A Tiny Romance by Suzanne Tyrpak
“I’m afraid I’ll die before you kiss me.”
“That should be the opening of your new novel,” Sam says to me. “Antonio, six-foot-six and every inch a man, peered down at her four-foot-two frame, and said, ‘From up here I can barely see you.’”
“You’re cruel!” I say, slumping lower in my chair. “‘Antonio, you brute,’ she said. ‘I love you madly.’ Standing on her tippy-toes, stretching up her arms, straining through her fingertips, she reached for his nipples. They seemed as big as frying pans.”
“Frying pans?” Sam looks at me askance.
“Okay, pancakes.” I giggle.
“With butter and maple syrup,” Sam says, and I nod. He continues, “Slowly, one millimeter at a time, she dragged herself along the ripples of his stomach, pulling herself higher—”
“Ducking as his chest hairs lashed her body.” I demonstrate and Sam giggles. “Gasping as she scaled the mountains of his pecs, nearly fainting from exhaustion and exhilaration when she reached the summit. She crawled toward his sumptuous lips.”
“He swatted her. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I thought you were a mosquito.’”
“That is so mean,” I say. “That’s not how the story ends.”
“No?” Sam grins at me.
“No!” I cross my arms across my chest.
“Another cup of coffee? Pancakes?” Sam heads into the kitchen.
I remain slumped in my chair, mulling over differences between men and women. Of course Sam is different than most men. We hang out, but he doesn’t want to sleep with me. He doesn’t sleep with anyone.
He hands me a cup.
“This is serious,” I say. “A matter of the heart.”
Sam sits on the couch, pours maple syrup on another pancake. “Oh?”
“He’d knocked the wind out of her. A mosquito. Never had she been so insulted.”
“Why?” Sam asks, munching happily. “What’s wrong with being mistaken for a mosquito? You’re showing prejudice.”
I ignore that statement.
“Beneath her flattened body, she felt the thump of his heart, the heat of her desire. Mustering her courage, forfeiting her pride, fueled by determination, she dragged herself along his skin.”
“He felt a kind of itch. Not an itch, really, an irritation.” Sam smugly pours more syrup on his pancake, takes another bite.
“She looked up at his face, the eyes that drew her to him like a flame, his proud forehead—”
“His parted lips—”
“Yes!” Finally, Sam gets where this story’s going. “His breath flowed over her, warm as summer, stirring hurricanes of feeling. Drawn to him by something larger than herself, something primal and alive—”
“He inhaled, sucking her into his mouth.”
“She flip-flopped on his tongue, diving through saliva. He clamped his teeth onto her tiny body, severing her tiny head, enjoying the taste of blood—the blood that she’d sucked out of him. And then he swallowed.” Sam takes a gulp of coffee. “Ahhh…end of story.”
Sam’s divorce definitely left him damaged.
I shake my head. “The saddest thing: that was the best orgasm she ever had.”
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