Before The Last Grain

Chapter 2

2 MONTHS, 8 DAYS, 12 HOURS, 3 MINUTES AND 57 SECONDS

Steve groans slightly as his eyelids remain shut tight. He pulls his hand from under his pillow and stretches his arm out across the mattress. The void space next to him is sourly cool, and has been for a while. He sighs and flips over on his back. The past 3 weeks, and many nights over, Natasha has left nothing but the shape of her figure and the subtle scent of her perfume into his cotton silk; and heated memories to stretch out the night and seep into the next morning.

Natasha never stays longer than necessary or longer than she intends to. She usually sends a text less than an hour before her impromptu visit, makes the bed her own then slips off the warm sheet to disappear into the starless night.

And every new shortened night deepens his yearning for her. So he gives more. Every embrace becomes more passionate, eager...and maybe, to some extent, desperate. He wonders if she can feel how every burning kiss, every lingering caress, every lustful union of their bodies conceal the mute disquiet slowly burgeoning inside him. How every ardent gesture is begging for her attention.

Yes, the past three weeks have been the most uncanny combination of consuming thrill and quiet agony. One that leaves him insatiable.

But those are Natasha's terms for this innocent, harmless fling to endure. And Natasha is very much in control. From the moment she texts to the moment she slips away, she is the one leading the dance. Bold and unapologetic.

He liked it, at first. Very much so. Fantasizing about, and never knowing, when and how their next sexual escapade would take place. But what excited him then frustrates him now. Harmless to her only, it seems. For he can feel it. The kisses she returns are as steamy as they are hollow. They're nothing but the thrill of satisfying a carnal need but they lack warmth and closeness. She gives but doesn't engage. Her sensual generosity only reflects her emotional indifference.

Maybe he's never been one for those meaningless hook-ups. Lying in the dim room lit by the city lights glowing through the wide window pans, her absence only emphasizes his solitude. He's gotten used to it — tomorrow morning, mind deep into his cases, the feeling will wane. He rolls over and pulls her cold pillow to him. Wrapping his arm around it, her familiar scent swirls up his nostrils and eventually drifts him to sleep.

A couple of days later, his phone beeps.

You free tonight? I'm starving

He smiles sternly.

Come on over. I'll cook. 7 pm?

The screen of his phone flashes a few seconds later.

It's a date ;)

The following evening, they're sitting at the kitchen island with jazz music playing in the background.

"How was your day? Did you have to deal with one of Tony's shenanigans?"

He smiles. "Oddly enough, Tony has been quite all right lately. Overall, a quiet and peaceful 36 hours."

She chuckles. "Fingers crossed he passes the 48 hours bar," she says before taking a new mouthful from her plate.

"Let's not jinx it," he jokes then rubs his hand over his forearm propped on the table. "How about you?"

She nods while swallowing with a smile then sweeps her hair over to the other side. "Just rehearsing. I'm giving a concerto in Toronto in about two weeks."

"Sounds exciting."

His eyes instinctively fall on her fingers, elegantly wrapped under her chin. He can see she has the hands of a pianist: strong and graceful, fingers long and slim.