This morning, Blair said, "I give up", grabbed me, shoved his tongue tonsil-deep and when I'd finished choking enough to get with the program and kiss him back, told me, crap, he was late and let's try this again later, huh?

I think I said yes. I hope I did. He left me with my hands shaking too much to finish buttoning my shirt and with an incredulous, goofy grin on my face. I could hear him whistling all the way down the stairs, and when he got to the outside door, he murmured, "Tonight, Jim. God," and made me drop my coffee mug in the sink because I've never heard him want something that much before and what he wants is me.

And now I'm driving home after a day apart, a day I've spent wondering if he meant it and knowing he did, and I've stopped shaking, I've stopped asking myself what I did to make him take that final step, and I think I've licked my lips raw getting the taste of him inside me where it's safe.

I'm driving like an asshole, changing lanes to gain a few yards, breaking speed limits. I should arrest myself, cuff my hands, lecture myself sternly -- but I just whip through another light as it turns to red, coax another jolt of speed out of my truck and tell myself it's an emergency.

It is. I need to get home to Blair before I talk myself out of this, and I know I can be that stupid.

Okay, I need to drive faster.


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