Dating-ish (Knitting in the City Book 6)

by Penny Reid

  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.

  And maybe that was my problem.

  “And because,” I blurted, bracing but unable to stop myself, “when I’m intimate with someone, I can’t seem to stop thinking about whether he’s having a good time. I can’t . . .” I glanced at Matt, finding him studying me with surprise, but also concern and reassurance. “I worry that I’m being too selfish. And I have trouble getting out of my own head to fully enjoy myself.”

  As I continued to speak, the surprise dissipated from Matt’s brow, leaving a small smile, his eyes infinitely accepting. Compelled by his compassion, I returned his smile with a hesitant one of my own.

  “Thank you, Marie.” Our instructor gave a small bow, turning her attention to the rest of the class. “You are not alone, and your feelings and worries are not atypical. But the goal here is to feel, without shame or judgment. This isn’t about gratification. There is no finish. There is no climax. There is only feeling, trusting, listening to your body, and meditating on the lessons you learn.”

  As I’d told Matt, only the people who’d brought their partner were able to stay for the guided meditation. What I didn’t tell Matt was that I was dreading the guided meditation.

  Seriously, seriously dreading it.

  Those who’d arrived on their own participated in the sharing session, the lectures, and the discussions, but had to leave once the last theory portion was over, which had been my plan. I’d wanted to learn all about the practice, but hadn’t wanted to actually do it. Not in a room full of strangers.

  I didn’t want to share that part of our intimacy. I was selfish of him, of us.

  So as the day wore on, I grew more tense. I knew he sensed it, but how could I tell him that I didn’t want to go through with it? He’d taken a day off work and I was going to, what? Turn his generosity into a waste of his time?

  No.

  I can deal.

  I can power through.

  These were the thoughts on repeat in my head when our instructor warned us that we had five more minutes until the last break was over. That meant everyone who’d arrived alone would be leaving. Matt found me chatting with one of the other couples, doing my best to wear my journalist hat.

  He’d excused us both and pulled me away from the group, into the OM studio, to the main room where we’d be doing the guided meditation in a few minutes.

  Gack!

  “I’ve been doing some reconnaissance.” Matt leaned close, whispering in my ear.

  It was becoming very real now. Pretty soon I’d be lying on my back with my underwear off, my legs spread and Matt’s fingers on me while I did my absolute best to meditate on what my body was telling me . . . I was pretty sure my body was telling me to take my sexy boyfriend and flee.

  I glanced around the empty space. “Why are you whispering? We’re completely alone. Everyone else is outside in the courtyard.”

  “It’s more exciting if I whisper.” He rubbed my back, smoothing his hand from my shoulder to just above my bottom. I’d noticed, since I’d made my confession earlier regarding my fears about being too selfish, he’d been especially handsy. I wasn’t complaining.

  “Fine,” I whispered, playing along. “What kind of reconnaissance?”

  “Turns out, some of the people who arrived alone are planning on meeting up later to try out OM without the benefit of the guide.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Interesting, right?”

  It was interesting. It was very interesting, and would definitely make it into my article. “Good job, partner. That’s excellent information. Thank you.”

  His gaze grew intense, as though he was trying to impart his thoughts without speaking them.

  “What?”

  He sighed, clearly irritated that I couldn’t yet read his mind. “Marie. Do you have anything you’d like to say?”

&nb
sp; I felt my eyes grow wide and I held my breath, but said nothing.

  “Say it.” He dipped his chin, his hand caressing me lower, over my backside, sending lovely tendrils of desire unfurling in my belly despite the anxiety churning there.

  “I don’t want to disappoint you,” I blurted.

  “And?”

  My forehead fell to his chest and I spoke to his feet. “I don’t want to stay. I wasn’t planning on staying. I want us to leave. I don’t want our intimacy to be clinical, not that this would make it clinical, but I’m not ready to do this kind of thing in a room full of strangers. I want hot sex.”

  His hand had come to my face, cupping my jaw, and he tilted my chin backward when I’d finished.

  Gazing at me, a whisper of a smile on his lips, he kissed me once. “Then let’s go.”

  “You took off work.”

  “To be with you. No judgment for the couples here, but I’d prefer not to digit-tize you in front of people we don’t know.”

  “Digit-tize. Nice.”

  “I know, right? I’m going to use that one again.”

  He lowered his head, covering my lips with his, giving me a soft, sensual kiss. He tasted me with a slide of his tongue, moaning into my mouth when I encouraged him to deepen the kiss, pressing my body against him. I melted, becoming more liquid than solid, and twisted my hands in the fabric of his shirt.

  Abruptly, tugging on my hair, he broke away with one last biting nip. “I love you, Marie. And I want you to be selfish with me.”

  Giving in to my smile, I nodded. “Okay. Then, when we get home, I want you to make dinner.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Naked.”

  He paused, one eyebrow lifting in surprise. “Sounds good.”

  “And then, after dinner, I want you to talk dirty to me.”

  Matt’s gaze grew hooded and he entwined our hands together. “Why wait until after dinner?”

  Later, close to midnight, while we were lying in bed together—cuddling, naked—I traced the outline of his handsome face with my fingertip, feeling amazement.

  Here. Now. Touching him as I pleased. My heart swelled with the sweetness of it, with gratitude. I hoped I would never take these moments for granted, never take him for granted.

  “You like my face.” He sounded certain.

  “No. I love your face.”

  “I love your face, too. And your bosoms.”

  That made me laugh, and I dropped my hand to his cheek, “Look at me.”

  He complied, his eyelashes fluttering open until his gaze focused on mine.

  “Beautiful,” he said, the single word full of wonder. Abruptly, his hand began stroking my hip and bottom, as though the sight of me made the action compulsory.

  “Thank you.”

  “No. Thank you.” His eyes followed the progress of his fingers as they slid to my lower belly, then up to the valley between my breasts. “Tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

  “How about you finally administer that questionnaire?” I teased.

  His hand paused and his gaze jumped to mine. “Ah. Yeah. About that.”

  “What? Don’t tell me you don’t want my data.”

  “Oh, I do. But I can’t have it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we were explicitly forbidden from becoming involved with anyone who signed a consent form for the study.”

  It took a while, but the full weight and meaning of this revelation finally sunk in. “You mean, you didn’t consent me or administer the questionnaire, all this time, because you wanted—”

  “To impregnate you. Yes.”

  I smacked his shoulder lightly and chuckled at his silliness. “Because you wanted to be with me.”

  He ducked his head, also smiling. “Exactly.”

  “You are something else.” I was unable to stifle my grin or the delighted heat coursing through my veins.

  “I kept putting it off. At first I told myself it was because I wanted you to feel comfortable with me, so you’d give me honest answers. I also told myself I was being so nice to you, hanging out with you so much, for the same reason. But then,” his gaze moved back to my body and he lowered his head, placing an achingly tender kiss between my breasts, “then I stopped lying to myself and admitted the truth. I wanted you, all of you, all the time.”

  “Even more than you wanted to work?” I teased.

  “Yes.” He nodded somberly, his focus still on my body, and I threaded my fingers into his messy hair.

  “It’s funny.” He placed another kiss on the side of my breast, saying absentmindedly, “People, when they’re connected to the cloud—the Internet—they zone out on real life. But an AI can only function when it’s connected to the cloud, because they have no real life. They are more real to us than they are to themselves.”

  “That’s deep, Professor.” I tugged on his hair, forcing his eyes upward.

  “It’s seductive, to live in a virtual space, especially when the real world isn’t what you want it to be.” His gaze moved over my face, and I got the sense he was speaking mostly to himself as he said, “You—being with you—was the first time I wanted real life over a virtual existence. You distracted me. I’d never been distracted before.”

  “You distracted me, too.”

  His stare sharpened, finally focused on mine as he positioned himself above me, an imposingly masculine presence, making my heart quicken. My legs fell open to cradle him as he lowered his strong body to mine and gave me a playful kiss.

  “I want vacations with you,” he nuzzled my nose, “with no Internet connection.”

  I mock-gasped. “Are you sure we’re ready for that kind of step?”

  He licked my bottom lip and rubbed his growing erection against my center. “I want candlelit walks on the beach and sunset dinners.”

  “There’s something wrong with your user interface,” I said on a pant, instinctively tilting my hips, chasing the feel of him. I was going to correct him, tell him it was candlelit dinners and sunset walks on the beach, but speech suddenly failed me.

  He grinned. “Oh?”

  “Yes. You need to input the device.”

  “Why?” His eyes danced as he moved above me, making me crazy.

  The need was building within me. I couldn’t focus on words when he rolled his hips like that. Nevertheless, I tried to tease, “I need more RAM.”

  Matt barked a surprised laugh and then devoured my mouth with a hungry kiss just before sliding into me, filling the empty ache between my thighs. I gasped for real this time, tilting my pelvis to take more of him as he pulled away and planked above me.

  “You want this firmware?” His voice deepened to a reprimanding growl as he stroked me unhurriedly, making me crazy.

  “Yes, please. Hard drive, hot sync, boot disk, computery words.” I arched my back, my eyes closing. I could take no more of the sight of him above me, it was too much.

  “You are so fucking sexy.” His movements were slow, deliberate, rhythmic. It was the best kind of torture.

  “Harder. Please,” I begged, my breath hitching.

  He didn’t comply, instead demanding, “Tell me you love me.”

  “I love you.”

  He increased his tempo, but kept his thrusts gentle. I whimpered.

  “Tell me there is no end to us.”

  “There is no end.”

  Matt rewarded me with a rough roll of his hips, making me cry out.

  “Tell me this is forever.” His voice was tight with restraint and emotion, causing me to open my eyes.

  Immediately, I was arrested by his expressive, gorgeous gaze, equal parts possessive and vulnerable. Reaching for him, I guided his mouth to mine and kissed him once, my hands sliding down his back.

  “I’m yours. Forever.”

  “And I’m yours.” He swallowed, so earnest, so sincere.

  “You are my person,” I whispered, feelin
g the rightness and inevitability of the words.

  He huffed a laugh, made complex with unspoken desires and hopes, and nodded. “Yes, Marie. I am your person.”

  I felt emotion prickle behind my eyes and my mouth curved into a beaming smile. Goodness, how I loved this man. This funny, sweet, amazing, remarkable man. I loved how he made me feel, like I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, both inside and out.

  He not only felt right, he felt like he’d been made especially for me. And I for him.

  For the first time in my life, I was encouraging my hopes. I allowed them to run and fly. To the sky. To the stars. Because that’s what my life was going to be from now on.

  Matt, me, and perpetually soaring hopes.

  Epilogue

  Mind-Reading Robot

  MIT’s Computer Science and Artificial Intelligence Laboratory made a robot that responds to a human’s brain signals. The robot can sort various objects, making choices based on the brainwaves of a person wearing an EEG (electroencephalogram) cap who is watching the robot work.

  Source: Massachusetts Institute for Technology (MIT)

  Meet Matthew Simmons

  Invention is the fruit of desire and/or disinterest. Most people don’t realize, but desire and disinterest are closely related.

  Desire as a motivator is obvious—think rocket ships and porn. Disinterest as a motivator is less obvious, but might be the more powerful of the two. We humans hate to be inconvenienced.

  As an example, I’ve always been disinterested in clothes. The quality of, trends of, price of.

  Winter, I needed to be warm.

  Summer, I needed to be not naked, yet still clothed. Because of laws.

  But now, shopping for clothes is one of my favorite things to do.

  “I like this tie on you.” Marie held up a strip of silk against me, her knuckles brushing along the fabric of my shirt, and tilted her head to the right side. “The color brings out your eyes.”

  “Does it?” I captured her hand, holding it in place against my chest, and stole a kiss. She tasted like cherries because she was wearing something cherry flavored that made her lips shiny.