Need Two To Tango Quotes

The devil never sleeps. He keeps me company.

Diagnoses —such as ADHD, oppositional defiant disorder, bipolar disorder, depression, an autism spectrum disorder, reactive attachment disorder, the newly coined disruptive mood regulation disorder, or any other disorder—can be helpful in some ways. They “validate” that there’s something different about your kid, for example. But they can also be counterproductive in that they can cause caregivers to focus more on a child’s challenging behaviors rather than on the lagging skills and unsolved problems giving rise to those behaviors. Also, diagnoses suggest that the problem resides within the child and that it’s the child who needs to be fixed. The reality is that it takes two to tango. Let there be no doubt, there’s something different about your child. But you are part of the mix as well. How you understand and respond to the hand you’ve been dealt is essential to helping your child.

Good luck on your date, then,” she said at last. “Much appreciated, but I don’t need good luck; I need assistance,” said Magnus. “Just because I’m going on this date does not mean it will go well. I’m very charming, but it does take two to tango.” “Magnus, remember what happened the last time you tried to tango. Your shoe flew off and nearly killed someone.” “It was a metaphor. He’s a Shadowhunter, he’s a Lightwood, and he’s into blonds. He’s a dating hazard. I need an escape strategy. If the date is a complete disaster, I’ll text you. I’ll say ‘Blue Squirrel, this is Hot Fox. Mission to be aborted with extreme prejudice.’ Then you call me and you tell me that there is a terrible emergency that requires my expert warlock assistance.

When it comes to our connection with energy vampires, we need to realize that, as empaths, energy exchange is a dance. In other words, it takes two to tango. Thus, an energy vampire can never “steal” energy from us unless we consciously or unconsciously permit them to.

Palo's three older brothers had died in the Paraguayan War, conscripted by the Argentinian government, taken off by force along with all the black men of their generation, because, Palo told young Santiago, they needed a way to not only win their war but also rid this country of us in the process, two birds with one stone. Buenos Aires was too black for them, one third of the population, that's enough blackness to swallow you up! to get strong on you! and so they sent our fathers off to war and opened floodgates to European steamships so that white men would pour into the city to replace us, and their plan worked, the bastarda, look at our city now.

Homie caught a body Got a naughty shawty Throw her in the trunk of my purple buggati Opps on my tail damn making this a party Firing shots man I think they might’ve got me Bleeding and speeding on the 401 This is hood economics 101 Got that gangsta archetype like Carl Yung Damn making me ask who am I running from? When I know I got balls and a fuckin loaded gun Roll out on the freeway while takin some heat One cop two cop three’s on his feet Yeah bullseye put one his knee Cryin oh please don’t hurt me you know I got family Put him to sleep with nice slick kick As I head to his home to go meet his kids His wife’s crying in the corner as I fire from the hip Yeah there’s heart in this clip I put my all in this shit Leaving their home while unfulfilled Got a taste for killing need more blood to spill God looking down asking me to chill Fire shots in the air tellin him no deal Already dug my grave and wrote my will Therapist tells me just stay home and masturbate man Tell him fuck off you know I’m Patrick Bateman Killers don’t discriminate you know I still kill women Brutally beat them into mush on the pavement Screaming for help with no-one here to save them My life has purpose and I know who I am A cold blooded killer with two glocks in his hands Better run mothafucka you know you stand no chance Cause it takes two to tango and damn I wanna dance

I struggle with an embarrassing affliction, one that as far as I know doesn’t have a website or support group despite its disabling effects on the lives of those of us who’ve somehow contracted it. I can’t remember exactly when I started noticing the symptoms—it’s just one of those things you learn to live with, I guess. You make adjustments. You hope people don’t notice. The irony, obviously, is having gone into a line of work in which this particular infirmity is most likely to stand out, like being a gimpy tango instructor or an acrophobic flight attendant. The affliction I’m speaking of is moral relativism, and you can imagine the catastrophic effects on a critic’s career if the thing were left to run its course unfettered or I had to rely on my own inner compass alone. To be honest, calling it moral relativism may dignify it too much; it’s more like moral wishy-washiness. Critics are supposed to have deeply felt moral outrage about things, be ready to pronounce on or condemn other people’s foibles and failures at a moment’s notice whenever an editor emails requesting twelve hundred words by the day after tomorrow. The severity of your condemnation is the measure of your intellectual seriousness (especially when it comes to other people’s literary or aesthetic failures, which, for our best critics, register as nothing short of moral turpitude in itself). That’s how critics make their reputations: having take-no-prisoners convictions and expressing them in brutal mots justes. You’d better be right there with that verdict or you’d better just shut the fuck up. But when it comes to moral turpitude and ethical lapses (which happen to be subjects I’ve written on frequently, perversely drawn to the topics likely to expose me at my most irresolute)—it’s like I’m shooting outrage blanks. There I sit, fingers poised on keyboard, one part of me (the ambitious, careerist part) itching to strike, but in my truest soul limply equivocal, particularly when it comes to the many lapses I suspect I’m capable of committing myself, from bad prose to adultery. Every once in a while I succeed in landing a feeble blow or two, but for the most part it’s the limp equivocator who rules the roost—contextualizing, identifying, dithering. And here’s another confession while I’m at it—wow, it feels good to finally come clean about it all. It’s that … once in a while, when I’m feeling especially jellylike, I’ve found myself loitering on the Internet in hopes of—this is embarrassing—cadging a bit of other people’s moral outrage (not exactly in short supply online) concerning whatever subject I’m supposed to be addressing. Sometimes you just need a little shot in the arm, you know? It’s not like I’d crib anyone’s actual sentences (though frankly I have a tough time getting as worked up about plagiarism as other people seem to get—that’s how deep this horrible affliction runs). No, it’s the tranquillity of their moral authority I’m hoping will rub off on me. I confess to having a bit of an online “thing,” for this reason, about New Republic editor-columnist Leon Wieseltier—as everyone knows, one of our leading critical voices and always in high dudgeon about something or other: never fearing to lambaste anyone no matter how far beneath him in the pecking order, never fearing for a moment, when he calls someone out for being preening or self-congratulatory, as he frequently does, that it might be true of himself as well. When I’m in the depths of soft-heartedness, a little dose of Leon is all I need to feel like clambering back on the horse of critical judgment and denouncing someone for something.

He was the son of a very wealthy industrialist who was to play a rather important part in the organizing of the next International Exhibition. I was struck by how knowledgeable this young man and the other few male friends of the girls were in things like clothes, ways of wearing them, cigars, English drinks, horses—a form of erudition that in him was highly developed, which he wore with a proud infallibility, reminiscent of the scholar’s modest reticence—an expertise that was quite selfsufficient, without the slightest need for any accompanying intellectual cultivation. He could not be faulted on the appropriate occasions for wearing dinner jacket or pajamas, but he had no idea of how to use certain words, or even of the most elementary rules of good grammar. That disparity between two cultures must have been shared by his father, who, in his capacity as president of the Association of Property Owners of Balbec, had written an open letter to his constituents, now to be seen as a placard on all the walls, in which he said, “I was desirous of talking to the Mayor about this matter, however, he was of a mind to not hear me out on my just demands.” At the Casino, Octave won prizes in all the dancing competitions—the Boston dip, the tango, and so on—a qualification, if he should ever need one, for a good marriage, among seaside society, a milieu in which a young girl quite literally ends up married to her “partner.” He lit a cigar and said to Albertine, “If you don’t mind,” as one excuses oneself for going on with an urgent piece of work in the presence of someone. For he always “had to be doing something,” though in fact he never did anything. Just as a total lack of activity can eventually have the same effects as overwork, whether in the emotional domain or in the domain of the body and its muscles, the constant intellectual vacuum that resided behind the pensive forehead of Octave had had the result, despite his undisturbed air, of giving him ineffectual urges to think, which kept him awake at night, as though he were a metaphysician with too much on his mind.

Deprive a cat of sleep and it would die in two weeks. Deprive a human and he would become psychotic. His work was killing people. How was he supposed to frighten these guys? Run up behind them in a halloween mask and shout boo? He never saw the point of views -- what did it matter if it was an ocean or a brick wall you were looking at? People travelled hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles to commit suicide someplace with a beautiful view. Did a view matter when oblivion beckoned? They could put him in a garbage bin after he was gone, for all he cared. That's all the human race was anyway. Garbage with attitude. A cutting word is worse than a bowstring. A cut may heal but a cut of the tongue does not. The Sakawa students were all from poor, underprivileged backgrounds. Sakawa was a mix of religious juju and modern internet technology. They were taught, in structured classes, the art of online fraud as well as arcane African rituals -- which included animal sacrifice -- to have a voodoo effect on their victims, ensuring the success of each fraud. of which there was a wide variety. The British Empire spend five hundred years plundering the world. The word is 'thanks'. 'That's what it is, Roy! He won't come out, he has locked the doors! What if he self-harms, Roy! I mean -- what if he kills himself?' 'I will have to take him off my Christmas list.' "Any chance you can recover any of it?' 'You sitting near a window, Gerry?' 'Near a window? Sure, right by a window?' 'Can you see the sky?' 'Uh-huh. Got a clear view.' 'See any pigs flying past?' To dream of death is good for those in fear, for the death have no more fears. '...Cleo took me to the opera once. I spent the whole time praying for a fat lady to come on stage and start singing. Or a heart attack --whichever come sooner.' '..there is something strongly powerful -- almost magnetic -- about internet romances. A connection that is far stronger than a traditional meeting of two people. Maybe because on the internet you can lie all the time, each person gives the other their good side. It's intoxicating. That's one of the things which makes it so dangerous -- and such easy pickings for fraudsters.' He was more than a little pleased that he was about to ruin his boss's morning -- and, with a bit of luck, his entire day. ..a guy who had been born angry and had just got even angrier with each passing year. '...Then at some point in the future, I'll probably die in an overcrowded hospital corridor with some bloody hung-over medical student jumping up and down on my chest because they couldn't find a defibrillator. 'Give me your hand, bro,' the shorter one said. 'That one, the right one, yeah.' On the screen the MasterChef contestant said, 'Now with a sharp knife...' Jules de Copland drove away from Gatwick Airport in.a new car, a small Kia, hired under a different name and card, from a different rental firm, Avis. 'I was talking about her attitude. But I'll tell you this, Roy. The day I can't say a woman -- or a man -- is plug ugly, that's the day I want to be taken out and shot.' It seems to me the world is in a strange place where everyone chooses to be offended all the time. 'But not too much in the way of brains,' GlennBranson chipped in. 'Would have needed the old Specialist Search Unite to find any trace of them.' 'Ever heard of knocking on a door?' 'Dunno that film -- was it on Netflix?' 'One word, four letters. Begins with an S for Sierra, ends with a T for Tango. Or if you'd like the longest version, we've been one word, six letters, begins with F for Foxtrot, ends with D for Delta.' No Cop liked entering a prison. In general there was a deep cultural dislike of all police officers by the inmates. And every officer entering.a prison, for whatever purposes, was always aware that if a riot kicked off while they were there, they could be both an instant hostage and a prime target for violence.

Deprive a cat of sleep and it would die in two weeks. Deprive a human and he would become psychotic. His work was killing people. How was he supposed to frighten these guys? Run up behind them in a halloween mask and shout boo? He never saw the point of views -- what did it matter if it was an ocean or a brick wall you were looking at? People travelled hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles to commit suicide someplace with a beautiful view. Did a view matter when oblivion beckoned? They could put him in a garbage bin after he was gone, for all he cared. That's all the human race was anyway. Garbage with attitude. A cutting word is worse than a bowstring. A cut may heal but a cut of the tongue does not. The Sakawa students were all from poor, underprivileged backgrounds. Sakawa was a mix of religious juju and modern internet technology. They were taught, in structured classes, the art of online fraud as well as arcane African rituals -- which included animal sacrifice -- to have a voodoo effect on their victims, ensuring the success of each fraud. of which there was a wide variety. The British Empire spend five hundred years plundering the world. The word is 'thanks'. 'That's what it is, Roy! He won't come out, he has locked the doors! What if he self-harms, Roy! I mean -- what if he kills himself?' 'I will have to take him off my Christmas list.' "Any chance you can recover any of it?' 'You sitting near a window, Gerry?' 'Near a window? Sure, right by a window?' 'Can you see the sky?' 'Uh-huh. Got a clear view.' 'See any pigs flying past?' To dream of death is good for those in fear, for the death have no more fears. '...Cleo took me to the opera once. I spent the whole time praying for a fat lady to come on stage and start singing. Or a heart attack --whichever come sooner.' '..there is something strongly powerful -- almost magnetic -- about internet romances. A connection that is far stronger than a traditional meeting of two people. Maybe because on the internet you can lie all the time, each person gives the other their good side. It's intoxicating. That's one of the things which makes it so dangerous -- and such easy pickings for fraudsters.' He was more than a little pleased that he was about to ruin his boss's morning -- and, with a bit of luck, his entire day. ..a guy who had been born angry and had just got even angrier with each passing year. '...Then at some point in the future, I'll probably die in an overcrowded hospital corridor with some bloody hung-over medical student jumping up and down on my chest because they couldn't find a defibrillator. 'Give me your hand, bro,' the shorter one said. 'That one, the right one, yeah.' On the screen the MasterChef contestant said, 'Now with a sharp knife...' Jules de Copland drove away from Gatwick Airport in.a new car, a small Kia, hired under a different name and card, from a different rental firm, Avis. 'I was talking about her attitude. But I'll tell you this, Roy. The day I can't say a woman -- or a man -- is plug ugly, that's the day I want to be taken out and shot.' It seems to me the world is in a strange place where everyone chooses to be offended all the time. 'But not too much in the way of brains,' GlennBranson chipped in. 'Would have needed the old Specialist Search Unite to find any trace of them.' 'Ever heard of knocking on a door?' 'Dunno that film -- was it on Netflix?' 'One word, four letters. Begins with an S for Sierra, ends with a T for Tango. Or if you'd like the longest version, we've been one word, six letters, begins with F for Foxtrot, ends with D for Delta.' No Cop liked entering a prison. In general there was a deep cultural dislike of all police officers by the inmates. And every officer entering.a prison, for whatever purposes, was always aware that if a riot kicked off while they were there, they could be both an instant hostage and a prime target for violence.

Therefore it came as no surprise when Andy wrote: My dearest Young, Your correspondence brings an abundance of joy to my heart. Although we’ve both grown older (and hopefully wiser), you are still the boy I knew and the boy I left behind many years ago in London. I love listening to your experiences after our separation. Keep them coming, it’s like listening to your sweet voice all over again. As I mentioned in my previous email, I should have ended my relationship with Toby before it began. Our four-year relationship lasted with a copious amount of quarreling, disgruntlement and resentment. I wanted to end the relationship three months after our sexual rendezvous, but Toby threatened suicide if I left. Those years were not easy for either of us. Pettifoggery often led to intense bickering, and he would sulk for days, waiting for me to kiss and make up with him. I resented having to admit that the squabbles were my fault and having to apologize to keep peace. These prolonged melodramas sent me into a psychological and physical tailspin. I had difficulty concentrating on my studies. One day, I told the boy I wanted to end our relationship. He was devastated and immediately started to blame me for the pain I caused him. He did not listen to what I had to say before he stormed back to our lodging. I was speechless. I felt guilty for what I had done, even though it was the best solution for us. I tried explaining that I loved you and I had mistakenly used him as a substitute, but it was no use. Toby proceeded to use this as ammunition, accusing me of perjury. Instead of being sound of reason, he turned the tables around, saying that I had falsely led him to fall in love with me. As you are well aware, it takes two to tango. Toby reminded me of Oscar’s charge, Srihan. Their parents spoiled them materialistically when what they most needed was love. Toby grew up not knowing how to love. Love, to him, was about taking; he knew nothing about giving. Unlike our relationship which was built on mature love, Toby’s and my relationship was the complete opposite…

You listen to me! Marshell, fucking look at me! Now, or so help me, I’ll show you pain.” I knew that scent. Over the pain and the need consuming me, that scent reached out to me. Beckoning me. I knew that scent. Home. Safety. Love. I… I needed to… to do something, but the blistering pain refused to let me go. Kill, kill, kill, it chanted. “Look at me!” I’d look at them, all right. Then rip their throat out and— “You must try. Please, you have to try. Please. You…. Marshell? Your mate needs you.” Mate? My mate? The monster that consumed my control eased back. A mate. That’s right, I had a mate. A beautiful, sexy cat who… needed me? He needed me? I fought the pain back further. It couldn’t have me. I refused to let it have me. My mate needed me. I couldn’t let him down, couldn’t escape into the ether that fogged my brain and promised escape from the torment. My mate needed me. He was my everything. “Come on, that’s it. Come on. There you go. Come back to us, please. Fight it. I know you can. Come on, talk to me. Let me know you’re in your right mind.

Shit.” Remi leaned back and stared at me. “There you are.” I remembered it all, and I was horrified. This was not how I wanted our first time to be. “Remi. I… I…. Are you okay?” “I’m perfectly fine. You were very careful and gentle with me.” Remi brushed a few of my braids back. “Besides, I’m not the one who was stabbed in the chest. Are you okay now?” “Better. I’m better, but not okay. I need human blood.” “I’m glad you’re—” Remi gulped, shivered, and then the tears started. He wrapped his trembling arms around me. He didn’t yell or scream, but his body shook violently as he silently cried. Such control. It pained me, him hurting. Even a silver knife to the chest didn’t hurt this bad. I wanted to do something, make it better somehow. I ran my hands up and down his back, wishing he hadn’t seen this. No one should have to deal with what he had to, and so soon in our relationship too. “Hey. Hey, now. I’m okay. Seriously I’m going to be fine.” Remi burrowed closer. “I thought… I thought…. I was terrified I’d lost you. I’d just found you and, and….” Remi grasped my shirt. “I thought you were dead, and… and…. Gods! I’m so glad you’re not.” I laughed slightly as I held him. The torrent of tears didn’t last long. “I’m glad I’m not dead too.” Remi sniffled and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “Jeez, I sound unhinged.

Going to come…. I need…. You need to….” “Come for me, you hot fucker!” Marshell ordered. He dropped down over me and sealed his mouth over mine in a scorching kiss, then jerked back. I tilted my head a little to the left, and he struck. Sharp pain exploded as he sunk his fangs into me, and then it faded. Pleasure quickly overrode everything else. I felt him suck, heard him swallow, and then he growled as he came inside me. I lost control and came too, shooting all over my stomach. Finally he stopped taking my blood and withdrew his fangs. He danced his tongue over my skin, and I assumed he was closing the holes. Panting, he leaned back so we could make eye contact. His braids covered both of our faces, and we stared at each other until he finally softened and slipped out. “Wow,” I whispered. “Please tell me that’s a good wow,” Marshell said. I lifted my hand and traced his jaw. “Absolutely. It was as good as good can get, and yes, we will definitely be doing this again. Thank you for making it special.” The relief on his face touched me. “Always.” With a sigh, he eased down next to me and pulled me against his body. He wrapped his arm around me. I lay there, enjoying the moment. We’d mated. He was mine, and I was his—no matter what the future held

Suddenly Heller turned serious and stepped away from Lawson. He came straight at me—okay, what the hell was he doing?—and I about swallowed my tongue. Heller hugged me like a long-lost brother. “Thank you for protecting my mate,” he whispered in my ear. “You’re welcome. You mean the world to him, you know?” I left it at that because, really, what more was there to say? “Yeah, I do know. Now he needs to know.” Heller stepped back from me, then turned around to face Lawson. Then he went down on one knee. Lawson gasped, Remi thrust his fist in the air and yelled, “Yes,” and I rolled my eyes. Of course, that was more for show than anything. I did have a reputation to keep up “Lawson?” Heller held his hand out to Lawson, who took it. “You’re my everything, but I’ve told you that. My life would be… would be incomplete without you. You’re my mate—my one and only. What I haven’t done is tell you that… that… I love you, and I don’t know why I haven’t. I think… no, I know I fell in love with you the moment I looked into those beautiful gunmetal-gray eyes of yours at your shop.” “Jesus, Heller,” Lawson gasped. Heller pulled a small box out of his front pocket. “Shifters don’t marry… not like humans. Sometimes we have to shift with next to no warning, so we don’t wear jewelry.” “But… you don’t shift, and being part human, I guessed marriage means a lot to you. It does, right?” Lawson wiped his eyes. “Oh God, yes, it does. Especially since now gays can marry.” “Will… will you wear my ring? Will you… will you wear it so the whole world can see that you’re taken?” “Fuck.” Lawson dropped to his knees and threw his arms around Heller, sobbing into his neck. “Dammit, hellcat! I love you. I love you so much.” Lawson pulled back to look at Heller. “Yes, yes, I will wear your ring. Oh my God, you’re unbelievable! Put it on me!” Remi eased his arm around me and rested his head on my shoulder. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” I turned my head and kissed his hair. “They worked hard for this.” “Yes, they did. How many times do you think he rehearsed this speech?” “At least ten.” After a passionate kiss I thought I might have to break up before they set the rug on fire, the four of us munched on goodies, drank a couple of beers, and spent what was left of the evening watching movies. Things were going exceptionally well. I couldn’t help but wonder when the other shoe would drop

Oh, look at you. That was absolutely meowtastic.” Scowling, Remi punched me in the shoulder. “Oh, bite me.” I let my eyes change, and my fangs dropped. Grinning from ear to ear, I lunged at Remi and managed to wrestle him flat on his back. Good God, I never got tired of the strength he wielded so perfectly. Or that banging body. I might be stronger than him, but he always gave me a run for my money. He was more important to me than even the blood I needed to survive because, without him, I was nothing. I loved this man more than life itself, and he loved me, which never failed to leave me breathless and amazed. Straddling him, I looked down at my mate. “Thought you’d never ask.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m a wimp. I admit it. But it hit me, just now, what a good person you are. How noble you are. You’re down-to-earth and likable. I see it everywhere you go. Me? Yeah, not so much. People fear me, even if they don’t know what I am. Those who do? Yeah, then they really fear me. “So I sit here looking at you, thinking what a wonderful person you are, and it hits me right between the eyes. I need you like I need blood to survive. I need you to survive. I didn’t believe I could fall this fast for somebody, even though I know about the mate-draw thing. I don’t deserve you, but I’ll damn sure fight to keep—” There was a blur of movement, and I found myself flat on my back, both of my arms held above my head. I stared at Remi. Whoa. “You love me? You tell me that while I am spread out and helpless?” “Um, not looking too helpless now.” “I ought to shake you senseless. No, I ought to chain you down and beat your ass, then shake you senseless. And what was that rot you were spewing about me being so good and you being so not? Do not put me up on some damn pedestal. I’m not perfect. I’m as far from perfect as I can get. I’m no better than you, you fanged fucker.” “Fanged fucker?” I snorted, then got serious. “Look, I—” Remi released my wrists and put a finger to my lips… a finger with a nice sharp claw on the end. Well, hell. I found myself looking into the brightly glowing electric-blue eyes of his cat “I love you too. I don’t care what you’ve done in your past. Also don’t care about whatever you’ve done to survive. You are all I care about. “When that asshole stabbed you, I thought I lost you. I thought I lost everything. Yes, what I feel hit me quickly, and the intensity sometimes scares me, but I’ll fight tooth and nail to keep you. I’ll also gladly kick your ass when I think you need reminding.” I hiked an eyebrow at him. “You’ll try to kick my ass.” “No, I will.” Remi rubbed his cheek against mine, then sat up. “Together we can handle anything.” I caressed that strong jawline of his. “You love me?” “I love you. In fact, I love you more.” “Not too sure of that.” My world finally settled in place around me. He was right. Together we could handle anything. “I love you too.” “Good. Now that we’ve got that straightened out, let’s go take a shower. I, ah… yeah.” Remi pulled me up off the bed. “To the shower we go.” Laughing, I followed him. I had every intention of helping him get totally and intimately clean, then taking his ass back to bed.

Remi’s lips parted as he panted. His eyes darkened. “Yes. I want you.” “Then what else is there? Mate me.” “Oh goddess. Yes!” Remi shuddered. “I… I’m going to bite you and take your blood. Then I’m going to make love to you—going to claim you. Take what’s mine. Then… then you’re going to do the same… exact… thing to me.” Holy. Fuck. Emotions flooded me, but I couldn’t seem to grasp any one thing. Desire, anxiety, confusion, need. They were all there. I wanted him. I wanted him desperately, but all this talk about making love… I had never made love. Oh, I fucked. A lot, actually. I couldn’t count the men and women who’d been in my bed. None of them I made love to, though. I damn sure hadn’t given my ass to any one of them either. Remi would be my first. “Can’t wait. Remi, I’ve never….” “I know. You’ve never… and my first experience was less than pleasant. What a pair we make.” Remi kissed my cockhead. “But I will do everything I can to make sure you like it.” My partners always came—I made sure of it and prided myself on my skills. I often took over and, well… controlled the whole thing. But for once I was going to lie back and let someone else do the work. No, not someone else. Remi. I was giving him control. Remi explored as much as he wanted, and I didn’t try to take over. He purred softly as he nosed my cock. I clenched the bedding. Oh God, please just…. He licked the tip, and my eyes rolled. I liked getting my cock sucked as well as the next dude, but this…. I had never been so desperate to have a mouth on me.

My clothes aren’t going to get dried until you wash them. Which involves putting them in the washer, and that involves picking them off the floor.” Marshell wiggled his eyebrows at me, then turned and stepped into the shower. I did drool when I got a look at his ass. “Oh my….” Did I mention I was an ass man? “Remi?” “Uh-huh?” My vocabulary had taken a hike, it appeared. “I can smell your desire. If you’re still here by the count of five, I’m getting out and coming after you. One of us is going to get fucked in this awesome shower of yours, so….” Marshell said from the shower. “One.” The sound I made was a cross between a squeak and a growl, thanks to acres and acres of wet, glistening skin. I wanted to run my tongue over every square— “Two…. “Three….” I grabbed his jeans and ran. The softly whispered word “chicken” followed me out of there. I was halfway to the laundry room before I could take a deep breath. Then it hit me what I’d done. I ran out on him. Honestly calling me a chicken was too kind. I was a coward. The only reason I ran was because I was afraid to bottom. I was a top. I always topped. I threw his clothes in the washer, tossed in one of those little pods, and turned it on. Then banged my head against it. What was I doing? Why was I standing here and not in the shower with him? Yes, I topped because I was afraid to do anything else. My one and only experience with bottoming was an unmitigated disaster. A painful, excruciating, unbearable disaster, and I hadn’t repeated the experience since. “I’m an idiot.” What happened was a long time ago. A really, really long time ago, and I let it shape me. Not only shape me, but run my life. I knew that, but it didn’t really seem to matter. The males I hooked up with were bottoms. They wanted me to top, so it was never an issue. Now things had changed. Marshell was my mate. I knew perfectly well he’d take care not to hurt me. How did I know? Because when I got a chance at that ass of his—and I certainly planned to—I’d take care not to hurt him either. All I had to do was… trust him. Trust him. But I really didn’t know him. Then again, I nearly lost him too. My goddess wouldn’t match me with someone I couldn’t love. Maybe I needed to trust her. Maybe… maybe I needed to trust myself. Something deep inside me said Marshell was a good man. I hurried out of the laundry and back to the bathroom.

It takes two to tango, but logically you need five to fox-trot.