Unfaithful (2 page)

The hallway is silent. He stands in front of the door to her room, glancing down at his feet, listening for sounds, willing his breathing to slow. It is after one
A
.
M
.; the hotel and most of its occupants are fast asleep.

He has been standing there for the better part of five minutes, not moving, fingering the letter he holds in his hand. He’s ready to slip it under her door, but each time he musters up the strength to bend down and release it, an ache appears out of nowhere, righting him.

He knocks on the door. Hears rustling. Knocks again. More noise, then footsteps. Locks and bolts undone. The door opens, and he finds himself facing her.

“Know what time it is?” she inquires, wiping at the corner of one eye. She is clad in a wrinkly, man’s button-down white shirt, way too big for her frame. He looks her over, musing about what, if anything, she wears underneath. Immediately, his thoughts return to the party two weeks ago, and the night that made him a man obsessed. Even at the lateness of this hour, her sensuality reaches out and tickles his skin, caressing him in the lonely hallway. He smells her, takes in the smoothness of her skin, the roundness of her cheekbones, the surety of her stare. Her graceful curves cannot be concealed by another man’s shirt.

All of this conspires to confuse him, tear him down, and make him weak, a slave to the physical. Yet, it is his stare that is unyielding now. He can hear the pulse in his ears. He is growing hard, can feel it tighten his jeans, and is certain she can sense his awakening, too.

“Anything wrong?” she asks, her gaze washing over him hastily, hand on her hip, making no move to let him pass.

“Need to talk—didn’t get to finish what we started earlier.”

“This can’t wait?” she inquires, somewhat exasperated. The hour is late.

“Obviously not.”

They stare each other down for a moment before he hears her sigh. She retreats, and he enters the room.

The bed is unmade, oversize pillows and thick comforter haphazardly situated. She climbs onto the bed, exposing thighs. A hint of white emerges—and he conjures up images of silk panties, erotic g-strings, and other sexual things. She witnesses his stare. Asks him what it is exactly that he wants.

Silently, he hands her the letter, which has occupied his time for several evenings.

“What is this?”

“How I feel.” With nothing more to say, he sits on the edge of the bed, facing away from her.

She repositions the comforter over her legs, ensures she is buttoned up top, unfolds the letter, and glances over at him. Then she begins to read.

It takes her a minute to complete. He is silent watching her. Her expression doesn’t change, as if she has been expecting this. When she is done, she refolds the letter slowly and glances up.

“Ryan.”

“Yes.” He is waiting, breathless.

She is cautious with her words.

“This is my fault,” she says. “I’ve led you on. Things happened after that party which cannot be undone. I would be lying if I said I regretted them all, but the truth is”—and here she pauses for a moment to search the ceiling, as if she can find comfort there—“they shouldn’t have happened.”

He is silent. She takes his silence as an approval to continue.

“For several reasons, Ryan. One, I am married. We both are. We love our spouses, and are not about to jeopardize what we have.”

A statement, not a question.

“Two, you and I are friends—been that way for as long as I can recall. Don’t want to mess that up—right? I mean, what good can come of this? Lose a friendship for twenty minutes of pleasure?” She stares at him, yet he looks away. “Ryan, is it really worth it?”

She barrels forward, finding the strength—the energy to go on, regardless of the effect it has on him.

“Three, we work together. We’re on the same team. You and I built this company together. I love what I do, and I know you do, too. Don’t want to do anything else; don’t want to work anywhere else. I know you feel the same.”

She spreads her hands wide, palms upturned. “So you see, Ryan, what happened that night was a mistake. All of it a serious error—I realize that now. I was being selfish—enjoying the attention, the stares, and the energy you threw my way.”

Olivia smiles weakly.

He has been sitting patiently, rubbing his palms together. He stands now, goes to the window, and parts the curtain to glance down at the street life below. He turns toward her to speak, his voice a whisper.

“You said I was beautiful.” Mustering up the strength to continue, he barrels forward. “I know things aren’t simple. I wish to God they were. I wish there weren’t these obstacles in our way. I wish we could just finish what we started. I’m not disagreeing with what you’ve said, nor am I implying that your reaction doesn’t make any sense—’cause it does. But affairs of the heart never make sense. They defy logic, Olivia.

“I know what I feel—what I felt that night, when you took me in your sweet mouth. I know what you felt, too—know it as sure as I’m standing here.”

Her expression has changed. It has suddenly soured and forces him to pause. She is staring at him as if he is not of this world. Instinctively, he waits.

“What are you talking about?”

“Kind of late in the game for coyness. You know what we shared.”

He moves forward, a wave of elation surging through him as he remembers the sweet details of their last encounter.

Reaching the foot of the bed, he climbs on. Olivia retreats to the headboard, back pressed into the veneer wood, hearing it groan.

“I think you should leave,” she says with sudden finality.

He strokes the lump where her thigh is positioned under the cover. She recoils like a caged animal.

“Stop it. This isn’t going to happen. Not tonight. Not again.”

He pauses, hand in mid-stretch. His gaze is galvanized with hers; her locs seem to tremble along with the rest of her body. In that moment, he feels extreme pity…and intense pain.

“Do you deny how you felt? How good it felt when we were together?”

Silence.

He reaches for her again. She lets his hand rest on the comforter. His lips are upturned.

“You said I was beautiful….”

Her head thrashes, but in slow motion. She opens her mouth to speak, and is interrupted by the high-pitched scream of the smoke alarm.

Hands immediately rise to their ears; both are shaken by the intensity.

It is close to 1:30
A
.
M
., and the fucking fire alarm is wailing.

Unbelievable!

The next thirty minutes pass in rapid-fire succession—into the hallway, down countless flights of stairs, out into the pouring rain, away from the hotel complex that has been maddeningly roped off by the NYFD. Sirens, fire engines, police vehicles, hoses, hotel staff, and guests are everywhere. The guests scatter; already clogged streets become choked to near bursting with equipment and panicky, half-dressed out-of-towners. By the time he leads Olivia hesitantly to an all-night diner four blocks away, Miles’ shirt is soaked to the bone. Her nipples shine like beacons. Either she hasn’t noticed or no longer cares. She is freezing, dead tired, and drained of all emotion. At 2:18
A
.
M
., they have only each other for comfort.

That thought alone is sobering.

They sit across from each other now, Olivia and Ryan, in a cramped, dingy booth, sipping lukewarm coffee. The silence and wobbly table are the only things separating them, as she tries unsuccessfully to forget this night, this man, this situation.

She is thinking,
How on earth did things get to this point?

He enters her slowly, feeling her expand as he fills her up. He groans in response to her grabbing his ass and pulling him inside of her. He glances down; Carly’s caramel skin is aglow with the sheen that accompanies lovemaking. Her body writhes underneath his frenzied thrusts. Her small breasts, with dark erect nipples, beckon him near. Her pubic hair is trimmed neat, and he loves to watch himself thrust in and out of the sweet spot between her legs.

At this moment, he is thinking of her.

He is savoring the moment of being inside his wife. Yet, he ponders
her
…Olivia’s legs, thighs, navel, breasts, neck, ass, and beautiful face.

He longs to drink her in, consume her in one bite, so he can carry her around inside of him wherever he goes. Since this is not possible, he dreams of her instead. Constantly. At work, during the commute home, while having supper, afterwards as he and his wife sit on the couch watching television, and even while they are having sex.

Now as he thrusts deep inside of his wife, he imagines he is making love to
her
. He thrusts harder, giving it to her the way he supposes Olivia would want it…deep, hard, and long. Carly’s eyes are glazed as he pummels her, mouth open, tongue poised at her lips, but no words emerge. She is not one to talk during sex—not even a whimper or a moan. She only makes faces, ushering him onward with a gesture here and there. She’s not shy—not afraid to take his dick in her hand and put it where she desires.

But she doesn’t moan.

And this is okay with him. It never even crossed his mind. Until the one evening when Miles and Olivia stayed over…

The rain pounded the roof with a vigor that frightened even him. He was huddled on the couch with Carly, while Miles and Olivia sat cozily across from them on the love seat. With the electricity out and half the city in the dark from the storm, their faces were bathed only by candlelight. It had been pouring for hours—started just as they arrived. They were supposed to be going out for dinner and a movie—and now had no choice but to change plans, deciding instead to dine in. Then, the power went out. They listened to the reports on a portable radio about the roads becoming flooded.

Ryan told them to stay over in the guest bedroom. No way were they going to attempt to drive anywhere in that deluge.

Later on that night, after exhausting the supply of chardonnay, merlot, and margarita mix, they retired to their separate rooms. Carly, as usual, drank a bit too much and had to be put to bed. So, Ryan lay beside her, stroking her smooth belly with one hand, tugging on himself with the other. In the next room, Miles made love to his wife. It was clear they tried to keep the noise down, but Ryan had no trouble discerning Olivia’s moans through the thin wall.

Ooooooooh.

Ahhhhhhh.

He imagined Miles taking her from behind, her round, heart-shaped ass flattening against his harried thrusts as she moaned and groaned.

He heard it all—Olivia begging for more, commanding her husband to give it to her deeper. Her whispers became increasingly frantic until she cried out, a single muffled scream that caused Ryan to spurt onto his own belly, her orgasm mixing with his as Carly snored peacefully beside him.

He never forgot that night. Never forgot those sounds of love that haunt him even to this day. He longs to hear those words, soft melodies that alighted from her lips.

Ooooooooh.

Ahhhhhhh.

Mmmmmmmn.

Yeahhhhhhhhhhhh.

Sounds of love…

From this woman…

The object of his obsession…

Another man’s wife.

The huge, warehouse-like space is littered with cubicles and conference tables made of steel, mesh, and chrome. Four elevated offices located in the four corners of the building; the domain of management—hers—Olivia’s diagonally across from his. The staff, he recalls with a smirk, calls them birdcages, and that is exactly the way he sees his office, as a cage—because everyone, all the staff, can watch the intimate actions of their superiors just by glancing up at the elevated space and four sheets of glass.

While sitting in his cage, re-reading an e-mail thread from a throng of engineers, his cell rings. He absently glances down and notices he has three missed calls. Answering on the fourth ring, he notes the time. Well past 3:00
P
.
M
.

Miles. No preamble.

“I waited for close to ninety minutes…”

Ryan clenches his teeth and swears.

“Oh, shit, man, I totally forgot. Got tied up with this defect shit.”

“Whatever. We need to talk. It’s about Olivia.”

This stops him dead in his tracks. He is silent.

“Hear me?” Miles demands.

“Yeah.” A million scenarios run through his head at warp speed. Of course, she told him. Ryan would have been naïve to think otherwise.

What to do?

Deny it?

No, she has the letter…his words on a page.

He wonders if Carly knows yet.

If not, it would only be a matter of time.

Oh, Christ.

“I have to take care of a few things,” he hears Miles utter, “but will be free later on. We need to talk. Tonight—can’t put this off any longer.”

“Okay.”

Miles provides the when and where, then hits End. Ryan stares at the cell in his palm. Glancing up, apprehension covering his face like stubble, he peers toward her office. It sits vacant.

He punches the switch angrily, bathing his cage in privacy.

Men always focus on the physical to a fault.

He does that now.

Reliving, in excruciating detail, how she took him—inch by delicious inch—into her awaiting mouth.

He recalls with razor-sharp clarity the feeling of absolute pleasure he took in slipping inside her mouth. The feeling was so exquisite and overpowering, as he knew with a surety he would not last, couldn’t hold back the passion surging forward like a wailing, out-of-control sandstorm. No longer caring, his mind ceased to perform the analysis, to evaluate what he was doing there and then, or the dire consequences of his actions.

When exactly did he compromise his marriage? He should have paused to consider this simple question.

But he could not.

Was it months back when he began, seemingly unconsciously, to notice her in a different light—looking forward to the times when she sashayed into his cage, flashing her signature smile, her touch alighting on his shoulder in passing, but the feeling remaining for several hours?

When was it?

She had kissed him that night—and that single act had changed him. His internal fire turned up high—no longer smoldering, but an all-out four-alarm blaze; he was no longer able to contain his emotions.

Was it minutes or hours earlier when Miles’ gruff voice interrupted their pleasure?

He did not know. Nor did he care.

The two of them, Olivia and Ryan, had scattered like rats, retreating to their separate lairs to wait—he knew—counting the seconds until her husband’s snoring returned to normal. Then creeping back up the carpeted steps slowly, hands extended in front of him as he moved stealthily, his mind a daze, no longer thinking of her—his wife, Carly, who lay sleeping and unaware below.

When he reached the first floor, he found it bathed in darkness. No matter how long it took, he would feel his way, inch by inch, foot by foot. He did so, fingers outstretched, remembering where the couch and other furniture lay. Found the couch quickly and sat down slowly, aware of every movement and every sound his body and the fabric made. He willed his breathing to return to normal, but it would not comply. He was that fired up.

Then he heard her.

Every sense was tuned to an ultra-high frequency.

Progressing down the stairs—he was sure.

Returning to him.

He squeezed himself and stifled a moan. His heart raced. Soon now—nothing else mattered. It was messed up—this situation—if one could call it that—if he allowed himself one split second of reasoned thought to consider—but he did not.

He was too far gone for that.

She approached. He silently inhaled, smelling her scent. It was overpowering—the musk that accompanies passion—raw, primal sex smells. His fist rushed to his mouth. She was ready for him, meandering around furniture silently, footfalls light on the thick carpeting.

A woman’s touch. He felt it on his face and chest, moving downward, experiencing the fingernail as it grazed skin and navel before ending at the top edge of his boxers. He held his breath, and held his cock in his palm, as in offering. Take it, he willed her, before I go insane.

Then he alighted from the couch as she silently complied, taking him gently inside.

The feeling was indescribable. Her mouth was an oven and he thrust toward the back of her throat as he reached for her locs, the ferocity within causing him to tremble. Toes curling on the cool carpet, legs outstretched, holding her head in his hands while bucking his hips slowly. Darkness had settled around them like a blanket. Occasional house creaks and groans interrupted the otherwise silent hush of the night.

He bucked harder, increased his thrusts. She met him with an expert touch, wrapping her fingers along his shaft, squeezing him back inside.

To a place that was warm, wet, and cozy.

She was increasing the tempo now, upping the pace, letting him know in that unspoken language lovers use, it was okay to unleash. I know what you want. I know what you need. Use me, baby. Don’t be afraid to let go. I’m willing to take anything you send my way.

How long, he could not say. Wasn’t very long, though. The time they had spent all came down to this—a single physical act—an instant in time that forever changed things.

A tidal wave rolling.

An avalanche barreling down an ice-covered mountain-side.

It all came down to this—a delicious blow job, an end of the line, fantasy turned reality.

He couldn’t have stopped it if he tried.

He rose up, toes digging into the carpet, grasping the sides of her head, locs trapped between fingers as he came, unleashing an outpouring of emotion and everything else he had to offer. Until there was nothing left to give.

It took everything he had and every ounce of strength he possessed not to scream.

Then it was done, as quickly as it had begun.

Her sweet mouth contained his manhood for an instant more before allowing it to slip out. While rising off her haunches, she tucked his member safely inside his underwear before leaving him alone, giving him back to his spouse quietly before returning faithfully and silently to her own.