“I love Italian.” I started speaking with my hands, but not on purpose, like my mother used to. “It’s just that I grew up in a big Italian fam...ly and we always cooked family style and the restaurant experience just doesn’t… this makes me sound like such a snob, doesn’t it?” “Not at all,” he said. “But now you have me curious as to the big difference.”Suddenly, I was that teenage girl with her back up against the bricks wanting desperately to drop down on her knees before him. “Maybe I could. It was either the coolness of the room or the excitement of what was to come that made her nipples hard erasers. You know when the old pencil erasers got old and would not erase any more, just that hardness. She commented that it was not fair that her top was off and mine was on. I needed very little encouragement to shed my shirt. What an image I have of us with hands all over each other in the living room. I got bolder and slide my hand down between her legs outside of her jeans. The heat was. More

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