lot of people here too.
Oh, but he wore his cowboy hat instead of his trucker hat, and I positively swooned the second he put it on. I don't know what it was. I never had a thing for cowboys before. But Will was so authentically country, that it just fit him, fit his personality, and because he was so tall, it made him look, if possible, like he was even more in charge. I ate it up.
We stopped to buy street corn—no butter—for me, and a tri-tip sandwich for him, and he traced his fingers down the "Omnia causa fiunt" tattoo on my arm.
"Everything happens for a reason?" he asked. "You believe that?"
I nodded. "I'm sure I was meant to take the job at Headlands so that I could meet you. And get my head out of my ass."
"Same," he said, and kissed the top of my head and we watched the people walk by.
As we waited, a group of people came up to him, all of them about his age and country-looking like him in Wranglers, boots, and baseball caps. The women were in flashy, rhinestone cowgirl jeans.
"Well if it isn't Will Thrash?" said a stocky guy in the country boy uniform, modified with a Nascar baseball hat, stepping forward to shake his hand.
"Phil," Will replied, "good to see you, man." He nodded to everyone else. "This is my girlfriend, Marie."
I felt like all eyes were on me. This was the moment that I’d been scared of ever since we got together. The judging. The “What is an edgy weirdo like her doing with a guy like that?” The looks of disapproval from people who knew Will and thought that we didn't belong together. The comments that we didn't match.
I didn't get it.
"Congratulations!" said one of the women, a pretty brunette in really awesome heeled boots.
"Nice one," said another guy to Will. "Good to meet you, Marie," he said to me.
They all smiled and were genuinely polite. I felt relieved, like I had passed a test that I had been worried about.
Maybe we matched after all.
No.
I knew we matched after all.