His Book on her bed

(This is a fantasy I originally though I might include in the novel Hudson City, but decided to let it remain a stand alone, part of a series of similar fantasies. It is not real. It's only what i imagined might have happened, and may indeed, never have).

How can he say no?

 Staring down into those deep brown eyes and seeing the fear there.

 Twilight makes a haze outside as if the New York City skyline has faded out of existence, as in an unsubstantial dream.

 Or for her, a nightmare.

 She telling him she’s scared to go home alone

 “He might be there, waiting,” she says in a voice not quite mouse-like yet with a shrill edge he reads as terror, she meaning the man she claims have been stalking her. “He knows where I live.”

 How can he say no?

 And yet, he’s scared to be alone with her, even here in the office that is his office only until the regular boss comes back.

 People elsewhere in the office already talk about what might be going on there when the office door is closed, and though nothing ever is, it isn’t for lack of wanting, something he’s kept to himself even though his head writer, a snoopy bastard with his own designs on her, guess way too much about what goes on in his head.

 He can barely trust himself to be alone with her here in his office with all the hubbub going on outside the door. How much more tempted alone in her apartment?

 And how much more talk can he expect if he actually went home with her as she asks?

 Yet … how can he say no?

 What if something actually happens?

 How could he go home and look his wife in her eyes.

 He’s just not a good enough liar to pull off something like that. His wife has always been able to see through his deceptions, as innocent as they have been in the past.

 “Please!” the girl says, looking at him with those amazing yet desperate eyes.

 How can he say no?

 She seems so needy (and at the same time so powerfully sexual). From the day she started, he has seen her as an innocent victimized by a cruel and unjust society, she living in a world she is unprepared for, someone who need to be protected, someone so vulnerable he feels her pain each time he looks at her.

 Not to mention the ache of his own. While extremely attracted to he, he also believes he had a higher mission when it comes to her, and convinced himself to believe he can control his urges in order to fulfill that higher calling.

 Like a priest, he thinks, designed to keep her soul safe. He convinces himself he will not take advantage of her.

 Only, she hardly fits his idea of a Madonna. She exudes a pheromone that seems to excite him, stirring him up even when he doesn’t look directly at her. He is always aware of her, those deep eyes, her slanted mouth, that curious title of her head.

 There is something very determined in her bearing, and though he sees fear in her, he sees something else, something intense, like a lioness on the hunt.

 In the office, she always seems so conservatively dressed. It is his imagination that dresses her differently, more provocatively, thoughts he needs to suppress if he is going to help her now.

 If he can restrain himself, keeping himself from doing all those things he constantly imagines himself doing with her, then he might be able to go home and bear no shame.

 But he’s not stupid. He tells her they need to be careful.

 “We can’t be seen leaving together,” he says. “Too many nosy people in this place.”

 While any of his fellow workers might be dangerous, he is most thinking of that nosey writer, who already suspects things about him and her. “Where’s your car parked?”

 “Around the block,” she says, looking just a little puzzled or perhaps even a little amused by the intrigue.

 “Great,” he says. “I’ll walk over to the viaduct, and you can pick me up; there.”

 She nods. He watches her exit the office, breathing a bit easier, although her scent lingers, not just her perfume, the more primal scent he’s not noticed previously, explaining perhaps he equally primal reaction.

 He wonders what it might be like to kiss her. Does she taste sweet?

 He imagines his hands cupping her naked breast, then scolds himself: Some fucking priest you are!

 Finally, he packs up his bag, an old brown leather thing he’s had since he was a cub reporter all so many years ago, and makes his way out of the office, slowly, patiently, acting as nonchalant as his racing heart will allow, taking careful note of others also preparing to leave, none apparently noticing him.

 Even the nosey writer just gives him a wave, caught up in some company business of his own.

 Outside, twilight had edged into dark, an appreciated covering that allowed him to turn a way different from his usual routine.

 He could not stop the harsh in and out of his breathing. Yet the cool air felt good deep in his lungs.

 He did not rush, keeping a steady pace, passing the few shops and then the daycare center, gas station and finally coming to the foot of the bridge that climbed up into the Palisade above.

 Her dusty gray car huffed and puffed at the curb.

 The car handle sticks slightly as he yanks open the passenger side door, old mental groaning as he climbs in, putting his brown bag on the floor near his feet.

 “We all set?” she asks, again with just a note of sarcasm, though he can tell she also seems relieved, something more than he can say for himself, suddenly enclosed in a space even smaller than his part time office. Her scent becomes more acute, and so does his reaction. He relocates his bag from the floor to his lap to keep his attraction to her from showing.

  In the dim light she looks even more appealing that in brighter light, as if she is meant to live in twilight, He feels the incredible urge to kiss her – an utter betrayal to his wife, who he knows is waiting for him at home.

 “Yes,” he managed to croak. “Let’s go.”

 She gives him a nod and pulls the car into traffic, halting at the traffic light, where suddenly, another car pulls up on her side, a car he’s seen before, a small blue economy car with the nosey writer from the office behind the wheel.

 His heart nearly stops with the shock, as he slumps down, praying the dark will keep him hidden, although the writer seems not to notice either of them, but stares at the light waiting for it to change to green.

 “What’s wrong?” she asks, glancing over at him.

 Again, he is struck by how so innocent she seems, unaware, like a child of nature, even more in need of protection than even he thought, while at the same time, he catches an odd glint in her eyes, not quite laughing, but close enough.

 Her lips glisten with the red glow of the taillights from the car in front of them, wet lips, inviting lips, lips he again aches to kiss.

 You’re a priest, he tells himself. Behave!

 Be he can’t get the idea out of his head, aching to take her into his arms and hold her, protect her, and yet, make passionate love to her.

 Like a bolt of lightning – or maybe just the red light turning green – he pictures his wife, and her face, and how bad that aspect makes him feel, even if he’s done nothing so far, he’s already gone too far, and has made love this woman in his mind. He knows he will make love to her tonight, wife or not.

 The writer’s car vanishes in traffic ahead of them, turning left when she steers the car in other direction, through the webwork of streets, where one-time luxury houses cling to the cliff, their windows reflecting the growing lights of the New York City skyline.

 How far they have to go, he doesn’t know, having never taken this trip before. He asks no questions. He just lets her drive, pondering how he will explain it all later, when he gets home, what he was doing, and perhaps why he bears the scent of another woman’s perfume.

 It is all very dream-like, until she pulls up to the curb near a church.

 “We’re here,” she says, turning off the engine.

 “You live in a church?” he asks, surprised, once again thinking his part of a parish priest.

 “Don’t be silly,” she says and points towards the apartment building next to the church yard.

 Suddenly, it is all too real, and the pace of his heart testifies to his growing panic, not just being here, but also because the street if full of people, some who might even recognize him from hips photo on the company website.

 They’ll know what I’m up to, he thinks, feeling hormones completely out of control. He’s sixteen again, getting ready to make love to that girl from high school, although this woman is by far more beautiful and desirable, and he has lost all control over himself.

 Perhaps never having had control of himself in the first place, all of it an illusion, a self-deception.

 “Well, are you coming or not?” she asks, having already climbed out of the car, waiting for him to do the same.

 “Yes,” he mumbles, climbs out, clutching his bag to his groin, keeping hidden what is otherwise perfectly obvious.

 Everything gets more intense as he follows her into the vestibule and then though the inner door, following behind her up one flight, then another, losing count by the time they reach the door to her apartment.

 Inside, his head spins. Her scent boiling up out of the woodwork, making him feel like a fly that has just flown into a Venus Flytrap.

 He can barely breathe.

 Then, he sees his book on her bed, the book he gave her, and realizes she knows everything, what he wants, and she wants it too, and he knows that if he doesn’t leave, now, he’ll never be able to look his wife in the eyes later.

 “Do you want a drink or get right to fucking?” she asks.

 The question nearly knocks him off his feet. Is it so obvious? Has she seen it all along? Is there really a stalker or merely a myth to lure him into her world where she has total control?

 She is so beautiful; he can’t stop staring at her.

 He knows he isn’t going to leave any time soon. Her smile and the curious look in her eyes say she knows it, too.

 Whatever is going to happen is going to happen, he thinks, and then pulls her close.

 “I guess that answers my question,” she says with a laugh, then lets him kiss her, his hands moving over her the way he almost imagined, only she is much softer in some places, and he is harder in places he hoped he would be.

 He’s not certain how, but a moment later, they are both naked, he laying on top of her at first, his mouth on hers, his chest against her chest, his cock easing between her thighs and the deep, soft wetness.

 Then, she’s on top of him, riding him hard, making him moan, both of them moaning and groaning until finally, she screams, a delighted scream of growing satisfaction, but she won’t stop, then wrestle the way lovers wrestle, in and out, mouth to mouth, and then over again. He is a teenager again. He is not a priest.

 Her softness against him, his hands exploring her chest and then pulling her onto him again as he gets ready to explode. Somewhere in the back of his head, he realizes life won’t be the same after this, he’ll never be able to function at work the way he did with her there, with this memory lingering between them. And then, the thinking stops, and they wrestle again, though more gently, his lips working up and down her skin, tasting her, his tongue making her nipples hard then he sucks them, and then he kisses them, and her chin, and her mouth, and presses himself against her in a tender dance he never wants to end.

 He is completely consumed by her, looking deep into her eyes, seeing not the soul, but a laughing nymph, a goddess who uses him for her pleasure, and he loves it, suspecting it may never happen again, this magical moment he imagined before much more intense than his imagination could ever have painted it.

 He’s scared to stop, feeling the real world reading to crash in around them again, all that practical stuff that haunts their day to day. He needs to make this last, to make it worth the guilt he knows he will later feel.

 Eventually, they both nod off, waking while she is still asleep. He gathers his clothing, and his sturdy brown bag and creeps out towards the hall.

 the spell for the moment is broken, and when he looks back at her he sees the child of nature again, not the woman he just fucked.

 it is dark outside, the street is empty when the cab he called pulls up, driving him out of this magical land back to the harsh reality of his own life.

 

 

 

 

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