The other part was a pool of quivering excitement. She lay motionless, watching John Dennis undress, garment by garment, until he, too, was naked.
His body was not perfect, yet it had an individual perfection of its own in Rhoda's eyes. The skin was smooth and white, the legs and hips firm and masculine. The chest was broad and Rhoda wanted to put her hands on it and feel John Dennis' hands on her own body.
He stood looking at her, a little like a child, she thought tenderly; a child waiting to be told what to do. She did not account this as strange—only as a shyness in him. She held out her arms.
He lowered himself onto the bed beside her. She put her arms around him and pressed her lips to his. She waited. Nothing happened.
He was neither cold nor passionate. He was neither hostile nor friendly. He was nothing.
"You wanted to make love," Rhoda whispered. "Here I am. Take me. Take me."
Instead, he disengaged himself, raised himself up on his elbows and looked down at her. "You are quite different."
She did not know whether to be complimented or offended. "I'm about the same as every other woman."
"You are different than I am."
"Of course I'm different." Was he joking? He didn't seem to be. He was deadly serious as he began examining her breasts.