The Boy from the Band

LA Woman

He took me home and put me to bed, then held me all night while I slept. I felt safe, grateful, and loved. I had no nightmares, no unwelcome waking, but slept, dreamless until I opened my eyes at 10:30.

Rick was still sleeping and I watched him as I listened to his quiet, steady breathing. He looked different now, much younger if that was possible, and almost like a stranger. I met a skinny, gangly young man with sharp facial contours disguised by the patchy facial hair he'd grown. His dark eyes looked almost Asian and you could see his Slavic ancestry if you cared to look. His hair was much longer and hung in wisps around his face. Some men look good in long hair and Rick could carry it off better than most.

When I look at him now it's like seeing a stranger.  He's clean-shaven with his hair cropped short. I miss his long hair, I used to love to run my fingers through it, grab handfuls as I pulled his face close so I could kiss him. I wondered, unfairly maybe, if his wife had anything to do with his new look. Couldn't he at least grow his mustache back?

I reached out a cautious hand and ran my fingers through his thick, coarse hair, trying not to wake him, but without luck. He opened his eyes, took my hand in his, and kissed my palm, curling his lips up in the smile that, fortunately, had not changed.

"Now why the hell are you awake?" he asked.

"Some of us don't sleep for hours like you," I teased, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Oh, you didn't? Well, you're going to pay the penalty now, young lady," he said and began to kiss me, then moved his mouth down to my breasts, teasing my nipples with his tongue and his teeth.

It was the first time in days that we could really make love. We'd only had sex once since he came and I had to play a passive role. Now his hands found my breasts, squeezing them, driving me crazy. He slid down, covering my abs with kisses and parted my legs, saying just, "umm," before he put his tongue to work on me. By the time he raised himself up I was so ready for him that if he hadn't pushed himself into me I would have climbed on top of him in frustration.

When he finished he hesitated a little just before he pulled out so I could feel that last minute quivering. I love that, love the way it feels, and would hold him to me so he couldn't pull out too soon.

He collapsed next to me and held me close. "You need a break, you know that? Let me take you away from here, let's go to Santa Barbara and spend the night."

"No, I hate Santa Barbara, let's go to San Diego, there's more to do. We could see the zoo or the aquarium..."

"No, I don't feel like dealing with the crowds," he protested, "I'd like to go to the Midway Museum, {'ve never been there before."

"What about Tijuana?" I asked without much hope. It's not his style but I thought I'd try anyway.

"No!" he said emphatically, "there's enough to do in San Diego, you can go to Tijuana another time, we can think of something on the way there. Why don't we take your Mustang and put the top down?"

"I'm driving," I told him, knowing that saying so would do me no good. Rick's driving scares me, and he's wrecked more than one car. I don't want that to happen to my Mustang.

If I'd had any hopes of winning the battle, they were lost. "No, you're not, I'll drive. Let's take a shower and get going. We can get something to eat on the way." He jumped out of bed, ready to get going. Rick has two speeds, "on" and "off", there's really no in-between. He'll go for hours without sleeping, sleep for a marathon twelve hours, or more. I can't do that, I don't even want to, I'd rather be up and awake and not waste the day. He keeps what he calls "musician's hours" and is proud of it.