It wouldn’t be right of me to call you my ex, would it? Not because there’s still something between us. Not because there isn’t and I’m in denial. I can’t call you that because we were never together. Yet, for some reason, whenever I take a stroll down the ‘men in my past’ stretch of memory lane, there you are.
Truth be told, it happened so long ago I couldn’t even name the year with any real certainty. But I can see it in my mind like it happened only yesterday. An agreement between two men which required that one deliver an object to the other. I made an offer to help out. To be a go-between. Such an innocent offer on the surface, but one which resulted in something I shouldn’t have (but desperately) wanted; a sanctioned visit directly into what one of the three of us would eventually come to know as enemy territory.
You were waiting for me that day. Standing outside in the sunlight, shielding your deep brown eyes from its glare with your hand so that you could watch me approach. I confess, I felt a little put out when you didn’t make a move to relieve me of my burden, but then I got closer and I saw your face. Your smile was tiny, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to sweep away any irritation your unchivalrous behaviour had stirred in me.
I was breathless when I reached you – that slope was always a challenge wasn’t it – and when you heard me lightly pant out your name you swiftly took your shiny new object from my hands and turned away, but not quick enough to hide the pleading look you cast toward the sky. I didn’t let on, but I heard your little prayer, you know. I heard you whisper, help me not do this to her.
The inside of your house was cool. Your windows were open, and your curtains were drawn. When you closed the back door behind us I was shocked by the ensuing silence. As a rule, there was always one of us talking whenever we were together, so to hear nothing but the sounds of you putting away your new acquisition… it made my belly start to twist itself up in knots.
Then, as you cleared your throat and offered me a drink – which I declined with a dry croak – I heard another noise. One by one, you were closing your windows. I told myself that was why my temperature was rising, but I knew even as I had the thought that I was kidding myself. I was heating up because, somewhere in me, I understood what you were doing. You weren’t stopping the sounds from outside coming in…you were taking steps to prevent any sounds from inside getting out.
Each time you walked past me I felt the hairs on my bare arms shift. I know, that does sound cheesy, but it’s true. Whenever you got close they stood on end, my nerves reaching for you in exactly the same way as a pile of metal filings reaches for a magnet. I followed you around, pretending to be listening to you as you pretended to want to tell me about your home.
When we reached the bottom of your staircase I wondered if you would try to coax me up, but you didn’t. You waved your hand at the darkness at the top and said, obviously there are rooms up there, but I won’t take you up. I laughed awkwardly and asked if you didn’t want me to see that you used your floor as a wardrobe or that you hadn’t put away your porn, but you didn’t find me funny. With a distracted furrow of your brow you said, no, it’s nothing like that, it’s because there’s a bed up there.
As disappointed as I was knowing you didn’t intend for me to see that bed, I couldn’t help but feel a million dollars. You didn’t want to take the grand tour upstairs because I was a temptation for you. Funny really, given that whether upstairs or down, you were a temptation for me, and out of the two of us I was the one who had no right to be flirting with temptation.
But I did it anyway.
I sat on your sofa – the one that seated two – and you almost sat beside me but at the last minute you changed your mind and sat on the other one. Right in the centre of the three seats, right at the edge. You shouldn’t have put that cushion on your lap, you know. If you hadn’t I wouldn’t have dreamt of looking there, and you wouldn’t have had to blush so hard because you knew I was aware of what you were hiding.
Even so, it was naughty of you to roll your eyes, smiling sheepishly, and throw it aside. Letting me see the shape of what I wanted…what you wanted to give me…what I couldn’t have. You always joked that I’d be impressed with what you had to offer, and I always accused you of exaggerating. But you weren’t, were you? You were showboating. You said you had it and, fuck, you weren’t kidding!
I couldn’t stop my gaze from straying to it and it killed me that you noticed. So, I did what any other off-limits girl would have done; I rested my elbows on my knees, hands clasped beneath my boobs, and leant forward. Yes, there was too much cleavage on show. Yes, you could see my nipples were hard because of the way my top had tightened. And yes, you could see that I wore a front fastening bra. You licked your lips and stammered a bit and I clearly remember thinking your turn.
We just stared at one another, knowing what the next move would have to be. I could see my tension mirrored in your forearms, your shoulders and thighs. I knew you were having to work to make yourself stay in your seat because I knew I was putting in the same effort.
God, I wanted you to get up. I wanted you to cross the room, pull my skirt up (ha, me in a skirt…that really should have been encouragement enough) and fuck me. No warm up, no foreplay, because we’d been doing that from the minute we caught sight of each other outside.
Your full body twitch had me half convinced that you were going to make your move.
The intensity of the frustration that flashed through me when you didn’t had me half convinced that I was going to make your move for you.
And then your phone rang.
You leapt up like your sofa was on fire and the relief in your voice when you hissed, cutting it fucking fine aren’t you, to whoever was on the other end of the line told me it was time for me to leave.
You walked me to the door. The front door, not the one I had entered through at the back. I wondered why, given how many locks you had to open to let me out, but when you turned to face me I understood. Your hall was tiny, not even three feet wide, so to get past you I’d have to touch you.
I wish I’d faced you when I squeezed by. I wish I’d pressed my chest against yours, held your hips for balance, looked into your eyes so you’d have no choice but to kiss the lips that would have been barely six inches away from yours.
But I’m a loyal girl at heart, so I faced the other way.
I felt your hands holding my hips to keep me steady. I felt your breath on my throat, your incredibly large cock pressing hard – oh God, it was so very fucking hard – against the curve of my ass.
And then I was outside in the sunlight, shading my eyes from its glare as I stared guiltily at my destination. I waited until I heard you start engaging the locks – almost three minutes – before I headed home to my smiling husband who asked me, did everything go okay? I told him yes, because it had, nothing untoward had happened.
Is it strange that it still feels like the first lie I ever told him?