He calls to me from across the diner. His voice narrows the divide. ''Gia?'' He is going to ask me a question. It will not be a question about a job, or about anything about Liz. It will be a question about tonight. Do I want to go out to dinner? Do I want to watch a video? What do I want to do after work? Something like that.

I know this simply from his voice. From the way he says my name. I have learned this about him. I can almost always tell what he wants solely from his inflection, from the stress on either of the two syllables, from how long he draws out the A's, from whether his voice rises or falls at the end. These are the things for which I have learned to listen.

''Gia?''

The inflection changes. He is trying to get my attention. He knows I have heard him but I am wrapped in my own thoughts. I love the way he says my name. In question, in anger, in frustration, in support, in concern, in love. Recently, in a way that is new to us, in bed. The first time I heard his voice break on my name as he climaxed, I thought there was no more beautiful sound in the world. I swear I heard choirs of angels that night. Every night since has been the same. Nothing arouses me more than the way he says my name as he pounds into me, and then again as he shudders in release. It is the sound I most cherish. I hear it in my dreams, upon waking, and even here sitting at my desk. It comes to me in moments of silence when I am reading my e-mail or cooking dinner or taking a bath. His voice. Calling my name. Loving me. It showers over me like manna--soft, nourishing, giving me strength. I hear it now, in my mind, and the warmth flares between my legs. I want to hear it. I crave it.

I fear I cannot make do with a question ''Gia?'' or a challenge ''Gia'' or even an affectionate ''Gia.'' I want the ''Gia'' that smolders in my blood and sends flashes of lightning coursing through my belly. I finally turn my attention to him since his ''Gia'' is beginning to border on frustration. He speaks to me of plans for tonight--something about dinner at our favorite Italian place, then he'd like to take me dancing. I barely register what he is saying and instead focus on how he says it. I love his voice. There is nothing especially distinctive about it, but I would recognize it better than my own. It is like him. It is deep, powerful, unwavering. His voice does not have much modulation. Some people might even call it monotone, but I have heard his voice often enough to know its intricacies.

He is an emotional man, although to detect those subtleties in his speech is a skill one must master. Like calculus. It takes practice and analysis and trial and error. I believe I have mastered it. Right now he speaks to me with affection, with longing, with anticipation, as he maps out our plans for the evening. We both know it is only a prelude anyway, a prelude to the shouts and moans and explosions of our desire. His voice rolls over me, soothes me, cocoons me.

Even when he is angry with me, I find solace in his tone. It is home. The sarcasm can be thick, but it only camouflages buried emotion. I have learned this about him. I love his voice. I can read it like a code. Tonight I know I will hear it in different context. Not only the screaming of my name that I have come to love, but the moans of his passion, the grunts and guttural noises that communicate his desire for me. I will ask him to talk to me, and he will tell me in explicit detail what he wants to do to me. He will use words and phrases that, until recently, would have made me blush. Coming from him, however, they ignite a blaze within me that can only be quenched by his acting upon his promises. I will beg him to take me, and I will not feel the least bit guilty or foolish or embarrassed for my words. I will love the sound of my voice saying those things. He is the only one I have ever said them to. He will reward me with a breathy moan of pleasure. I will love the power that words can create. He has stopped speaking and is looking at me. I want to hear more. I need to hear him. I ask him a question. It is a meaningless question, but one that I know will bring me an extended answer.

I listen to his voice and watch his lips move and know that soon, although not soon enough, I will experience those lips on me as his words muffle against my bare skin. He will whisper that I am beautiful and sexy, that he wants me. That he wants to be inside me, that he loves me. He will tell me all the other things that I don't need to hear because I already know. I will love hearing them anyway.

I will revel in his voice, play in its fire, hum along with its song. I will wait for him to scream out my name and I will respond in kind. We will communicate through words, but not because we have to.

End of chapter Two, Please e-mail any feedback by clicking on the mailbox below :)

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