Thursday, December 1, 2005

Ink: Prologue

By Jen

I pull my bags behind me as I board the airport train to Newark. The warm heat blasting through the car is a welcoming change from the gust of wind that pushes me along, whipping my long hair all over my face. Brushing the strands away from my eyes, I spot an empty row and settle in by the window.

The Jersey Shore townships fly past the window, their colors a fiery sunset. I'll be the first to admit that fall in any other part of the country pales in comparison to the foliage in the Northeast. All the beautiful shades of gold, red and orange burst against the crisp fall sky, almost to the point of sensory overload.

All that beauty is wasted on me today. My mind focuses on one thing.

I'm going to see Jason tomorrow.

Ink: Chapter One

Six Years Ago

I was working the late London flight. As usual, I barely made it to the gate in time, sprinting from the distant crew room in high heels.

I’d been an international flight attendant for about five years or so, sharing an apartment with my fellow flight attendant (and best friend) Stephanie. Most of our paychecks went towards the ridiculous Manhattan rent, but who needs food when you live in the heart of New York and are always flying to the best cities on the planet?

Jenna, one of my other best friends, runs up the empty aisle towards me.  "BJ! I was wondering if you were going to make it!"

Just for the record, my name is not BJ. It's Brynn Johnson. Obviously, my parents have a sense of humor. When I've called my mom out on this, she insists it never once crossed her mind that she branded me with the worst initials ever, despite it never seeming to elude anyone else when I give them my full name. Go figure.

We make our way to the front to get situated for the pre-flight briefing with the captain and international service manager (ISM) to go over things like procedures, weather, flight time, special needs passengers etc.

Of course I find this part of my job a bit mundane; I always pretend to half listen while picking the lint off my dress. The ISM piques my interest for a sec when she mentions 32C will need an aisle chair -- those narrow on-board wheelchairs that fit down the aisle. I quickly lose interest, though; they’re almost always for elderly passengers. We’re not responsible for any transfers to and from the aisle chair and their seats; that’s the sky cap's responsibility. We are, however, responsible for giving them a special briefing and being as accommodating as possible while they are on our plane.

After we’re dismissed, I retreat back to the galley, since I’ll be working from the back. My position will be responsible for working the top of the bar cart, aircraft right. We specify sides because the wide-body Boeing 777, or Triple 7 as we call it, is huge and has two aisles.

We have just begun our initial setup on the ground when I catch a traffic jam in one of the aisles. Maybe someone’s unable to find their seat or the overhead space to stow their bag; maybe there’s a seat dupe, when the computer glitches and two people get assigned to the same seat.

I come forward down the aisle to the traffic jam and immediately find the culprit. “Excuse me, sir -- could you please step into your row while you get situated?”

He acquiesces, and soon the long line of people behind him starts to flow again as normal. I find a spot I can stand in, right in front of the wall that divides the two cabins -- the bulkhead, as we call it.

As my eyes wander around my area, they land upon the most gorgeous guy I have ever set eyes on.

Our eyes meet and I'm rendered speechless by the lightest blue eyes I've ever seen; such a pale baby blue that I automatically think of those sled dogs, with eyes the color of light blue marbles. I know, not the most flattering comparison but the eye color is uncanny.

I find myself instinctively moving towards him, not wanting to break our eye contact. He's also in front of the bulkhead but in the left section. This row has more leg room just like the emergency exit rows and it gives me just enough space where I can stand between him and the wall and safely out of the way of the aisle.

"Are you going home or away from home?" I ask, hoping to dazzle him with my warmest smile. Cliched, yeah, but handy for breaking the ice.

"Towards." He smiles. "I was visiting a mate that lives in the States on holiday. Now it's time to return to reality."

His words spill out in a thick, delicious British accent. Even though he has a black quarter zip sweater on, the white tee he has underneath peeks out and lines the collar contrasting his beautiful tan skin. Could this guy be any more perfect?


"I agree. It’s never fun to end a vacation." I’m stunned to find myself with nothing to say, still mesmerized by his beauty. "Guess I’d better head back," I say, finally giving in to the fact that I’m just too damn smitten to carry on any sort of intelligent conversation.

"Actually, could you do me a favor?” Just when I've taken a few steps away, I’m more than happy to return. “My bag is in the overhead; could you get it down for me?"

"Me?" Did I hear him right? He’s easily a foot taller, regardless of my damn heels.

"If I could do it myself, I wouldn't ask a lovely air hostess, now, would I?" He grins, easily outdazzling my recent attempt. No wonky British teeth here.   

I’m flattered at the compliment, yet still a bit thrown... until it clicks into place. For the first time, I notice his odd sitting position, both legs angled oddly to one side. His thighs and hips seem too narrow for the strong, broad frame above his waist.

Blindsided, I feel my knees buckle. I force myself to grab the bulkhead wall to steady myself. Am I dreaming, or is this moment really happening?

"Are you all right?" he asks, looking at me with a mixture of concern and just plain bewilderment.

I look down and quickly mumble something about a snag in the carpet. Trying my best to regain composure, I take a few steps behind him and pull a blue duffel from the overhead bin. He responds with a polite thank you, but I can't escape to the nearest lav fast enough.

I lock the door and plop myself down on the closed toilet lid, taking a deep and much-needed breath.

I have a huge, huge weakness for guys in wheelchairs. And one this hot is almost more than I can handle.

I mean, this is the type of guy that only appears in fantasies, yet here he is in the flesh. Best of all, neither one of us can go anywhere for seven hours!

Damn, Brynn, you're usually not rattled this easily! Now buck up, get back on the damn saddle, and show him what you're made of!

Despite the great pep talk I'm giving myself, certain negative thoughts and fears try to seep in through into my brain as I remember the last time I was this attracted to someone. Sadly, I remember all too well how that one turned out.

Stop it, this guy is not Brad! Aside from the wheelchair, there is no reason to compare them. Let all negative thoughts escape and get back to the present. And that is the key word here because it is the present that holds this amazing hot guy that is literally making your knees buckle.

With good thoughts taking over, I feel myself regaining control as I stand in front of the mirror, examining myself.

Physically, I'm pretty plain. Long brown hair and eyes, pale skin, nothing that really stands out. Okay, except for my boobs: D cups, which look even bigger due to my small stature. Hooray for not-so-small blessings.

I play with my hair a bit and place it just the way I like it, cascading down both sides of my shoulders. I pull my gloss out of my pocket and apply a layer to my lips. Once satisfied with my appearance, I exit the lav and actually decide to do some work by helping some passengers find their seats.

I help others stow their bags and shuffle some people around to get a family with small kids together but I'm aware that my focus is still on the guy in 32C.

Due to my obsessive nature, I decide I can't go another minute without seeing him, so I zigzag my way through the stream of people in order to check on him. I also figure that this is as good of a time as any to redeem myself by showing him that I'm not  the rambling idiot he probably thinks I am.

By the time I reach his aisle, he is reading his book with the bag still on his lap, just where I left it. "Do you want me to put you bag away?" l ask in order to get his attention.

He looks up and gives me a warm smile as he passes it to me, and I'm delighted at the fact he didn’t look away or go back to reading once I finished stowing his bag. This gives me the impression that he is up for more conversation, so I put my hand on his armrest for leverage and gracefully squat down next to him, flipping my hair to one side with my free hand.

I realize instantly that this was an ace move because not only did I think it was pretty dang sexy, it also brought me down close to eye level with him. Well, for the most part, because now I actually find myself looking up at him in order to meet his gaze, taking  into account how tall he must be.

His features are so striking that I have to focus on making conversation so I don't make an idiot out of myself again.

I break away from his gaze for a moment to look down at his book: a biography of some guy named Jonny Wilkinson.

"Good book?"

"It's all right." The way he's returning my gaze would typically make me blush, but I decide to stand strong and match his equally permeating stare. Sexual tension buzzing between us.

"So he’s a famous actor, maybe?"

"Only one of the most famous rugby players in the world," he laughs. “What do you fancy reading, then?"

I wish I could say something really smart here, like how much I enjoy reading about physics or geology or anything along those lines. But if he gets to know me better, which is looking more promising by the minute, it wouldn’t take him long to figure out that I’m clearly not connected with my intellectual side.

"I'm more of a Nora Roberts type of girl. I like my fairy tale endings."

"So you have one?" He smiles.

"What? A fairy tale ending?"

He gives a slow nod, his eyes sparkling.

"I'm starting to think it's possible." Man, I know I can be a flirt, but I can't remember the last time I came on this strong. "You?"

He shakes his head slowly. The way he looks at me sends shivers down my spine. I'm beginning to wonder if he can hear my heart thumping from where he's sitting.

"So... you were visiting old friends?" I ask, changing the subject.

"One of my mates moved to San Diego a few years back, so I went out for a visit. We used to be on the same team."

"Team?" Shit. Here we go again.

"I used to play rugby years ago. Now I coach kids at a secondary school."

Of course he’s an athlete. Every damn guy who catches my gaze always is -- and always breaks my heart. Why couldn't I just fall for a nice, calm computer geek who could just love me and treat me well?

Whenever I imagine these conversations with myself, my brain tries to reason. My foolish heart wins out every single time.

Just then the lead flight attendant's voice comes across the p.a. with the final boarding announcement, asking us to close the doors.

I snap back to attention just as something occurs to me. We’re required to brief any passengers who might require evacuation assistance. The idea of calling attention to his disability is the last thing I want to do right now, but I can’t skip the federal regulations.

"You know...” I clear my throat. “I actually have to give you a special safety briefing."

"I’ll save you some time,” he interrupts. “I have to evacuate after the main flow of traffic. I have to sit here and watch everyone evacuate this burning airplane until you rescue me and drag me off -- which doesn’t sound awful, by the way. How did I do?"

I can't help but laugh. "I don't know if I would have used those exact words, but you know the spiel quite well." Wow: hot as hell AND a sense of humor. Lethal combination. This could be bad. Really, really bad.

With that I stand up and smooth my dress out. Once I get back to the galley, I’m met with an overwhelming amount of approval as well as a huge interrogation by those that know me.

I feel like I'm not quite ready to divulge any information about him just yet. Not that I've gathered a whole lot this far, but there was just this combination of raw sexual attraction combined with equal parts of humor and great conversation and I get this crazy feeling that it may not be as magical if I let anyone else in right now.

So I laugh and try to be as vague as possible when met with their questions, which I know drives them crazy because typically I am not one to withhold information.

"So who’s the Becks clone in Row 32?" asks Theresa, nodding towards the torn out pages of Mr. Beckham adorning the galley, courtesy of the previous crew.

If only; although there’s definitely a resemblance. "Except my future boyfriend's eyes are bigger and lighter than David's." I tease.

As I look at the picture I can't help but wonder if his chest looks that good too. Somehow I get the feeling it must.

"What were you guys talking as about for so long?" asks Tom, folding his arms across his chest, as if he's waiting for me to divulge something really good and juicy.

"Oh, you know, just stuff," I shrug casually, still not taking my eyes off the picture.

"Hmph..." he snorts, not believing a word I'm saying. Like the majority of male flight attendants, Tom is gay and always has something to rant about. I'm friends with a lot of the guys because can relate to them on levels a most of them don't even realize. I mean, they are wired differently than most men, just like devs are wired a little differently than most people too. So there is this common ground we share and I connect them with them in a weird way.

I remember growing up in Catholic school. Before I had ever met, much less hung out with, any gay guys, I blindly believed what Ms. Brown said about homosexuality. She was our psychology teacher my senior year and indoctrinated us with the ideology that it was a choice and that the church funds these special seminars where gay men go to get 'turned around and live the life God wants for them'. I will never forget one example she told the class about a specific man who profusely thanked for 'setting him free from a life of sin.' So of course as a naive seventeen-year-old I completely trusted this must be true. Now I know it's complete bullshit.

Believe me, having a strong religious upbringing and attending a private Catholic school, my belief in God is undeniably strong. The difference is over the years I have acquired the philosophy of 'hate the sin, not the sinner.' I mean, I don't have to go beyond myself to see this. Being a dev is something I have wondered about my whole life, and it's something that is clearly hard-wired into my DNA. I mean, I have tried to go back a million times, pick it apart, analyze it and always come up with absolutely nothing.  It is just who I am.

I remember always being fascinated with disability. I was probably about eight when I saw a girl about my age without legs in a wheelchair in a grocery store. I can still remember how her mom was in the checkout line next to mine and the little blond girl looked straight at me and gave me a warm smile as if she wanted to say hello or talk with me. I think I smiled back but then hid behind my mom, which was very uncharacteristic of me since I was outgoing from the day I was born. I thought about that little girl for days, wishing I would have befriended her and would have had the courage to strike up a conversation with her.

Then when I was in 2nd grade, one of the girls brought in a set of leg braces for show-and-tell. Her mom had been in a car accident and I believe was recovering from a broken back, but I don't remember the exact details of the accident. What I do remember was that we all got to come up and touch them; I can still recall my larger than life fascination with them.

Still today, I find my fascination with the metal braces pretty odd because even though I've read that there are devs that are attracted to the hardware like crutches and wheelchairs, I honestly don’t care much for those things. For me it's all about the guy in them.

I don't remember a whole lot of details within or immediately following those years except for the fact that if any character with a disability was featured on TV, I was glued to the tube and then created fantasy sequences regarding that character for days on end.

I don't think I ever had any personal encounters with any disabled people until meeting Brad at twenty-three, five years ago, during my first year of flying. Flying has actually broadened my horizons on so many levels - including meeting a lot of hot wheelers! I have buckled-up and set out tray tables for a few sexy quads, which coincidentally also happened to be my first interaction with Brad.

Aside from Brad and now Jason, these guys have always either been in relationships or it's just been impossible for me to flirt, like family or friends traveling next to them. There was one guy who was by himself and really cute, but despite trying my hardest to let him know I was interested; he was either not interested in me or just too oblivious to the fact that I was shamelessly flirting with him. I choose to think it's the latter in order to keep my self-esteem from taking a nose dive.

I've had enough conversations with my gay friends who have all confirmed that there is no way their lifestyle is a choice any more than being a dev was my choice. It's something I've lived with my whole life, I'm comfortable with, and given the chance I don't think I would change because it's all I know. So take that, Ms Brown. You can stuff your analytical and psychological fundamentalism where the sun don't shine!

"Hey, so where's Jenna?" I ask, bringing myself back to the moment, looking around for my sidekick. How ironic is it that the one person I do want to talk to more than anyone else about my encounter is nowhere to be found?

"Who knows? Haven’t seen her in a while, that stinkin' slacker," Theresa jokes, but I can tell there is an obvious undercurrent of annoyance there as well.

I know exactly where to find her;  I head to our favorite lav - one in between the cabins. It’s actually roomy and has a full length mirror hanging on the inside of the door (which is perfect for those of us that like to do our primping).

In order to get there I have to pass my hopefully soon-to-be-boyfriend. I make a point of not stopping at his row and instead head straight to find my friend; pounding on the lav door. "Jenna, open up!"

She quickly flings it open and I see her mess of make up spread out all through the sink where clearly she's made herself at home. I would normally tease her at this point about her typical slacker fashion but I have important news to share.

"Okay, I'm in love," I announce, shutting the door behind me.

"What seat?" she asks, turning her attention back to the mirror as she carefully and deliberately continues brushing on her mascara. Obviously this isn't big news to her;  we tend to fall in love at least once on every leg.

"No, Jenna," I insist. "This is him! This is the man of my dreams!"

"Wait, you mean like 'bend-you-over-the-wood-pile' hot'?" she asks, turning her attention back to me.

Okay, let me explain our inside joke.

A few months ago we had this really, really, hot dad with two young kids, flying over to Glasgow. He was wearing one of those plaid flannel wood-cutter shirts and no ring on his finger. So after all of us drooling over him for some time, we decided one of us had to take initiative and find out if he's single.

With Jenna gladly up for the task, she went over  and talked to him for a few minutes then returned to the galley to give us the full report. "Damn it! He's married," she lamented.

"That's okay," I said, trying to raise her temporary broken spirit. "We can still fantasize about him. I mean, with the shirt he's wearing it's easy to imagine him out in a forest chopping wood. You stumble across him know..."

"He bends you over the wood pile?" she interjected and we all broke into laughter.

Ever since that day, that phrase has stuck, and been used to represent the pinnacle of hot studly males.

"Yes, over-the-wood-pile-hot! Like I was saying, it's as if this guy walked right out of my dreams and on to the plane. Except he didn't walk, he rolled because he's in a wheelchair. So technically I guess the wood pile wouldn't..."

"WHAT?" she screams, cutting off my rambling. Jenna is one of only two female friends that know about my huge inclination towards hot wheelers.

"Brynn, oh my god, why didn't you say that from the start? Where is he?" she says, packing all her crap back into her make-up bag at warp speed as I stand there laughing.

"Okay, he's in 32C, so we are going to go right past him on our way to the back. Don't say a word to him to embarrass me, please! Just check him out, okay?" I plead.

"Okay, okay," she says, already opening the lav door. I lead the way and smile as I go past him, Jenna trailing right behind me in order to give me her seal of approval.

I don't turn around until I reach the back galley, that's when I discover she is no longer behind me. My heart races as I look down the aisle and there she is; standing right in front of his seat, despite the fact I begged her not to. Aarghh!

Just then we start pushing back off the gate and the ISM makes the announcement that we will start our safety video demonstration. I walk towards the front to stand in the aisle over the overwing exits, which is my demo position. Jenna has to walk towards me to get to her position, which enables me to throw daggers at her with my eyes while she just gives me the biggest shit-eating-grin ever.

I stop when I get to my designated spot and turn around to face the passengers while the TV screens play the demo. This usually entails me standing there daydreaming, and receiving the occasional glances from equally bored passengers.

I think I'm lost in a daydream, when I hear a low whisper in my ear, "Will you go already! I'll fill you in on everything he said." Apparently Jenna has already caught up to me in the aisle and is waiting for me to move so she can get to the back.

"I can't believe you did that," I hiss back at her as we start walking towards the back. Of course we are ensuring seat belts and tray tables are up as we do our final cabin check before take off, so our conversation has to remain very discreet.

I have to admit, as angry as I am with her at the moment, I am also extremely curious at the same time. As soon as we step in the galley I whip around, "Spill it, sister. It better be good and you better not have embarrassed me!"

"Okay, I just asked him if he needed anything, then I asked him what his plans were for the next twenty-four hours because I have a friend, who he's conveniently already met, that wants to fuck his brains out!" she is laughing hysterically by the end of her recap.

"Jenna! You didn't!" I find myself laughing along because I know at this point she has to be messing with me.

"Okay, maybe not in those words. But I did ask him what his plans were because we want him to come out tomorrow night with us for a drink or dinner or whatever. He said he would so,'re welcome!" she smiles triumphantly.

"Okay, nice work. You're forgiven," I say, as we strap into our jump seats and get ready for take off.

When reach ten thousand feet, we're ready to start our pre-dinner beverage service.  I'm dying to see him but I practice good restraint because I don't want him to think I'm a stalker, although admittedly my behavior is probably bordering that already.

As luck would have it,  I'm not only working the side of the airplane he is sitting in, but also will be working the position at the top of the bar cart. This means that I will always start on the first row and work towards the back, so he will always be my first passenger on my right.

We do all our final prepping and the galley flight attendant loads up our meal carts, we roll down the aisle to get started. I'm standing next to him once again and he looks up from his book and smiles at me, anticipating the question I am inevitably going to ask.

"Something to drink?" I smile back.

"No thanks, I'm good."

"Have something, it’s on me," I say, icing down some cups.

"I'm really okay," he says again, this time with an obvious hint of annoyance.

"Oh, you don't drink? I have plenty of other stuff too...sodas, juices, what would you like?"

"I do drink. Now, what sort of Brit would I be if I didn't? I think you may get your citizen card revoked over that sort of thing," he says, his voice softening and offering me a soft smile, much to my relief. "I just don't drink on airplanes. The not getting to the toilet thing is just too annoying," he explains.

Shit! You moron, what the hell is wrong with you? How could you forget about the toilet thing?

"I'm sorry. Just let me know if you need anything, I won’t ask again. Promise. " My apology heartfelt.

"It's okay. I may take a drink before landing, so don't feel bad," he says, clearly sensing the fact that I feel like an asshole, trying to smooth things out.

I take everyone's drink orders around me and serve a few aisles until Theresa rolls down with the meal cart.

"I'm guessing you don't want to eat either?" I ask casually this time. He shakes his head and declines politely. I think we're both relieved to be moving on with this conversation.   

We finish the meal service, pick up the trays then do one more bar cart. Once everything is completed, we break down the carts and put everything away, dimming the lights so the passengers can sleep until we are close to landing. With everything complete, it also gives us a few hours of down time until the next service, which starts an hour before landing.

Of course I've already planned how I want to spend my down time. I head off to check on my favorite passenger and much to my disappointment find him sleeping soundly in his seat.

I take full advantage of the moment and just take him in for a minute, which is nice without having the pressure of having to keep a conversation flowing.

Even though the lights are dim and the cabin is dark, I see his head is leaning to the right and his luscious lips are slightly parted, reminding me of when one is coming in for a kiss. I also can't help but notice his broad shoulders and long arms; one lies on his lap and the other on the armrest.  I wonder how those arms would feel around me.

Of course this sets off a whole new set of fantasies.  I imagine sitting on his lap and pressing my lips against his. This sets off tingles all over my body as I take it a step further and imagine what his touch would feel like on my skin. I force myself to walk away because if he wakes up and sees me standing there checking him out in the dark I'm pretty certain he'd be a bit creeped out to say the least.

The night passes slowly. The crew and I enjoy the time in the usual way -  conversing and eating appetizers, salads, entrees, cheese plates and desserts from first class. This is the reason why I've packed on the few of the pounds - just one of the many occupational hazards of flying international - grazing both ways over the Atlantic.

The light begins to break through the slits of the window shades, our cue to set up for the last service prior to landing. Once the drink and breakfast carts are set up, we roll down to start our last and final service.

My man is still sleeping and I'm starting to wonder if I'm even going to get enough time to persuade him into take my number.

With the last service complete, we break our carts down one last time and pass out the necessary documentation prior to landing.

I head to the lav to brush my teeth and hair and to reapply my makeup. Once out and looking as presentable as I possibly can after flying all night without sleep, I walk past 32C again and to my pleasant surprise he is finally awake.

"Morning, sunshine!" I greet him with a big smile.

He is still rubbing his eyes but manages an adorable smile right back at me. "Morning. Wow, how do you manage to look so good this early in the morning?" he says trying to focus his eyes but still squinting in the now bright cabin.

"Years of practice?" I shrug.

I watch as he shifts his upper body, pressing his palms against the arm rests. Then he stretches his arms behind his head.

"Need anything? Well, you know, besides my phone number?" Okay, so I told myself I was going to let him make the move and bring up Jenna's invite, but I think it's pretty clear the attraction is mutual and I have to admit that it was a pretty sly way of slipping my number into our conversation.

"I would love a coffee, but your number sounds even better.” A smile spreads across his face. “So, your friend said you're in town for twenty-four hours?"

"Approximately, yes."

"You think you could squeeze me in for dinner?"

"Oh, I'll consider it."

"In that case, I will take your phone number and some white coffee."

"Coffee? Thought you guys were tea drinkers?"

"I do drink both, but prefer coffee in the mornings," he explains.

"Be right back," I tell him.

Once back in the galley, I brew a fresh pot of coffee for him while writing down my number in New York. Then I pull my trip pairing out of my pocket and copy down the hotel name and phone underneath it as well.

Once finished brewing, I pour the hot liquid into a styrofoam cup and watch the black liquid turn into a tan creamy color as I pour in the milk. I return to my favorite spot on the plane and hand him the cup and napkin.

"Nice to meet you, Brynn" he says looking over my writing.

"Thanks. And you are?" I ask.


"Nice," is all I have to say.

"So I'll meet you at your hotel? You guys stay at the Hilton in Kensington?" he confirms, still reading it off the napkin.

"Are you familiar with the area?"

"I am. I live just outside the city in Malling."

"So you drive in?"

"When I come into the city I usually do, which really isn't that often. But if I'll be drinking I'll plan on taking a taxi; so what time shall I meet you?"

"Well, there is a pub around the corner, you want to meet there around six?"

'Well, not sure how accessible it would be. How about I meet you in your hotel lobby and we just find a place together?"

"So are you saying we're ditching my crew?" I ask, a smile spreading across my face.

"Is that okay? I mean, if you're not comfortable..."

"Sounds perfect!" I cut him off, overjoyed and so excited that our plans are laid out. "I have to get ready for arrival but I will see you when we land."

I'm smiling ear to ear. We do our final cabin check and soon I'm back in the galley helping to lock everything up so we can get to our jumpseats for landing.

"God, that guy would be so stinkin' hot if he wasn't in a wheelchair!" Lisa, one of the flight attendants that is working in first class, comes to the back and blurts this out as she's getting into her jumpseat. She must have been standing around the main door when he came in and is probably the one that helped him settle into his seat during boarding.

Deciding not to say a word, I busy myself wiping down the counter where some coffee has settled in the corners,  figuring they will all figure it out on their own anyway.

"What guy?" Theresa asks.

"The guy Brynn was talking with earlier."

"What?" I have my back to them but can visualize the look of confusion or maybe even alarm that passes through their faces.

"Oh, did he break something?" Tom asks, trying to make sense of it all. I'm certain this question is directed to me so I turn around and face them.

"Yes, either his back or his neck. I would say his back though because his hands seem just fine."

See? This is the very thing I often wonder about! Why is everyone always so uncomfortable with disability yet to me it's like an exigency, maybe not quite a requirement, but a really strong preference for sure.

"Well, good for you. I'm glad you won't let that stop you from dating him," Theresa's condescending tone comes through loud and clear.

I feel myself getting defensive,  the claws starting to come out, which is probably the other reason I didn't want to say anything to them earlier. Then again, I realize, it's better that they get the scoop from me. Otherwise when they see him deplaning using the on board wheelchair they probably won’t be able to hide their shock in front of him, which would be worse.

"Why should it, Theresa?" I ask, stiffening up as I narrow my eyes at her awaiting her response.

"I don't know, Brynn. I'm not saying there's anything wrong. On the contrary, I think it's great it doesn't bother you. Maybe some girls would feel different."

"Trust me, I'm fine with it," I say, still feeling like I'm on heavy defense. Why do I even owe them an explanation at all?

Nothing else is said on the subject and we land, disarm our doors and wait for everyone to deplane. When I see it's only down to a couple of people I go up to keep Jason company while they bring the onboard wheelchair.

"Hey." I smile and plop down in the chair next to him since we are officially off the clock.

"Hey yourself," he grins back. Of course at that moment Theresa and Jenna walk forward and stop right in front of us.

"We brought your bag up from the back, Brynn," Theresa smiles.

"My, how thoughtful of you!" I grin back, completely aware that they are just hanging around in order to check Jason out further.

"So? Aren't you going to introduce us?" she smiles smugly.

"Oh, where are my manners? Theresa, this is Jason. Jason, meet Theresa. And I know you two have already met," I say, my eyes jumping  between Jason and Jenna. They exchange greetings - it couldn't be more obvious that the girls are checking him out.

I'm wishing they would keep going to the front so I can get a few more minutes of alone time but it's pretty clear their intentions are to stay and torture me as long as possible.

Lucky for me the conversation stays light, nothing personal, until two skycaps show up with the aisle wheelchair.

One of the guys asks Jason the standard PC question we're taught: 'What would you like for us to do?' So Jason simply suggests to line the aisle chair up with his seat and raise the arm rest. I watch the skycap jiggle the armrest, but after a few seconds it's obvious he doesn't know how to operate it.

Believe it or not, this is a common occurrence, which always baffles me because it's a pretty obvious part of their job.

"I got it," I say, already reaching across Jason and running my fingers along the bottom of the armrest feeling for the releasing device.

As I'm doing this I realize that I am way into his personal space, my body crossing his so closely I can smell his delicious scent and hear his soft breath as he exhales. I feel everything tingling within me but try to be professional and focus on the task at hand, however difficult it may be right now.

My middle finger encounters the raised button right underneath the hinge as I realize what an awkward position I've put myself in. This operation will require both hands since one is needed to press the button in while rotating the armrest up with the other. I guess I should have thought this out before I started because it would have been infinitely easier to do this from the aisle.

Until this point, I've managed to avoid touching or leaning into him. I'm thinking now it may be inevitable.  As I bring my arm across his body, my shoulder leans gently across him and I feel his strong, muscular chest under me, only confirming the thoughts about his chest from earlier.

I'm there just long enough to raise the arm rest, but it's enough time to feel the soft rise and fall of his chest under me as he takes a breath. It's also just enough time to feel the heat rising up on the back of my neck.  I reluctantly move myself off of him in order to let him get out of his seat. Already missing the feel of his body so near mine.

I can't help but watch as he effortlessly transfers himself onto the aisle chair then pulls his legs over by placing his hands behind his knees, doing pretty much all of it in one swift motion. Gauging from the ease and control he has while doing this, I can only assume that he has had plenty of time to adjust to his injury and it's probably something that happened a while back.

I grab his bag from the overhead before the skycap can beat me to it because I want to be the one to hand it to him at the top of the jetway, if anything just to get one last interaction with him. Besides, I have grown quite acquainted with his bag by now.

He straps himself in like a pro and lets the skycap push him up since there's no other way to move the chair up the aisle; aisle chairs only have those small caster wheels underneath, not the standard large wheels that come up the sides, so pushing yourself is not really an option. I suppose having the large wheels would defeat the purpose since our aisles are narrow and the wheels in the average chair is what makes it too wide to fit down the aisle to begin with.

I follow them up to the jetway where his chair is already waiting for him at the top. I am relieved that his chair looks great because unfortunately I have witnessed some horror stories - recently where the rampers absolutely mangled an injured soldier's wheelchair coming back from Afghanistan.

I feel a pang of guilt because most of the crew is already there and waiting with eyes on him, no doubt their interest piqued because of my own absorption of him.  He transfers back to his regular chair with such ease that he gives off the impression that he's completely unnerved and unfazed about all the attention. I pass him his duffel bag which gives me the perfect angle to whisper discreetly in his ear.

"See you tonight."

He looks up at me and gives me a knowing smile before putting his hands on his wheels to begin heading up the jetway. My crew begins to descend down the air stairs  but I stand frozen just watching the back of him for a quick second. I take in the way his hands push off the wheels, his arms doing all the work as they move his whole body forward, each movement so fluid and deliberate just like they were with his transfers.

As crewmembers we can't leave the aircraft until every last person is off, which means that we have to wait on the jetway until every last wheelchair, stroller and passenger have gone up into the terminal.

In London, the passengers depart down the jetway towards immigration and customs while we get air stairs pulled up to the jetway leading down to the tarmac where a crew bus picks us up. The bus takes us to a free standing building where our passports are checked then we are free to sleep on our one hour drive to central London.

I drift off within minutes, but naturally the last thought is of Jason - running my fingers along his golden skin and soft blond hair. Then he presses those pillowy lips against me, brushing them softly up and down my neck while my body awakens and responds with such intense fervor, bringing me to that height of passion that only a few certain people have been capable of ever bringing me to. And there's just not a shred of doubt in my mind that he will be one of those exceptional ones.

I awaken when the bus comes to a full stop at the hotel. Once in my room I wash my face, change into my sleep shirt, and set my alarm for 3pm.

It's just after 8 a.m. - I would normally only give myself three or four hours of sleep because otherwise it's too hard to fall asleep at night, and we always have an early van time in the morning. Today I'm making an exception because I just have that feeling I will not be getting much sleep tonight (if I'm lucky!).

Ink: Chapter Two

I wake up to my loud and annoying alarm, but it only takes me a few seconds for my mood to brighten as I recall all the details of the last night's flight.

I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, not quite ready to get up but thankful I'm giving myself two hours to get ready.

I take my time after a long shower, applying makeup and straightening the loose waves out of my hair. I'm grateful that I’ve managed to bring some of my favorite outfits. I never know what I’ll end up doing on a layover; so I usually try to pack one casual outfit, one dressier, and the classic black dress in case it gets really fancy.

I put on my favorite black sweater - its snug and reveals the perfect amount of cleavage. I pair it with jeans and black riding boots. Perfect! Although for a date of a lifetime like this, I would have had no qualms about hitting the Kensington shops in search of an outfit worthy of this evening.

I do a final once-over and feeling like I made a simple yet classic and flattering choice, I throw my hotel key into my purse and head out of the room.

My heart is beating fast in the elevator and I try to take some deep breaths to calm myself down. I enter the lobby and actually feel my heart skip a beat as I quickly spot him at one of the tables off to the side.

Spotting me at the same time, he smiles. I keep telling myself to relax and keep cool as I make my way over to him. As I get closer, I take in more details - his royal blue sweater is just a shade darker hued than his eyes, making them pop like crystals all the more. A white tee peaks out of the neckline of his sweater and his blond hair is a bit more tousled than last night, probably freshly washed. He's clean shaven too -- and absolutely gorgeous, even more so than I remember.

He's looking at me with the same desire in his eyes from last night and I'm loving it. Trying hard not to make the fact he is appreciating my cleavage obvious, he does a fast scan of my body then meets my gaze quickly once again.

"You look amazing -- although a whole lot shorter," he grins. His eyes shift over to my flat riding boots then back to my face.

"Well, with me coming in at a measly five feet you're not that much shorter than me sitting down. Just how tall are you?" I ask.

"Six three," he says.

"Wow," I say, my turn now to quickly scan his body. "I can see that. You're really long."

He raises an eyebrow at me and I laugh at my own faux pas. "Shall we go?" He nods to the door and puts his hands on his wheels.

A bit unsure about the protocol, I walk to the door and hold it open for him while he exits. I must have done the right thing because he simply thanks me as he heads toward the ramp. I follow just a step behind him, trying to find a good pace to keep alongside him.

On the way we make leisurely conversation about tonight's weather versus the perfect California climate he just returned from. I see the pub approaching on the next block... and the three steps leading up to it. Oops.

How have I never noticed these steps? I'm certain I've had to stumble down them before after knocking some pints back through all the years of coming here.

"Oh Jason, I'm so sorry!" I feel like such a incompetent and thoughtless wench.

If he's bothered or annoyed he hides it well. "It's okay, lets find the next one.” This must pretty common problem in the UK due to the old architecture. Almost as if he can read my mind he confirms, "Accessibility is way easier in the States."

"I would agree, except I live in Manhattan so not sure if it applies there."

"I wouldn't know, never been to New York."

"Well, you can come visit me anytime," I blurt out, a bit impulsively. Sometimes I wish my mouth had a filter.

"Okay," he shrugs. I can't help but smile.

The beautiful thing about London is that you’re never thirsty for long. Just one more block and we've already come to the next pub. With only one step between the street and door I assume he could manage, but await his reaction. "This will work, what do you think?" he says looking in the window.

There are two large windows with the typical plant-filled flower ledges filled. It looks like something of a Norman Rockwell painting; the only thing missing is the snow. It’s quaint and inviting.

"Great." I stand there, a bit awkwardly, awaiting direction.

"If you wouldn't mind getting the door again?" He instructs.

I pull on the handle of the heavy, awkward door that opens to the outside. I make sure I stand out of his way as he lifts up his foot plate by doing a wheelie and hops his chair forward and up into the pub.

He continues to take the lead and I wait as he studies the room. He spots a table by the window with a nice street view. He motions to it with his head as he starts moving towards it, awaiting for me to follow.

For a Saturday, the pub is really empty; only a few people sitting in the actual bar and just one other couple sitting in a booth against the back wall.

I feel like all eyes are in us as Jason pulls a chair out of the way to make room for his own.

This is the first time we’ve been face-to-face since those short minutes sat next to him back on the plane. The most obvious things I notice now is how much taller he is than me and despite how lanky he is, his shoulders are still amazingly broad, even obvious under his sweater.

Suddenly, I'm overwhelmed with the desire to rip that sweater right off him and take a look at his shoulders and chest - I know that it's going to be amazing.

I have to focus my attention elsewhere before I jump him right here in the pub. So I look towards the bar and study the beer taps instead.

"So what are you for?" he asks me after he follows my eyes and sees that I'm trying to decide what to drink.

"It’s hard for me to pass up a good Guinness over here; it tastes so much better than in the States."

"I must say I'm impressed," he says raising that same eyebrow from earlier. "I like a girl that enjoys her stout."

"Don't give me that much credit. I can usually only drink one because it's so filling. A captain I know says they're a pork chop in every glass."

My stupid remark makes him laugh while I survey the room for a waitress. With none in sight, I offer to go get the beers. "Okay, as long as you let me pay," he says handing me a 20-pound note.

I make my way to the bar and the bartender comes up to me immediately. As he's filling our pint glasses I notice the jukebox in the corner of the bar. I drop the beers off at the table and ask him if he’d like to check out the music selection.

We head over, assess the selections - we have very similar taste in music. I guess that's not too hard to accomplish because I am a huge Brit pop fan and he's British so there's a good chance we're going to like the same stuff.

Although the selections are pretty 70's heavy, we manage to find quite a fair amount of Oasis, Coldplay, and other Britpop bands. We mix those up with some classics from the Police, Stones and Fleetwood Mac. We both agree that we created a pretty good compilation.

First dates are always good for discovering a common ground in music. It's never quite a deal breaker, but it always helps if there is some kind of shared genre. Of course, Jason is so scorchingly hot that if all he liked was polka, I would find it easy to forgive. I would just invest in a good set of earplugs as long as I could look at him 24/7.

Coldplay's “Yellow” plays as we settle back into our table. I take a drink of my beer, when I put my glass down I notice his gaze is fixed on me. It makes me a bit flustered.

I shift in my seat while circling the rim of my glass with my index finger. I gather enough courage to look at him again and notice his elbow on the table with his head propped on his hand. The sleeve of his sweater has rolled down exposing what looks like the tip of something inked on his forearm.

Without hesitating I grab his arm and pull his sleeve down just a bit more so I can get a better look. It's some sort of interlaced pattern, like chain links forming a geometrical design.

"What is it?" I finally ask giving up on making a guess. "Is it tribal art?" His mouth gapes open and his eyebrows draw together in disbelief. Gauging by his expression, I may have just as well asked him if it was Tinkerbell.

" No," he says slowly, then takes a dramatic pause and smiles, "it's a Celtic knot."

"Sorry, I guess I'm just not up to speed on my Irish knotworks," I laugh.

I lower my voice while tracing it with my finger, taking in the feel of his skin before adding, "I have considered getting something small in a discreet area."

A waitress finally shows up and approaches us. Our beers are almost empty now so we order another round. I make my switch to Harp, a lighter favorite this time.

"So, what would you get?" he asks getting back on subject once we find ourselves alone once again.

I shrug. "I don't know; there's a few phrases that mean a lot to me. Maybe 'To thine own self be true'. That one speaks volumes," I share with him, not wanting to elaborate any further at this point.

"Ah... Shakespeare,” he nods approvingly. “I like it too, but you should consider some original art for your first one. I have a mate who is an amazing artist. He does mine; I can take you round to his shop sometime to give you some ideas."

"Okay!" I beam absolutely loving the idea. "Would you get one with me?" I add.

"Sure,” he shrugs. "I'm always up for adding another."

“How many do you have?"

"A couple," he grins. "They're all Celtic. You can figure out where they are on your own later," he says with a sly smile. I feel myself flush with pleasure.

"So you must have some Irish then, with all the Celtic interest?" I ask, trying to get back to a G-rated conversation.

"Yes, my dad's side. My mum is all English and apparently has the stronger genes because I look more like her than my biological dad." He says this in such a sterile manner that I wonder if he has any relationship, or at least contact with his dad. I decide not to dig too deep, keeping the conversation light.

"I'm actually mostly Irish too. Hence the pasty skin and dark hair," I say, running my fingers through it for effect.

"No, it's nice together," he says with that intense stare that makes me dig my nails underneath the seat of my chair.

I pick up my beer and take another big swig. I am dying to ask him the question and decide now is as good a time as any because I have been dying to know. So much for light hearted conversation.

"Jason, can I ask how you got hurt? Was it sports related or something?" I ask.

"Everyone always assumes that," he says taking a drink himself. He seems to be focused on something far away. His glass clicks as he sets it on the table. Looking straight into my eyes he utters. “Another time, okay?”

As curious as I am, I don't want to ruin the evening so I quickly change the subject. "Okay. In the meantime I’ll definitely take you up on that offer to find your tattoos."

This makes him smile.

"So you probably have some good airplane stories?" he asks, probably his way of ensuring that we are as far away from the topic of his injury as possible.

"But of course, This is one of my favorites," I tell him preparing to launch into my story.

"I don't know if you're aware, but the new aircrafts have these crazy powerful suctions in the toilets. You can unroll toilet paper all the way down the aisle and flush one end of it and it will suck the entire roll down in five seconds flat, just to give you an idea.

So one day we were going to Cancun when this lady spills tomato juice on her white sundress. From what she told me afterwards, she had taken it off in the lav and was trying to clean the stain in the sink, not realizing the tip of her dress was too close to the toilet.

When she flushed some napkins down, the suction got ahold of the hem and the whole dress plunges down the toilet."

Jason’s jaw literally drops, his eyes wide with astonishment as I continue. "I was in the galley when I hear her crack the door just enough to get my attention. Poor thing was totally distraught and basically naked."

"Poor thing, what’d she do?" he asks, prompting me for he outcome.

"Luckily, she had her carry on with extra clothes in the overhead, so I brought it to her. In the end it all turned out well. Come to find out she's on her honeymoon! We brought her and her new husband a bottle of wine from first class. I bet that's a honeymoon story to tell the kids.”

Now he's just outright laughing. "I guess I was not aware of your super suctioning toilets. Then again, I haven't been in airplane bathroom in a long time."

I immediately straighten up a bit; it's sort of not fair because I have no idea how to respond to his disclosure. Obviously, he's alluding to his injury yet he's made clear he doesn't want to talk about it.

I mean, I have no timeline whatsoever to go by, but gathering this comment I can pretty much confirm it's been a while from whatever happened that put him in his chair. "Oh, well you're not missing much," I say, unable to think of a better response.

"Apparently I'm missing out on toilets that can suck down body parts." But he laughs as he says this, easing me into laughing along with him.

When our third pints arrive, we finally begin to discuss food options. I think of the Thai noodle shop adjacent to the hotel, with the best coconut curry shrimp soup I've ever tasted. I quickly realize it wouldn't work, remembering the steps up to the dining area. Darn, the whole accessibility thing is not easy over here. Maybe Manhattan is easier after all.

I probably need something in my stomach to absorb the alcohol, but with him sitting so close to me my appetite is for things unrelated to food.

"How about we just order something here?" I suggest, trying to make it quick and easy.

"Here? I was thinking more of a proper dinner was in order. I just feel like a right asshole not doing that for you."

"Tell you what. If we order food here, we'll get to dessert in my room that much sooner," I smile suggestively.

“Let's order,” he says half joking. I seems I know exactly what it takes to get things going my way.

Maybe it’s the beers or how hungry my body is for him but I quickly decide that I've had enough of sitting across the table - I need to be closer to him.

I start to scoot myself in the chair over to him but I think the chair weighs three hundred pounds and just resists against the carpet, so I decide it's easier to just stand and drag it over in a semi-circle towards him.

He's clearly on board with the idea because as soon as it's within arm's reach, he effortlessly pulls it next to him like it weighs nothing, highlighting his incredible upper body strength.

I sit and turn my body towards him, tucking my legs under me for maximum closeness. Without wasting another second, I do what I've been wanting to do since I first laid eyes on him: I go in for the kiss.

Tilting my chin, my mouth comes up to meet his. I start soft with just my lips gliding delicately against his but I instantly feel the heat rising in the back of my neck as his hand presses against my nape, his fingers tangling in my hair as he pulls me in closer and deepens the kiss.

We build momentum and the feeling that shoots through my body is so intense, I feel that distinctive sensation radiating from my pelvis towards my inner thighs.

The only thing putting a damper in the moment is the awkward positioning of our bodies, our chairs side by side. Even though I've turned my body in his direction, the wheels on his chair form a barrier.

"Come here." He whispers softly into my mouth, neither of us want to break the intimate contact between us. Backing his chair up, he allows me just enough room to stand then pulls me into his lap. I waste no time wrapping my arms around his neck as he pulls me into him once again and continue where we left off just moments ago.

The pub is dim, but we’re putting on a pretty obvious display of affection and surely not going unnoticed. The problem is I just can't stop myself; rendered powerless by his touch. Frankly, I've always laughed at PDAs, but at this moment I am so driven with lust that I couldn’t care less what other people think.

Once our lips part, I blush, finding the fish and chips basket on the table. Apparently, we were both too caught up in each other to notice it delivered to our table.

We both look at it then agree that kissing is far more important than a basket of greasy food. We quickly turn our attention back to each other.

"I’d been wanting to do that since I first saw you," he says, his face just inches from mine; his thumb caressing my cheek; the passion flaring in his eyes is strong and unwavering.

Both of our heart are beating at such a quick pace, our breathing ragged. His gaze so intense that it just melts me from the inside out.

"You have no idea," I say, trying to level out my own breathing. I still think I’m going to wake up at any moment and realize this has all been an unbelievable dream.

"Lets just go," I suggest. He agrees and squares up with the waitress and we head out before even half of our selections are heard on the jukebox.

Once outside, I notice that the light drizzle has stopped but the breeze has picked up a bit from earlier. I fold my arms across my chest to keep warm which he immediately notices and offers me his sweater.

"No," I say, "then you'd really freeze."

"I'm wearing a tee shirt underneath, I'll be fine," he says as if I hadn't noticed.

"Yeah, but I already have a layer on so I'd be doubled up and you'd be almost stripped of everything."

Still, I can't help but think that if he did give me that sweater I'd be at liberty to see the definition in his arms while he pushes his chair, which would be incredibly sexy yet horribly selfish on my part.

I look up to the sky just in time to see some small clouds parting and exposing a little crescent moon with just one little star below it, just like the ones seen in the cartoons. We both comment on how picturesque it looks as we walk back to the hotel at a quicker pace than our walk to the pub.

It is Saturday night in London the streets are pretty busy. Even with my focus nearly solely on Jason, I am still aware enough to notice people going out of their way to move out of Jason's path on the sometimes narrow sidewalk.

We make small talk the rest of the way to the hotel but I can feel how charged we both are with sexual energy. Inevitably, I can't help stealing the occasional sideways glances of him as we go back to the hotel.

A quiet ride in the elevator up to my room has me buzzing with anticipation -- I just know something amazing is about to happen. I fish my card key out of my pocket as we head down the hall because I don't want to waste a second that could be spent in his arms. I quickly slide the card into the lock and hold the door open once again as he enters.

The door is heavy and solid, the weight makes it slow to close but I'm already in his arms and picking up where we left off before we ever even hear it click shut.

Maybe it's partly due to the beers and the partly having him finally in my own private space, but I find my place on his lap. It just feels so right -- so natural.

He puts his hand behind my neck and draws me as close as he possibly can to himself. I turn my body towards his this time - straddling him, my legs hang off each side of his chair.

As we kiss, I latch the flat heel of my boot against the hand rim of his wheel and let it slide off my foot. I do this with the other side, hoping that it doesn’t catch a spoke or something and do any damage. Luckily it's fine. I think he was too preoccupied to even notice or care about what I was doing.

I break away from his mouth and slide my lips up the side of his neck, the taste of his skin sends me reeling. His small pleasurable groans encourage me to explore further -- up to his ear, nipping and sucking on his lobe, gliding my tongue up the delicate shell of his ear.

After a few minutes of this, he returns the favor by pressing his mouth to my neck. I close my eyes and concentrate on the sensation of his mouth on me; I feel like I may just peak from that sensation right then and there.

I decide to be a bit bold and pull my sweater over my head, exposing my breast to him inside a very sheer and lacy black bra.

His mouth gapes open a bit as he stares at my breast and I know right away he is sold. "Magnificent," he whispers pulling the sheer fabric down just enough so he can encircle his thumbs around the nipples, bringing them to full attention.

He is still admiring them when he puts his arm behind me and with one hand expertly unlatches the clasp of my bra. He watches them spring loose as the tension is released and my bra falls somewhere between us.

He cups his hands around them, bringing one of my erect nipples to his mouth and now is my turn to let out a soft moan as he expertly nips and circles my excited tip with his tongue. Just when I think I can't take anymore, he turns his attention to the other breast, repeating the process while I breathlessly pant over him.

I tug at his sweater - desperate to feel his warm bare skin against mine. He obliges and pulls both his shirt and sweater off over his head with the one still inside the other and throws them on the floor.

"Oh my God, Jason!" Now it's my turn to gasp.

I stare at the most amazing chest I've ever seen; Becks has nothing on him. It's so glorious it could merit it's own chapter.

His shoulders are so round and tight; his pecs are perfectly muscular, like his biceps, but not in an overdone way.

I find tattoo number two between his chest and right shoulder -- another thing I can't identify, reminiscent of the first one.I trace it lightly as I did with the other one, letting my fingers roam the planes of his muscles. He has a few random scars; one a couple of inches long between his shoulder and clavicle. I don’t ask him, but I wonder if they are related to his injury.

I continue my downward path between his nipples, down his sternum and then even lower. He lets me take my exploration slow--just taking in his physical beauty.

Tattoo number three sits vertically along the right side of his rib cage. Gaelic writing, I will ask him about it later, right now I'm a bit preoccupied.

His chest is smooth and tan, the only hair I spot is his happy trail which is a sandy blond thin line right below his navel disappearing into the waistband of his jeans.

When I run my hands past his chest and get to his stomach, I'm actually taken back by the roundness and softness of it. It's not a gut by any means, but there is also a clear lack of muscle. I think if the rest of his upper body wasn't so tight it would be hardly noticeable I suppose I was expecting rock solid abs and maybe even a six pack to match his chest.

His eyes are still transfixed on me but he is still not saying a word, as if he just wants me to explore him and figure it all out on my own.

I move my hands off him and put my arms around his neck once again, pressing both of our upper naked bodies together. I am swept away with the sensation of his bare skin on mine and this is more than I can take. I want him, all of him, my body yearning to feel him inside me.

"Jason, I need you. Now," I gasp, my body craving his with urgency. I honestly can't recall the last time I wanted someone so badly, with all that intensity overpowering all other emotions.

"Don't move," he says, already moving us towards the bed with me still pressed against him.

But I'm so focused on my mouth capturing all the emanating heat off his neck and shoulders that I barely feel us stop. Soon there will be no barriers between us, just skin on skin--and just that thought is enough to make my already raging desire reach a fever pitch. I look over my shoulder and are we are about as close to the bed as we are going to get.

I can’t believe this is happening-- I am about to share my bed with the hottest guy on the planet.