I was talking on the phone with one of my internet friends while I cooked dinner earlier this evening.

We have known each other for almost two years, I believe, met on a dating site I used to frequent before my social life became a bit too intense. Texting, emailing, calling, keeping each other company off and on as we go about our lives. He lives in Los Angeles, like I do, but we've never met. I seem to have developed a mild tendency to attract successful, dominant entrepreneurs in their early 40s. Busy men who strive for success.

I have no aims for him, not anymore.

But he said something to me while we were talking, something that surprised me.

He told me that, six years ago, he had come across my profile on another site. A site I've not used since I met Rick. I was, apparently, interesting enough to him to remember for years, so when he saw me again on this other site, he remembered me and kept up contact over these last two years because I had been someone he had wanted.

Still wants.

It's interesting, how sometimes people stick out.

More interesting, internet dating. The random people you come across. The people who remember you, the people who recognize you on the street. The odd social connections we make.

It makes me think of myself at twenty, the profile, the pictures. It was so funny, listening to my friend describe the pictures in my old profile. He had still remembered the scene, the setting, the clothing, the hair. Reminded me of pictures I had not seen in ages, a girl so far behind me she's almost another person.

I've learned so much since then, experienced so many things I never thought I would.

And now, GV8. Finally, that man I would spend my life with. A forty-four year old alpha male, sex god incarnate. Heh, I'm such a poster child for the evo-psych movement with my mate choice.

I'm lucky I've been able to retain his attentions, luckier still that he loves me.

He said to me the other night that he had never expected to fall in love again, never expected someone like me to enter his life.

I remember him on top of me, the weekend after Valentine's Day. I was on my stomach, underwear around my thighs, ass arched into him, feeling the head of his cock pushing against me, rubbing, me whimpering, trying hard to take him into me but he still withheld.

Until, finally, that slow sink into flesh. No barriers of condoms. Just us. Just skin.

I almost cried.

Me.

I almost cried during sex due to overwhelming emotion. The love I felt for him, the sheer gratefulness that he would ever be inside of me again.

But I stopped those tears. I fought them back.

He came, his perfect sounds, sounds that are perfect because it is he who makes them.

And then his whispered words, "I've been waiting for that for so long."

I can't imagine him giving up his desired life-path for me. The weeks partying, world traveling (if he'll be allowed to leave the country with his record, that is), the continuous stream of ass. The rock star lifestyle, he calls it. He's been planning it for so long.

And then... me.

To him, I am a limit to his behavior, another opinion he has to consider before taking certain actions, someone he can't leave behind.

I'm also his playmate, the queen in his bedroom, his partner and support.

If he'd let me.

If.

I need to learn to accept the inevitable. He won't give up his goals, his dreams. In a month, maybe two, he'll tell me that he cannot alter his path to include mine.

And I'll have to recover from that.

I'll have to be okay with that.

I've made that choice before, I'll make it again.

Great risks.

But it's only a heart.