Phil Fragasso

By the time I got into bed, Nina was half asleep. I snuggled against her and she murmured her approval. My arm was draped over her waist and my face was flush against her neck. I closed my eyes but my brain was aflutter with far too many thoughts for sleep to take hold of me. Here I was lying beside as beautiful a woman as I’d ever seen, and I was content to snuggle. I didn’t try to slide my hand down or cup her breast or let my erection slap against her leg. I didn’t want to have sex. This was better than sex. This would last all night and—I allowed myself to think—perhaps even longer. Perhaps forever.

I’d never felt like this before. In fact, as I flipped through my memory file, I realized I’d never even spent the night with a woman before without having sex. And prior to that moment, I wouldn’t have thought I was capable of such a thing. It was unthinkable. It was the anti-Adam. But there it was. Crystal clear, in high-definition color, and carved in stone.

It had to mean something.

It had to.