We exchange some small talk to cover our mutual anxiety about what the evening and the rest of the weekend would entail….would it be a success, woul... we have the spark, would it end in passion? As we drink the daiquiris, we relax, and the conversation flows. My fingers find yours, and we intertwine our hands. The sun sinks lower and the band plays its catchy melodies a touch louder. I catch your eyes, and hold them, the intensity building. The spark flows, and you feel the heat starting to work. I want so badly to tell him about everything, I want to tell him how mad I am at him because he is not there to share it with me. But I can't. I don't know if he would understand or even respect me if I told him how much I loved being tied up. "It was awesome, I say. I helped Shelly pick out several new articles of clothes. I hope she is wearing one today." I say keeping the best part of the weekend to myself. "What else happened?" It was like he wanted me to disclose the truth about Pete and. More

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