His long, brown hair hangs loose in messy waves, which looks completely at odds with the preppy look of his clothing. I’m sure any person who looks at Zach will do a double take. He just projects the look and feel of a wild man that lived in the rainforest for eighteen years and most would probably envision him better in torn jeans and an AC/DC T-shirt or something. I might offer to take him for a haircut again, but not any time soon. He flat out shut that idea down when I suggested it a few days ago, telling me that Caraican men prize their long hair.

Our morning is busy and Zach tolerates me taking him to a department store, while we stock up on men’s apparel. Underwear, shirts, shorts, jeans, socks, and T-shirts. He calmly and quietly accepts my direction, trying on clothes to make sure they fit. His silence drives me batty sometimes, and I’m dying to know what he’s thinking. He doesn’t ask me a single question, nor does he show any curiosity about anything.

After our conversation last night, when he demanded I teach him about sex, unfortunately sex is all I can think about now. He saw my body’s reaction to him. He knows I want him to take me, just as I wanted it while I watched him take that woman in the glow of the firelight. But I made it clear… I can’t. I cannot mess up this opportunity just because my body is yearning to know what it would be like to be fully dominated by a man.

But not just any man.

A man like Zacharias Easton, who walks around my house gloriously na**d with his massive c**k swinging confidently.

He’s killing me. Absolutely killing me. I went to bed last night and kept thinking about how he had moved so quickly… grabbing me by my neck and pushing me to the ground. I wanted to give in… oh, so bad, and my body was screaming in frustration, even as my brain was screaming at me to stop that nonsense. I had no sooner stripped my clothes off and crawled into bed than I reached into my nightstand drawer and pulled out my trusted pink rabbit vibrator. I was so worked up from the hunger I saw in Zach’s eyes as he gripped me by the neck, it seemed like just a nanosecond before I was screaming into my pillow and hoping Zach had not heard me.

Zach actually does show some marginal interest when we go to the grocery store. He tells me he remembers doing this with his mother and father after church on Sundays. As we stroll the aisles, he picks up various items to look at with curiosity. When we reach the cereal aisle, an actual smile comes to his face as he grabs a box of Cocoa Puffs.

“Do you recognize that?” I ask him.

He nods his head. “My mom used to buy it for me. It was my favorite.”

“Well, throw it in the cart then,” I tell him, feeling like doing a victory dance inside because he is making a connection to his roots.

After we are fully loaded with enough food to feed an army, I push the cart toward the checkout lane.

“Anything else you want while we’re here?” I ask Zach as an afterthought.

Zach’s eyes dart to the floor in an uncharacteristic display of uncertainty. He is one of the most powerfully confident men I have ever met, and the mere fact that for the first time ever he’s lowered his gaze away from me, puts me on alert.

I wait patiently for him to look back up. When he does, he asks, “Do you know how to make chocolate chip cookies?”

My smile burns bright. “Absolutely. Want some?”

His return smile is tentative, but I can tell it’s something that is personal to him. It’s a complete victory that he shared a secret part of himself.

He nods. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t,” I reassure him, thrilled beyond measure that he’s actually showing some interest in something other than scowling at me. “Let’s go get the ingredients, and I’ll make them as soon as we get home.”

“You’re a very smart woman,” Zach says as he looks around the restaurant I chose for us to eat lunch at. While his words are complimentary, his tone is not.

“What do you mean?” I ask as I unwrap the sandwich I just purchased.

“Bringing me to a restaurant that serves only food you eat with your hands,” he says with a smirk.

I can’t help myself—I laugh. Zach’s eyes crinkle as he unwraps his own sandwich. “You got me. I couldn’t risk having you slurp your food off your plate somewhere else.”

Zach doesn’t respond but merely takes a bite as he looks around at the various diners. I eat my meal in silence, watching Zach as he takes in his surroundings. He may act like he wants nothing to do with this new life, but he is an avidly curious man. He watches people with stealthy grace, drinking in details… learning by merely observing.

“That couple over there,” Zach says as he inclines his head, and my gaze turns to follow what he is looking at. “They’re kissing.”

“Yes,” I agree, but I don’t say more because I’m not sure why this is important.

“Why do people kiss? I remember my parents kissing, but we don’t do that in our tribe. I’m curious what the point is.”

Swallowing the food in my mouth, I take a drink of bottled water while I contemplate how to explain kissing to Zach. What a complex ritual that he has asked about, and while my anthropological studies are not necessarily focused on sexual norms of the tribes I’ve studied, I do know that the way in which different cultures show affection through kissing, or even foreplay through kissing, varies radically.

Glancing at the couple, who are more or less giving soft, teasing, and flirty kisses to each other while they hold hands, I tell Zach, “What they are doing right now… that type of kissing… it’s a way to show affection to someone that you care about. See how their lips don’t linger long on one another? See how they’re smiling and laughing with one another?”