The Art of The Affair

15

There were so many things I wanted to know, things I wanted to say, and I'd made him promise that we'd talk later.  But now - as he advances from the shadows and into the glow from my computer monitor - talking is the last thing I want to do.

My skin tingles as he silently steps into my personal space and backs me into the desk.  The man gives me tachycardia with just a look or a touch.  This might kill me.

"You wanted to talk," he murmurs, his warm breath washing over my face.  "So let's talk."

It was as if he'd just read my mind and was now taunting me.  I didn't have the strength to banter with him.

"Maybe later.

"You don't want to talk now?" 

His hand reaches for my cheek and it tilts towards his touch of its own volition.  I don't care that he must know by now that I want him, or that I've quite possibly lost control over the situation.  It's irrelevant at the moment.

"Maybe later."  

He eyes me as his thumb swipes along the same path it had earlier, only there's no smudged kohl to give his touch purpose.  He's touching me because he wants to, and now I want to do the same.

I reach out, tentatively at first, and let my hand smooth along his arm.  I'd wanted to feel his arms for a while now, to see if I could feel the lines of his ink with my fingertips, but there was nothing but smooth skin. It was remarkable how just soft and smooth it was, considering who the it belonged to.  I'd imagined dragon scales and warts and the stench of something foul only a few weeks ago.

He hums as if my fingernails feel good to him.  The goosebumps that follow confirm it.  

"Didn't these hurt?" I ask as I continue to explore his arm.

His hand leaves my face and goes to my hips.  This tall, lean man who doesn't look super strong, picks me up and sets me down on the desk without so much as a grunt.  I'm both floored and turned on.

"It depends on where you get them.  I guess it depends on the person, as well.  For me, they're like therapy."

I open my legs and he steps between them, pressing his body firmly against mine.  I'm now throbbing.

"I got my first one because my parents said they'd disown me if I ever got inked.  The rest, I got for myself."

His hands remain on my hips but his fingers are kneading into my flesh, as if he's debating again.  I wiggle further into him and slip my hands beneath the front of his shirt to lift it.  I want to see what peeks out from the top of his shirt.

He abandons my hips to pull the it over his head.  Once it's tucked behind his head and over his neck, he lets me explore his smooth, firm chest and abdomen.

"I've heard it's expensive."

His hands grip my thighs and knead as he answers.  He tells me he's been able to afford to get so many because he met a good artist at the pub - a customer who was building clientele at the time.  Now that the guy has his own shop and is charging a lot more and is in high demand, he still charges him fairly cheaply because of his loyalty early on, and for being a bit of a practice subject.  It's an interesting story but I'm having a hard time listening.  

My hands give up exploring for now and I plant them on the desk to brace myself.  I arch my back and push my hips forward, silently asking for something more than talking.  

"I have a 400 square foot flat," he uttered as he leaned forward and accepted my invitation.  His nose skimmed my neck as he continued.  "Don't romanticize reality."

My heavy eyelids open with sudden alertness that wasn't there a moment ago.  I don't like where this was going.

He straightens and starts to step backward but I reach forward and slip my fingers through his belt loops, holding him in place.

"Why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?" he scowls back.

"This Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde routine.  Are you that messed up that you like playing with people this way?"

He surges forward and presses himself between my thighs, growling his answer back at me.

"You don't know anything."

"You're right.  I don't know anything, so I have to go off of your actions."

"You think I don't want to fuck you?  You think I give a shit that you're married?  It's a fucking piece of paper, filed in some building.  If it meant anything to you, you wouldn't have been looking at me the way you have for weeks now.  It's all there in your eyes, Hermione."

Hearing him speak my name affects me profoundly.  It brings a new familiarity to our confusing dynamic, and I want to try it out as well.  But I can't speak.  I'm too busy trying to process what I'd heard.

"That being said, I know what I am to you.  You want me to fuck you because you're unhappy with your husband, and with life for all I know.  You're looking to change your appearance and do some exciting things.  But in the light of day, I can't offer you anything.  I don't even have a fucking bedroom door to close when I go to sleep at night.  You're used to having things I can't give you.  That's why I said, don't romanticize things.  You've got it all twisted about me and what I think and how I feel."

He steps away violently, fighting himself.  I push off the desk and jump to my feet to give chase as he grabs his helmet.  I grab my purse, sling it over my head and over my body, and don't even bother to power down the computer as we speed walk toward the door.

"I have two degrees, thank you.  I can have nice things on my own without expecting you or anyone else to provide them.  That isn't what this is about."

There's a brief pause as he locks up, and then we resume fighting on the way around the building and back toward his parked bike.  

"Can we just stop speaking in riddles and for once be honest?  Is it even possible these days for someone to ask a question and then get an honest answer in return?"

When he climbs onto his bike and sits down, I fold my arms over my chest and inform him that he's going to have to run me over a second time.  After the engine roars to life, he shoves the helmet at my stomach and barks at me to put it on.  There's only a brief flicker of a thrill before my temper snuffs it out.  I shove it over my head and climb behind him with a sense of purpose.  Once we're away, there's no talking.  There's no helmet on his head and no speaker in his ear.  I could shout away and he'd hear nothing - at least until we stop.

When we do, I push the visor up and shout in his ear.

"Let me guess, you're parking down the street from my place and then teasing me some more?"

He doesn't answer.  I push the visor back down with a frustrated grunt and hold onto his stomach as we surge forward again.  

As he drives, I'm fantasizing about using different objects to bash him over the head.