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sensitive.
    “Where else?”
    My fingers keep going lower. He can’t see where they are but he knows; I can see from his eyes that he knows.
    And I feel him deep inside me. I burn to be on that fire-colored bed. “You touched me here,” I gasp.
    I know I’m affecting him. The power is coming from both of us now. His breathing is a little faster; his eyes convey a little more urgency. His own hands move below the screen and I know what he’s touching, I know its details, know its strength . . . I want to feel it again. I want to taste it the way he tasted me.
    “You entered me here.” I breathe, feeling, stroking the dampness between my legs. He moans as I throw back my head, my control quickly leaving me. I can feel his eyes, almost as good as his hands, and oh his hands had been so good. And still, I touch myself, replicating his caresses. I am immersed in his desire, in my own.
    “Kasie,” he whispers. My name is the final caress I need. My free hand grabs the armrest of my chair and my hips push forward as I follow this dangerous path to its only possible conclusion. I hear him moan again. I know I’m not alone. I know what I’m doing, to him, to myself.
    My body shakes as the orgasm comes with a convulsing and heart-wrenching power. It’s the final chord of an erotic rhapsody that leaves me with the mingled emotions of satisfaction and endless longing.
    For a moment I don’t move. My eyes are closed and the only sound is of my breathing and his. Across the city, by my side, he’s everywhere.
    And the little voice that had tried to talk to me before, the voice that comes from the part of me I should have listened to, now whispers in resignation, You’ve broken another glass.
    My throat tightens and with a shaking hand I reach for my keyboard . . .
     . . . and disconnect.

CHAPTER 5

    I SIT IN MY living room waiting. Waiting for Dave. Waiting for the chaos. Something is churning inside of me. A brew of disaster mixed with an impetuous desire. I have to get it out of me. Throw it in the sewer along with all the other toxic waste that dirties our lives. But what I can’t do is add deceit to that bubbling pot of trouble. Dave has to be told . . . something.
    I stand and walk to my window and stare up at a brightly backlit sky of gray. Can I blame Dave for my recent mistakes? I’d like to. Wedding jitters run amok, that’s all. My subconscious telling me that his proposed union isn’t as perfect as I once imagined. He had rejected me so easily last night, like he would a homeless person holding out a hand for change. Dismissed me with a smile, a polite expression of sympathy and repulsion.
    It was rejection that stirred that brew, insult that spurred my rebellion. So I will talk to Dave. I’ll face the music. And if the music is rough, I’ll find a way to smooth out its edges, I’ll unplug the electric guitars and dismantle the bass until there’s nothing left but a soft, unthreatening tune that I can sway to.
    It’s not until the doorbell rings that I have second thoughts.
    Dave stands on my doorstep with a dozen white roses. There had been white roses at the luncheon where we first met . . . six years ago. Forever ago . . . but right now the memory’s close enough to touch. When he walked me to my car, we had passed a florist and Dave had insisted that I, too, have white roses; he bought me a dozen to take home. He had asked for my number then and I had been moved to give it to him. Most girls will give up something for a bouquet: a phone number, a smile, even anger. But of course the most frequent price for such a gift is the loss of one’s resolve.
    I move aside, let him in, and watch as he disappears into my kitchen then reemerges with the roses arranged neatly in a vase. He finds the perfect place for them on my dining table.
    Dave and I still haven’t said so much as hello but the roses are speaking with something more tangible than words.
    “I overreacted last night,” he