I Know Where Your Tongue Has Been

"I know where your tongue has been," I wrote on the card, my fingers  trembling of their own accord as the memories of the past ten days  flickered in my mind and the prospect of what lies ahead slapped me  magnificently on both cheeks, clearing my head of any other thought,  dream or desire.
 

I smiled to myself, considering the schism between where I had been, one  and a half weeks ago, and what I was doing now, on Valentine's day of  all days. And yet, it didn't feel sudden or improbable. No. It just felt  daring and unbelievably... right. Here I was, at a florist shop, buying  a dozen red roses for the most gorgeous, witty, sensual and lovable  person I had met. Nothing unusual there, right? Except the details of  who she was _ because yes, she was a woman too _ how we met, and why  writing her that sentence on the card felt more sincere than "I'll miss  working with you," or "I love you."
 

I drew a small heart, smiled at the teenage impulses she triggered in  me, closed the card, tugged it in the bouquet, and made sure the florist  had the correct address again.
 

It was supposed to be a surprise for her. To be completely honest with  you, it was also meant as a thrilling yet careless gesture, like  seducing a partner under the table of a packed restaurant, or fondling  them on a dance-floor with all eyes riveted on you. I smiled again,  knowing I had already done those, with her. And for a brief moment, I  wondered what was to come, now that the ties that were holding us back  were gone. I looked up to see the florist fixing me, a glimpse of  sympathy on his wrinkled face.
 

"I said that'll be thirty dollars."
 

"Oh, I'm sorry," I answered, quite embarrassed by my distraction.
 

I handed him the money and was about to turn and leave when he added,  "you're quite lucky". I stopped and stared at him, expecting an  explanation.
 

"A lot of people come buy roses here, especially today, but not many  have that..." he gestured to my face, "the look of true love." He sighed  then continued, "I tell them when I see it, because you, young people,  don't recognize it anymore until it's too late."
 

I knew I recognized it all too well, but it somehow felt more powerful,  almost overwhelming, now that it was validated by that old man in a  tweed jacket with a wrinkled face. "I know," I whispered, and he grinned  then turned away to his register, politely dismissing my presence. I  walked out of the shop, little sparkles flowing inside me as I recalled  the way she had mouthed the word "tomorrow" the day before, like a  promise of better things to come.
 

But it wasn't until one hundred and seventy three minutes later, when I  stared at her face, the moment she opened my card, and saw the genuine  surprise, the joy, the overpowering sense of adoration flooding it, that  I eventually felt the promise of better things turn into a reality. She  stood, surrounded by coworkers with celebratory champagne, hundreds of  red roses spread on the ground or arranged in vases around her, and yet  she clung tightly to my tiny excuse of a bouquet. She raised her eyes  and through the crowded room, I saw the flicker in them that said, "you  know where my tongue will be."
 

That was all I needed.
 

For I was aware, that every time that sentence was shared between us,  the sparks had flown increasingly passionate, to have reached a supreme  state. Right then. Right there.
 

---
 

"I know where your tongue has been," I shouted to her, defying the  accepted norms a woman's voice should observe. She was now standing next  to the door, in that red shirt I had grown to adore, her tousled short  hair dancing with the wind and playfully caressing her face with a few  dawn rays shimmering on the blonde strands. She shrugged and smiled,  "you know too much about me."
 

"I do not," I quickly retorted and stood on the ledge. For a brief  second she was terrified, then she seemed to understand that I was only  enjoying the view and not planning something stupid.
 

"What else do you want to know?" She seductively and slowly walked towards me.
 

She had asked me that same question, when we first met. Nine days now  separated us from that, and the situation had completely changed. I  couldn't help but wonder, what else do you want to know when you have  already seen the most intimate secrets of a person's physique? When  you've kissed them, had your fingers delve deep into them, explored the  mysterious lands within them that few were privileged to enjoy, tasted  them and seen their face as their body exploded in rapture? When you  reach that level of familiarity with someone, what else could you  possibly want to know?
 

The ridiculousness of the situation surprised me, and I smiled as I  lowered myself and sat down. Everything else. I wanted to know every  other tiny or major detail.
 

"I want to know the smell of your hair when you get out of the shower,  the taste of your mouth when you wake up in the morning. I want to know  if you snore at night, if you cook as well as you eat," I winked at her,  "if you can sing, whistle or ride a bicycle, and most importantly, I  want to know if you look as good in a dress as you do without it."
 

"Tomorrow," she whispered, too low for me to hear her, but enough for me to guess the word as it formed on her lovely lips.
 

"Is there anything you want to know about me?"
 

She blushed and looked down. "The nine others, before," she eventually admitted, the jealousy making her more adorable.
 

"They didn't mean anything, just a part of the job. They didn't exist. Trust me, no one exists before you."
 

She sat next to me, on the edge of the roof, balanced her feet in the  air for a few seconds as I stared, tantalized by the dark pink of her  lips, tempted to taste them more than I'd be tempted by a bowl of  strawberry ice cream. She moved her left hand, slid it between my right  one and torso, hooked her fingers with mine, then turned her face  towards the rising sun.
 

I recalled the first time we had held hands, right after she had showed  me cloud number nine, and how intimate and fulfilling it was. Somehow,  it felt as if we were there again, and yet we had gone through a  multitude of changes in the one week that separated that moment from  this one. Well, maybe it was there all along, all these emotions and all  this infatuation, but we had to take the long journey to discover and  accept them.
 

"You do know though," she emphasized the verb, "really, how much I lo..."
 

She fell silent then turned her head towards me. Our eyes met and I  instinctively tilted forward less than an inch before reality hit me and  I remembered we had decided not to kiss. Not for real. Not yet at  least.
 

"Love my guacamole," I joked to appease our erupting sensations, then I  touched my forehead to hers, keeping our mouths at a respectable  distance.
 

Her lips parted to release the breath she was holding, and I heard a  tiny whimper escape with it. As cruel as it was, to not be able to savor  her again, I treasured that whimper as it revealed more about her  feelings toward me than any kiss, hug or unending session of love making  could.
 

"We've lasted a day, we can make it another." Her resolve seemed so fragile it was pathetically sweet.
 

The temptation of pushing her, and me, over this virtual edge was  unnerving but luckily I pulled the shreds of my self-control and one by  one, I glued them together. I had to be strong for both of us.
 

I raised my left hand to caress her face and sighed with resignation. "Yes we can."
 

---
 

"You know where my tongue has been," she groaned in my ear, pushing me  against the wall. The audacity of her, using that sentence against me!
 

She was breathless, from chasing me. I was breathless, from running  away. I was a fast runner, but she was better it seems, as she had  caught my arm and flipped me to face her.
 

Her mouth was instantly on me. That same mouth I had possessed,  relinquished, ogled and desired. That same mouth I had been staring at  for fifteen minutes, as it opened and closed, releasing jokes, casual  chatter and banter. That same mouth I had thought was destined for grand  things, but that had just uttered the most hurtful of comments.
 

"Two more days and it'll be back to men, Honey," Karl had said, and what  had she answered? "Amen!" in a tone which joy and relief were  unbearably obvious and... alarmingly spontaneous.
 

I pushed her mouth away and asked mockingly: "Amen?!"
 

Hadn't these eight days meant anything to her? Was it all a lie? Just  yesterday she... I stopped myself as I felt my heart melt again at the  memory of what had happened under the restaurant's table. Did none of  our chemistry and attraction touch her? How could she not have felt it?  Felt ... us?
 

"Shut up!" she almost screamed, with what seemed like hurt and  indignation in her voice. "It's two more days, please. Let's pretend,  and forget about this," she basically begged while gesturing to both our  faces in the empty space between us, "for two more days."
 

How dare she be outraged, how dare she beg? I looked at her, at the  sweet surrender spreading over her face, at the tiny tear struggling  against the corner of her eye, at the hopeful wrinkle in her cheek as it  held back a shy smile, I began to speak, but that's when I grasped it.
 

She wanted me?! Finally, that was the answer to my hanging "and?..."  from the day before. She wanted this. Just not now. Not until we were  finished, in two days.
 

I nodded, not exactly sure what I was agreeing to, but the happiness I  saw in her reaction was a sign that I'd made the right decision.
 

She pushed me further against the wall, got closer, her whole body eager  to remove any shred of empty space between us, a look of pure lust in  her eyes. I shivered. There was something so erotically primal about  being pinned against a wall, a mixture of being desired so ferociously,  feeling dominated with a total invasion of my being, trusting enough to  cede control, growing intoxicated between her smell and the little  breathing room left for my lungs, all while anticipating the upcoming  thrill.
 

After making sure she had me completely at her mercy, she leaned into my  neck and began whispering, in a soothing yet wonderfully mischievous  voice.
 

"You know where my tongue has been. But I, I know a lot more." She  kissed my neck, right behind my ear, to validate that statement. Tiny  consecutive kisses, growing deeper, sparking a fire in every nerve  inside me, starting from my secret soft spot.
 

"I know the smell of every inch of your body," she continued while  snuggling her nose right between my hair and my skin and drawing in a  large breath of air, making sure my nearby ear heard it.
 

"The location of every freckle on your skin," she went on while letting  the air out, slowly, agonizingly close to my skin without touching it,  tracing a virtual line between the freckles on the back of my neck and  the front.
 

"The taste of the tiny droplets of sweat that adorn your chest when  you're heaving beneath me," she murmured, closing in on the said area. I  looked down, waiting, wanting, expecting, despairing over the move she  was about to make. Then I saw it. A glimpse of it. Of that enthralling  red muscle. Bit by bit, leave its refuge and come out. For me. My tiny  droplets of sweat. I saw it plunge for one, pick it up. I saw my liquid  dissolve with her saliva, melt into one fascinating transparent mix. And  I remembered what it felt like, to see my other liquids mingle with  hers. I saw her tongue leave me, retreat back, savor its prize. I saw  the lips open again and I ached for another touch. I involuntarily  arched my back, my head thumping against the wall, my torso pushing  against her face. Starving.
 

"The exact strength to tug at your hair without pulling it out." Her  hand reached up for my head, grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled it,  pushing my face down again to see her nuzzled against my navel, my other  soft spot. Our eyes met and I saw in hers the need, nay, the order, to  keep watching as she decimated my defenses and asserted herself as the  sole governor of my will, body and mind.
 

"I know the whimper you make when you're about to get what you want,"  she went on, just as I heard myself mewl, seeing her tongue approach my  navel, steadily, knowingly. It twirled, played, explored, danced within  every nanometer of that small hole, making me suspect that its size was  closer to a soccer field than a coin. Every nerve tingled, every cell  twitched, as I felt my pleasure rise to a new extreme without rupturing.  Hold on, didn't she just say she wanted us to wait?
 

"And the sigh you release when you get it," she let out, in sync with my  own sigh of relief? annoyance? desperation? Ah, I'd given up on trying  to understand my reactions to her. My own body was a foreign land to me,  an enigma she seemed to decipher much better than I did.
 

"Tell me more," I begged, with an agitation that I could only blame on  the terrible debate between wanting her to continue and fearing the  imminent loss of control she could provoke in me. How was it possible  for someone to wreck this much havoc in my armor? But damn, how I was  willing to shatter it with my own hands for her!
 

"I know the slight tremble in your voice when you feel more impish than  usual," she replied, while stopping and starting to raise herself. I  watched her, in agony, revert from the track she had drawn for my  nerves, as my pleasure coursed downwards and she went upwards, and I  implored my heart to stop beating so my blood wouldn't pulse so hungrily  fast against every capillary inside my intimacy.
 

Her hands roamed across my arms, her eyes locked with mine, and she  continued in a terribly sweet voice, "I know the waves of your muscles  when you're too drunk to notice how erotically charged your dancing has  become, and the sweetness of your embarrassment when you realize you've  gone too far. I know the rhythm your heels click on the floor when  you're happy, the slight flicker in your eyes when you're daring, the  temperature of your cheeks when you lie, and the twitch in your nose  when the whispers in your head start confusing you." She playfully  tapped my eyelids, cheeks and nose consecutively to each of those last  three statements.
 

The wave of excitement was slowly fading, to a more serene surrender of  the senses. We stood in silence, smiling, aware of the sanctity of what  we had just shared. Aware of the love we both felt but didn't express  aloud. And aware of the untimely ties that kept us apart.
 

"Two more days?" I asked, pointing out the obvious and not expecting an answer.
 

She smiled again, tore herself away from me and left the room. I stood  frozen, as my body slowly calmed and stopped quivering from the memory  of her closeness and all the lovely words she had spoken. Breath by  breath, I regained my composure and my heartbeats returned to their  normal rhythm, but I still couldn't leave the wall where she had pinned  me.
 

---
 

"I know where your tongue has been," I typed in a message to her. After  what had happened two days ago, I knew I was pushing the limits and  dangerously flirting with her breaking point. But I had to try and I had  to know. It was hard to believe that I had only known her for seven  days, let alone that I felt so completely at loss now that she had  ignored me for the past one.
 

What's the worse that could happen? I reasoned with myself. She refuses  and it would only be three more days of obligatory work with her, then  she would disappear from my life forever.
 

I raised my eyes, saw her chewing her fries happily and for a brief  moment I had the urge to wipe that grin off her face. She shouldn't be  allowed to feel joy while I was tearing down and rotting inside. I  clicked "Send" and almost instantly regretted it. What if she snaps  again, like she did, two days ago?
 

The few seconds it took for the message to arrive, her phone to vibrate,  her hand to pick it up and her eyes to read it, played in front of me  like a slow-motion movie. Until she smiled and started typing.
 

She smiled.
 

That's how it began. The worst and best ten minutes of any dinner in my  life. The most torturing, spontaneous, crazy minutes, with the woman  that captured my breath, and her two best friends.
 

My phone vibrated and I picked it up, expecting a slew of swear words. What did I get instead?
 

"Then you know I can still taste you, even in my steak."
 

I almost choked on my ... wait, I wasn't chewing anything then to choke  on it, and yet it still felt like I couldn't breathe or swallow. I  raised my eyes and sure enough, she was opening her lips to gobble down a  sizable chunk of meat. I watched her lick the fork, as I imagined the  subtle taste of me in there. I heaved, the wetness she had left on my  skin still tickling me as a reminder of every inch of my body that now  belonged to her. My toes clamped, my eyes bore into hers, pleading for  her mercy, and failing.
 

I reached for my glass of water and drank half of it while desperately  trying to follow her friends' conversation to keep my mind off our own  private exchange. What was it again? Ah yes, some J Lo gossip.
 

I could feel her eyes linger possessively on me. She craved attention,  and her little ongoing show couldn't move on without its main spectator.  But I needed a few seconds away, to breathe normally. She started  typing again and I wondered what debauchery her twisted mind was  preparing.
 

She knew I had put myself in a weak position, two days ago when I  confronted her with the true nature of my emotions, and she was taking  advantage of the situation, getting her revenge over every second I had  teased her in public. The payback however was far greater than the  original offense. I smiled. It occurred to me that I would have done the  same thing, if I was her. Ah, the sweet torture.
 

"But it's starting to fade now," she sent and I immediately replied,  mostly to avoid over thinking it, "what are you going to do about it?"
 

I should have over thought it. Because the next thing she did was drop  her phone on the floor, excuse herself, and then go under the table to  pick it up. That harmless move didn't alarm me, until I felt her lips on  my knee and hardly managed to stop myself from jolting at the  electricity of her contact. For the few brief seconds that she was  hidden from view, she took the opportunity to kiss my knee, drag her  tongue across my skin almost to my thigh, then bite me.
 

I had experienced the delectable sensation of her on my skin many times,  but never in a public, real world, context. And despite the fact that  she didn't get anywhere near my sensitive sanctum, I was craving her so  much, it felt as though my nerves were betraying me, carrying the  pleasure of her touch from its physical point all the way to my yearning  core.
 

I was the worst poker player in the world so I lowered my head to avoid  showing my gaping mouth and wide eyes to her friends. And through the  sheer madness of what was happening secretly, I kept wondering in what  world was it acceptable to kiss, taste and bite someone under the table  while your best friend was discussing Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony's  divorce.
 

"Ah, I can't reach it. Can you get it for me, please?"
 

I was still feeling the sting of her bite on my thigh and struggling not  to let it show when she came back up. I took her request as an  opportunity to control my emotions away from her and her friends' eyes  and went down. What I saw, though, was anything but calming.