The first time she was frustrated. By the third time she was pissed. But the fourth and eighth and twelfth times, she barely remembered and didn't care.
The first time they were at her apartment. After a second date. This was "faster" than was normal for her, but hell, people know when they want to have sex with each other, and she wanted to with him. She thought he felt the same way about her, but then...well, let's set the scene first.
They were on her couch, the wine on the coffee table was barely touched, and his fingers were digging into the small of her back while she explored his mouth with her tongue. It was exciting to find that he knew how to use his lips and that his tongue listened to hers. She listened to his, too, and its directions were clear and direct.
As he let his weight fall onto her, she could feel that he was aroused. He was practically about to burst through his jeans. His erection trapped in there must be downright painful, she thought, and she actually imagined it tearing through his pants; it was cartoonish and she nearly laughed, but the image of its sudden entrance into the space between them, its dramatic thrust into her mind's eye, was also sexy as hell and she felt herself getting wet.
His other hand was up her shirt now, enjoying her skin and the lines her ribs drew to her breasts. His fingers traced the barrier that was her bra, while his first hand pulled her closer to him.
Then his goddamn cellphone rang. "Sorry," he whispered, and he answered it.
He managed a small business–she didn't remember the details, it was only a second date, after all–and the call had to do with work. He sat there, on her couch, one hand holding the phone, the other cruelly caressing her thigh. And he talked, that bastard, for a good five minutes, putting out a figurative fire while she considered making decaf or watering her plants. She watched the bulge in his pants deflate a little. And then completely.
He finally hung up, apologized (it was an emergency), told her he had had fun, and left the apartment.
That Saturday morning she went to his place after a simple text message invitation: "Let me make up the other night to you. I have some time this morning if you'd like have breakfast."
He had made a breakfast fit for the cover of a Good Housekeeping, but they never touched it. They said "Hi" then were at it again. Finding their way to his bed, he kissed her right, and touched her right. Yet only through her clothes; he made no effort to unbutton a blouse or unzip a fly. This went on for five minutes, ten minutes...it felt like hours. Call her old-fashioned, she liked a man who took control of situations like these, but she decided to be a bit more forward; she would at least hint at what she wanted.
She let her fingers dance on his belly. It was flat and firm and, only naturally, her fingers found their way under the elastic waistband of his underwear. He liked it, she surmised, because he was growing inches below her hand.
He mirrored her motions, playing with her tummy and the lacy waistband of her underwear. They stayed like that, for some time, mouths tasting mouths, necks, and throats; fingers teasing pubic regions; both of them torturing each other delightfully, until...
He looked at the clock, and whispered, again, "Sorry." He was meeting his friends for a game of basketball–he did it every Saturday–and he was going to be late.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" she thought. But she just nodded, "Oh, that's OK." She straightened her shirt and that was that.
They met a third time–dinner, movie, and back to the couch where they began! She learned the movements and sounds of his body even better. She ran her hand up and down his lean thighs until she thought she'd cry out in frustration. He felt her up and kissed her bosom, but only the top part exposed above her completely-still-on-bra! She liked what his tongue did, his hands too, and his scent and his moans were instilled in her memory.
