Just Business

Chapter Twelve: David

The final wash down should have taken twenty minutes maximum, but David managed to stretch it into an hour. It was not just because he was drunk, but because he did not want the evening to end. Even with Marcia gone, a bit of her magic remained. He found himself reluctant to wash her lipstick stains away from the glasses, or close the notebook with their overlapping handwriting.

Eventually he did what he had to do. David felt oddly uncomfortable. The bar, his bar, had never felt so empty. It held a void he had never noticed before. He didn't need to be told what was lacking. It was Marcia. More and more the answers to all his questions was Marcia.

He found himself staring at the door, willing it to open and let her through. He shook himself out of it after a while, forcing himself up the stairs and into his living area. He ate cold pizza at his desk, looking out his window at the deserted high street. Then, he brushed his teeth and washed his face, getting into bed.

An hour later, David sat up. He had not slept at all, but his head felt clearer. Clear enough to think, but not clear enough to control. His thoughts unfurled like a snail hatching from its egg, flexing newborn muscles and exploring paths unseen. He became acutely aware that Marcia was just next door.

He touched the wall, wondering if it was her bedroom just beyond. He imagined her room to be a mirror of his, their beds next to one another. If it were true, they had practically been sleeping together every night. His body prickled happily at the thought of it.

His mind wondered a little further. Had he ever been lying here, blissfully unaware, as she did something just past the wall? Had she ever touched herself? So close that if the wall disappeared, he would be able to reach over and help.

He pictured her beautiful face, flushed and pink. In his mind her lips were swollen, the bottom one clenched between her teeth. She wore only one of his oversized t-shirts, just long enough to keep her tantalising out of sight. She moaned his name, her breath stuttering as she clenched her thighs together. He imagined himself, knelt before her. He parted her legs slowly, gently, kissing up the length of her thighs. She reached down, her hand moving to release some of the aching pressure between her legs. He stopped her. Pleasure was his to give, not hers to take. Instead one of her hands fell into his hair, warm and urgent. The other found her breasts, massaging them until her nipples were hard and visible beneath his shirt. She looked down at him, her breath coming out in short pants. She was mouthing the same word over and over again: Please.

Finally after teasing and kissing the soft skin surrounding her he would . . .

David's orgasm ripped him back into reality. As his imagination had taken over, his hands had pushed into his boxers, kneading him to completion. It had taken him by surprise like a teenager, and David felt ashamed despite his isolation.

With a groan, David got up to change his boxers. It was going to be a long night.