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∏r²

Those three characters mean a lot of different things to a lot of different people. To me though, it means the slacking of my jaw, the intensity of his stare, and my imminent unraveling.

It started as we were walking. We were headed to dinner with my old high school friend and her husband. My left hand was comfortable in his right as we walked, and there it was, his thumb, undetected by all, making tiny charged circles against the back of my hand. I smiled at the hostess, and gave her the name of the reservation. She thought I was being polite, that smile though, was for him, he knew exactly what he was doing.

As he lead me to our table we switched hands, and I enjoyed returning the sentiment, until a flick of his eye instructed me to stop. We greeted our friends and the evening continued with great conversation and laughs. Long after I forgot about his earlier vices his hand made its way to my thigh under the table, the tiny circles resumed igniting my skin, igniting me. As the conversation continued I wondered if they knew. If they could see it on our faces. I hoped that they couldn’t and ordered dessert.

He continued to torture me. On and off all evening in his subtle way, he made circles. Circles on my hand, the back of my neck, the small of my back. With his arm draped around me he made tiny circles on my shoulder where the fabric stopped and my skin began, tiny circles on my legs, and as my thighs spread slightly to give him access, he made tiny circles just high enough to drive me crazy, and just low enough not to cause attention. He made tiny circles through the movie, through the late night drinks, throughout the ride home, and when he lead me up our staircase and to our room my body screamed for all of him. All he gave me though, were tiny circles.

Circles

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