Veiled Affection

Chapter Nine

I don't know what to write next about that, to me, memorable night.

Perhaps I should write something about the ludicrousness I felt once I lay in bed later that night next to Gregory. Or maybe it might be good to note that Cate slept over in the guestroom after I forbade her to walk back home, liquored up and unaccompanied. I could share a thing or two about the morning after; the absurdity of sitting there at the kitchen table eating breakfast alongside your husband and the woman whom you kissed a few hours prior. I suppose that inept moment was a good preparation to get used to that strangeness, considering all that was to come.

But it might be best to recall the moment after Cate and I kissed, which was, against all knowledge, abnormally normal.

There were no outspoken questions of 'What have we done?', rather unspoken desires of 'Want to do it again?'. No feelings of regret and discomfort, but feelings of contentment and ease. And as we stood there in the middle of the study, clinging to each other, I felt a strange sense of comfort. I say strange, because I knew all too well I shouldn't have felt like that. Just having kissed with someone else than the man you married? It should evoke troublesome emotions of sorrow, yet I didn't feel that in the slightest. And Cate didn't either.

I could see it in her eyes, that shone with a glint of delight; could hear it in her voice, that didn't differentiate from her usual steady tone; her remarks, which were teasing as they had always been - and since that point were brought to light very differently. Such were the unaltered characteristics of Cate that night. As to me? I didn't differ.

I remember we stood upstairs in the silent hall, moments before we went to bed, and we simply looked at each other for a moment. I knew what she was thinking - I knew she knew what I was thinking - and it caused for a smile to bloom on our faces. It was a thought of certainty that we were going to do this again. We didn't know when, or where, or how for that matter, but we knew, surely, this wasn't a one-time thing. In that we were both completely right.
__________

The when, where and how turned out to be answered earlier than I would have thought. Not a week later she and I met again. There was no intention prior to that meetup - she didn't insinuate that we would kiss again, and neither did I - yet there was an underlying desire we were both guilty of. And I suppose this uniform desire was the reason we did end up in each other arms again.

Much like the first time we were in the study, talking, drinking (back then we still needed booze to venture into the forbidden), until she came closer and spoke out those wickedly lush words which I will never forget:

''I've been fantasizing about making you feel good...''

It came quite unexpected when she said it, and I took a hard swallow. But then, as she looked at me with that beguiling smile, I didn't have to think twice before I leaned in and kissed her good and long.

I didn't know if she had planned this beforehand, but from one moment to the next, she lay half on top of me, her face buried in my neck, her hands trailing across my shoulder, my chest, my stomach, and they lowered still. That to the point where I at once became aware what we were doing, and it all became too much: as her hand reached the brim of my shirt, and her fingers first made contact with my lower abdomen, in a reflex, I laid my hand on hers. Her lips stopped to graze along my jaw, and as she looked at me, I could see she was slightly startled, and so was I. I said the first thing that came to mind genuinely.

''I'm sorry-''

''Don't be.''

With my hand that still held on to hers, I guided her hand, insinuating for her to continue. ''Do it again.''

And to my surprise, she pulled her hand away, and cut off contact with my skin completely. ''You don't feel comfortable,'' She calmly stated. ''I get it.''

I didn't answer, and I suppose my stoic silence was answer enough. We both sat back on the sofa. It was silent for a moment, and I felt like she expected me to say something, which after a while, I did.

''I want to talk.''

She smiled. ''Isn't that all we ever do?''

I smiled, too, but then the question arose, and I asked it sincerely: ''What are we doing?''

She sighed, and I imagined she had expected the question. ''I'm too tipsy to have a civilized conversation. And so are you.''

''Who says it needs to be civil?'' I asked, and she looked at me for a moment, charmed, before I continued. ''I want to keep doing this.''

She raised a brow and grinned. ''Define 'this'.''

I smiled, and as an answer, I leaned forward, curled my hand around the back of her head and planted a long, static kiss on her lips. I leaned back and took delight in her expression.

''Oh, that,'' She muttered and cleared her throat. ''What is there to talk about, really? You want to keep doing this, I want to keep doing this. One and one equals two.''

''You think it's that easy?''

''Easy, no. Simple, yes.'' She plainly said. ''Watch your words.''

I smiled and looked at her narrow eyed. ''How come you always know the right thing to say?''

''Old age.''

I laughed and tilted my head back. ''Shut up,'' I said, and by pressing my lips back onto hers, I made her.

And that was it. That was the only form of a decent, contemplative conversation we had at that time. That is to say if it can be called decent at all. For weeks after, we just ignored the immorality of our actions. It would be a month time since then that we would face reality again; that we were sensible again. But until that time, it was just us, kissing, a lot. And in that month, gradually, we found ourselves needing less and less booze to get to that stadium. We also didn't pass that stadium, either. Not yet. It was a month full of making out - with the occasional hand trail across a spine or a breast - and it felt more than right.

To hide our relationship turned out to be, indeed, fairly simple. The study was our go-to. It was the room we were always in before we dared the rest. And after a week or two, our lessening of booze also brought with it audacity: we took our chances outside the study. You had other places in and around the house where we would make out whenever Gregory was busy performing his tasks, which was always. Then there was also the secluded bench, where no one was ever to be found except us.

Venturing out to all these places together with her, impulsive and heedless as we were, was turning into something that was, against better knowledge, easy. It began to feel like our little secret, and secrets can be seductive.

It was a month after our alliance had begun, that we would take a closer look at our actions. Because after that month we were almost caught.