Her legs were wobbly and she was breathing hard, making her chest rise and fall rapidly. ‘If…if you…you keep doing that,’ she panted, ‘You�...re going to make me have an…an orgasm!’ ‘I wouldn’t mind if you had one,’ Jason commented and continued the caresses he knew were driving her wild. ‘Mmmm!’ Karen murmured. Her hips began to rock in reaction to the caresses of his hand. ‘Yes, darling, wash me more! Oh, God, wash me more!’ she murmured. Jason did just that, and, before long, she clutched his. My hands roamed over the steering wheel, my fingers closing around where I knew his would, those slender, musician’s hands. It was like holding the ghost of his hand.It was five minutes to eleven in the morning. I’d slept almost two hours right there in his car, dozing off, pretending that the seat warmers were his body heat. I thought of how he had carried me, of how he’d confirmed that I really had become nothing but bones, picking me up with such ease that I wondered if a strong wind could. During the first year of their marriage, Karen and he were making regular practice of the horizontal mambo—sometimes vertical, diagonal, or whatever which way you might imagine mechanically accessible—at every possible opportunity. It was great, just great. He felt young again—though thirty-eight was not an age he liked to consider old—and hadn’t been able to go so long since he was in high school. She could go and go and go all night. Their sex life was great, their social life was. I felt alive again. Stephanie wanted to sit at the bar since she had never been in a “real bar” before. I ordered her a signature Vbar blue Lychee martini. We sat at the bar for a while and she thought the drink was “super yummeee”. I then took her out to the balcony to sit on a plush oversize seat and look down on Santana Row. It was a really nice evening, not too hot and not too cold and Stephanie loved looking down as all the cool cars pulled into the valet car park along Santana Row. .
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