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Meeting a new friend and making memento.

He had been her first lover. He had felt a deep sense of possessiveness when she told him he was to be her first.

There had been a deep thrill to know he had been the first to explore her softness. To fill her and hear her breath catch, and feel the tremor of her against him as her body accommodated him.

When he found himself so wrapped up in her that they were practically living together, he began to doubt that she could love him. He was an asshole, who would use women and then go on his merry way once he had fucked them.

Somehow she had become more to him, and he realized how deep he was in when she was the first thing he needed to see in the morning and when their schedules didn't permit it, he was grumpy and uncommunicative at work.

He had dreamed of her, and felt the loss of her in his soul. He was sure she had truly cursed him when he last saw her. He would wake and hear her shaking voice filled with hurt and anger. "You will never find someone that will love you as much as I do. You will never find fulfillment in anyone else's embrace." She had opened the door to her apartment, and didn't say another word to him. His throat felt tight, and his heart screamed out at the fool he was being, but his arrogance spurred him on. He had been so sure that he was doing the right thing.

Love didn't exist for men like him, lust he understood that was universal, but she couldn't love him. No one, not even his own parents had loved him. She was new to the game, and was confusing great sex with love. Okay the sex was spectacular, but she wouldn't know to compare him.

Months had passed, and he hadn't been able to be with another woman. Somehow when he ventured out into the stream of casual lovers he had before he met her; someone who wanted a hard fast screw with no strings. He couldn't bring himself to actually touch them. The women were always lacking. Their bodies were either too hard, their sexual flirtations too pushy, or their expensive bottled scent was overpowering. He would sit across the table from them, and ache for her.

He stood watching, aching, and afraid; praying that he hadn't lost her forever with his stupidity. He knew that she was on her way home, and didn't know he followed her. He had started his campaign to win her back by being a secret admirer. He hoped and prayed that it was working. He would give little hints with each gift, and every time he sent one to her, he sent it with the hope that he hadn't shattered the one chance to have someone love him.

Somehow he had thought he could be could be close to her passion, her sweetness and not lose his heart. He knew now that his heart had always been hers. He had lost it when she had turned those big brown eyes, filled with censure, and lectured him on the required silence of the library.

Maybe if she didn't hate him completely now, if she ever really loved him she would remember the little hints he was leaving with her. He watched her holding the daisy filled basket and saw she was studying the card as she waited for the light to change.

**********************************

She walked along the street oblivious to the beautiful day. She was grateful that she knew her route home so well. Her body was on automatic, as her mind raced. Someone had been sending her little gifts all week. She would read the notes and cards, and her heart would race. She had a feeling that it might be Jake.

The one man that she had loved so completely, and being so na__ve as to think he could love her back. She wasn't sure why she thought it might be him, other than the fact that her body thrummed to life when she saw what her "secret admirer" had brought her that day.

The basket of daisies had held a small post card painting of a woman leaning against her lover as he held her in front of him. The man in the painting has his hand running through her hair, and had his face turned against her throat.

There wasn't anything truly racy about the picture.

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