Someone To Watch Over Me

Chapter Forty

"It sure was," I agree, pulling the car out and heading back home.

We travel along in silence for a little while. Although I can feel Alex's eyes on me, this time I refuse to be provoked into asking what he's thinking. I have my own thoughts to deal with at the moment.

Eventually, he comes out with, "So, is it true?"

"Is what true?" I ask, knowing exactly what he means, but trying desperately to stall because I'm not ready for this conversation to happen.

"You know, that you're more sexually, wound up?" he continues, adding some weird hand gestures that make him look like he's about to perform a magic trick.

"Alex, I..."

"Cause I have noticed things have gotten a little more... intense between us lately, but I just assumed it was the natural progression of things, you know because of how long we've been together."

I'm mortified. Intense is an understatement. I fantasize about Alex most of my waking hours and dream about him during the rest. My body's senses are so heightened that a simple caress makes me want to tumble into bed with him and forget the rest of the world exists for a little while.

When we actually kiss and fool around, I'm having a harder and harder time stopping because I really don't want to stop. In fact, my entire body is screaming at me to please let him continue. My body is actually begging my brain to give in!

"There is that," I reply nonchalantly, wanting desperately to keep things vague.

He turns away at my response and is frowning out the window.

Why does everything have to be so difficult?

"I just want you to know, as hard as it is, I don't want to do anything until you're absolutely certain you want to. Yet, I need you to know it is hard not to... you know... not want to."

"Ookay," I say, as I practice my breathing again.

"I just want to be clear in case you think for some bizarre reason I don't want you or us to... because I do... I just want you to... want to... too."

I stare straight ahead, trying to will the light to change with my mind so we can get home and hopefully end this terribly awkward conversation.

I praise God when we pull up outside of our apartment and quickly get out of the car. I sneak a peek at Alex, and he's still frowning. Damn it.

I throw my jacket and purse on the chair by the door as we enter the apartment, asking casually, "Dinner?"

"Sure," he says. I try to escape into the kitchen, but he follows me. Thankfully, though, he sits at the counter while I cook.

"Is it me?" Alex mutters.

"What?" I respond, dumbfounded. Now on autopilot, I put a pot filled with water on the stove and crank up the heat to boil it for pasta.

"Are you holding back because of me?" Alex asks, making me want to kill Dr. Devereaux for having his little "sex" talk with us today.

"No, it not you," I reassure him, adding some butter to another pan while I slice up some chicken.

"Oh. Because if it is, I just want to let you know, I can do better," Alex pledges, his statement catching me so off guard that instead of placing the chicken in the pan, it just falls limply from my hand, causing some butter to splash up and burn me.

"Ow!" I yelp, flinging my hand up in air, and Alex is instantly at my side.

"You okay?"

"Some melted butter got on my hand is all," I gripe, but it really hurts.