Another:
"Want to come up?" he asked. She'd left her bags in his apartment, with the understanding that they'd pick them up after dinner and he'd take her to the hotel she'd booked. More than once, when they'd been talking, he'd offered her his bed, saying he'd sleep on the couch, and Rachel had turned him down, politely but firmly.
Without a word, she climbed into the passenger seat, smiling at him, saying, "Yes."
As soon as his front door was shut they started kissing again. Her tongue fluttered against his, and his hands were deep in the softness of her hair, and it was like time unspooled, carrying them right back to when they were teenagers. He pulled her against him, thinking that he'd never get her close enough, that if he could fold her inside of him, like a mother tucking a baby into her coat, he'd do it. He'd keep her warm, he'd keep her safe, he'd keep her with him, always.
Taking her hand, Andy led her to his bedroom, which looked like every room he'd ever lived in — a bed, a dresser, the posters on the wall. She nibbled at his chin, his ear, touching his face with her fingertips, sighing, whispering, "You feel so good." Once, she pushed him back, propped herself onto her elbows, and asked, "How long has it been?"
Andy knew what she was asking, and it wasn't how long it had been since he'd seen her. He thought back to his last romance, if you could even call it that, ten minutes of undignified fumbling in the bathroom of a bar downtown. "It's been a little while," he said. That girl — God, he wasn't even sure what her name was — had scribbled her phone number on his hand in eyeliner, if he remembered right, after neither one of them could find paper or a pen. The next week, when they'd met for drinks, Andy realized that they had absolutely nothing to say to each other and that, when he didn't have four beers inside him, she looked like an eel, with a narrow body and a big, horsey mouth.
Not many of the runners had serious girlfriends. Hookups were more common, a night or a weekend with another athlete who understood the deal, or a woman who'd attach herself to you at a meet, or in a bar. Andy remembered the time he'd spent with a television reporter who'd been covering the Olympic trials in Atlanta. She'd worn a girdle and had gotten annoyed when he'd laughed. "It's a foundation garment," she'd said, her pretty face looking less pretty when she scowled. After they'd finished, he'd been starving, but all she had in the refrigerator of her chrome-and-stainless-steel loft was seltzer and a jar of pickles.
Not Rachel, he realized, now that he had Rachel in his arms again, her lush curves and her soft skin, her beautiful hair, her beautiful scar. That was the problem with the reporter. That was the problem with all of them. None of them were Rachel.
He felt her slip down the bed. She unfastened his pants,"------Snip
Okay That's a lot better. That's by Mrs Weiner btw, Jenifer Weiner. I'm not making this Up !!!
Who Do You Love by Jennifer Weiner. Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Weiner, Inc. Published by Atria Books, a Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. on August 11, 2015. ISBN 978145167818
