“Amor, cuantos caminos hasta llegar a un beso,” the WRF read to me in his deep, gorgeous Spanish, as I lay with my head on his chest. His left hand held the book open, and he wrapped his right arm around me. My legs were stretched out on the sand and my upper body was on the sweatshirt he brought for me. “Love, what a long way to arrive at a kiss.”
The more he read, the more I cuddled against him. Soon we were both lying down and he propped himself up on one arm to read to me. His hand felt amazing on my back. I can’t explain why it felt so good; it was like he had great energy that flowed out of him and through my clothes and skin directly into my body. I know saying he had great energy sounds incredibly “California,” but his hand on me felt both calming and pleasurable.
He read me six poems without kissing me. Every time he followed the same pattern: first the original Spanish, then the English translation, then his translation of whatever lines or words he didn’t think Tapscott had properly translated.
When we’d texted endlessly back and forth through Tinder, he’d told me I was pushing all his grammar nerd buttons. Now he was pushing all my international literary nerd buttons.
The more the WRF read, the more turned on I got, especially with his incredible-feeling hand on my back, or stroking my hair.
My face was so close to his face as I snuggled into his chest, and as he continued to read and hold me tighter, I wanted so much for him to kiss me. I could hardly believe he’d held out this long. We were many hours into the date now and I wasn’t even sure what time it was.
Just at the moment I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, our lips came together. The Walking Red Flag kissed me: a long, slow, sexy kiss. He was an amazing kisser.
We kissed and kissed and kissed, and at some point he dropped the book onto the sand so that his hands could be completely focused on me.