You're in the back seat of a car. It's dark and you're hurrying back to Germany for the next show. Lindsey is a little distracted, and you're frustrated. You're tired of secrets. You're tired of knowing secrets, having secrets, and, well, being a secret. He senses your irritation and takes your hand, stroking it absently as he stares out the window.
You wish he'd stop touching you like this. Not because you don't like it, but because you like it too much. The closeness of the past week has taken its toll on you, and you're not sure how much longer you can play this game. He's been in a foul mood since he got back from the hospital that afternoon, and as much as you understand, you can't fix any of it. You can't make Stella better. You certainly can't fix his marriage. You can't even give him the release of angry sex, which you know he's dying for. Not that you don't want to; your body is aching for it. There's too much at stake now. You're too old to be a mistress. You feel that familiar surge in your belly as he pulls your hand to his lips, kissing each of your fingers, still not looking at you. You finally snap. "Will you stop that?"
He looks startled and releases your hand. You probably hurt his feelings, but you only marginally care. You can't take it. You turn away from him and stare out the other window, and he lets you ignore him for the rest of the ride.
Security shuffles you to your plane, and you wear your hair up, your sunglasses doing their best to conceal your identity. Lindsey doesn't seem to give a shit, striding ahead of you across the tarmac to the plane, jogging easily up the steps. You take your time, letting your escort help you and pretending you don't notice Lindsey's impatient glances.
Once the door is shut, you get settled, sitting on opposite sides of the plane. For a long time, you're silent, staring into the black sky and watching the cities shimmer below you. Everything was pretty from the sky.
Lindsey is the first one to break. "You're really going to ignore me?" He can't take the tension anymore, and his question yanks you from your thoughts. You don't know what to say, and you hesitate, which gives him a chance to keep talking. "Christ, Stevie. I don't need to fight with you right now." He looks exhausted and a little sad.
"I don't know what to do right now," you admit, knowing how unclear your statement is.
"About what?"
"About you, Lindsey! I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to figure out what the right thing is. I want to be here for you, but I also want to kill you right now. I can't figure out if I should hold you or strangle you or fuck you, and every time I think I've figured it out you put your hands on me and I just... I can't..." You stop, tears strangling your words before you can finish. He looks stunned, and clearly has no idea how to respond to your outburst. You finally recover enough to continue. "Being your friend is really fucking hard and I don't know if I can do it."
"What should we do?"
"I don't fucking know!" Your voice rises in pitch and you stand up and start to pace, running your hand through your hair. "I don't know what you want from me, Lindsey. Tell me." He looks out the window, and you know he's panicking. You don't care. "Look at me! Look at me right now and tell me what you want from me."
One look at him tells you what he wants, but you want him to say it. He doesn't, instead standing up and kissing you fiercely. You stumble backward, falling against bathroom door, but he doesn't break the kiss, his hands roughly grabbing your hips and ass, forcing your breath to quicken. He leans his body against you and you can feel his arousal, pressing into your own. He moans into your neck, and you realize that your feet aren't even on the ground anymore. Your arms wrap around his neck and he turns, setting you on the table as you grip his hips with your legs.
"This is what I want," he says unnecessarily, his hand diving between your thighs and grabbing you.
"Lindsey, we can't..."
"You want this every bit as much as I do."
He isn't wrong. You're sure he can feel how wet you are, even through your leggings, and he continues sucking and biting at your neck urgently, letting you grind against his hand. He impatiently tugs at the waistband of your leggings, and suddenly you stop. "I can't let you do this."
"Are you fucking kidding?"
"You're risking too much for me."
"Shut up. Just shut the fuck up," he says angrily, turning away from you.
You don't blame him for being angry, and your mind races. Suddenly, you stand up and start to undress, and he turns back when your dress hits the floor. He watches carefully as you expose yourself to him, his eyes devouring you. You realize that your underwear is completely soaked as you toss them aside, and that you've both probably been turned on to the point of discomfort for days.
He stands still as you approach, and you kneel in front of him, quickly unzipping his jeans and yanking them down to his ankles. He kicks them aside and watches you slide your hands up his thighs, his breath shallow. His erection twitches and jerks erratically, and his eyes are wide with anticipation. You haven't done this for him in decades, but somehow it feels less wrong than letting him fuck you. You wrap your hand around his length and squeeze it gently, holding it still as you lick his head slowly.
You know he's too turned on to speak right now, but the sounds he's making are quickly becoming urgent and you're hungry to give him some kind of release. You work your mouth further and further down, dragging your tongue along his shaft before you take him into your mouth and suck fiercely, gagging slightly as he bucks his hips into your face. You keep going, encouraged by the series of guttural sounds and expletives ripped from his throat. You realize he's having a hard time standing and you push him back a little, forcing him to fall onto the couch. He grips your hair and moans your name desperately.
"I'm close," he warns, but you already know that. You speed up and gently fondle his balls as you work, caught slightly off guard when he spills into your mouth. He collapses, his chest heaving, his hands tangled in your hair. You kiss your way up his lower abdomen, lifting his shirt as you go. When you reach his chest, he removes it, and you press yourself against him, dying to feel his skin against yours. When you get to his mouth, his arms close around your waist and he kisses you furiously, pressing his thigh against your swollen, wet folds. You whine a little, involuntarily thrusting against him.
"Let me help you with that," he says, flipping you onto your back and pushing your thighs apart, legs flailing in the air. He's not gentle, and you don't want him to be. He dives right in, swirling his tongue around your clit before sucking at your lips, two fingers thrusting into you. You grab your breasts, pulling at them as he assaults you with his mouth. It doesn't take long for him to finish you, and he lowers his naked body on to yours, his lips grazing your neck and collarbone. "I still want you," he says.
"I can feel that," you say, noticing a second erection pushing into your thigh. "Not until you're mine."
"Fuck, Stevie," he murmurs, but he's not angry anymore. You let him touch and kiss you for as long as he wants, despite the fact that it's complete torture. He finally can't handle it anymore and disappears into the bathroom. You take the opportunity to get dressed, wondering how much waiting really matters at this point.
