Taint(19)

“Exactly what you taught me.”

Reality rushes in, throttling me into an icy-cold pool of awareness.

I’m touching another man’s wife.

I almost kissed another man’s wife.

I want to fuck another man’s wife.

Thinking it– letting it linger on the edges of your conscience– is one thing. But admitting it? Knowing that shit for a fact, so much so that it damn near hurts not to be near her? To anticipate every glance and sigh as if they drive my very existence?

This is madness.

I step away from her and keep stepping away until I am at the door. And even as I watch as pain dims the light in her eyes, I know that I have to leave. Because if I don’t, I’ll make good on every one of my unspoken admissions.





SHADES OF PINK smear the cloudless sky as the sun sinks into the shadowy depths of the horizon. I watch it in wonder, almost overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. People see the desert as lifeless, dry and desolate. I see peace, stillness and freedom.

I hear her approach, but I don’t move, still watching as pink fades into the darkest of blues, allowing the stars to reemerge and shine. I imagine them twinkling in her teal eyes as she smiles. I’m just too afraid to look at her and see it for myself.

The slap of her sandals stops at the lounger beside me, and she takes a breath before sitting down. We don’t speak. We don’t have to. The stars speak for us.

“What do you see up there?” she whispers after several minutes. We’re bathed in darkness now, aside from the muted light coming from the main house.

“Space.”

Ally snickers. “Wow. Such a profound observation, Mr. Drake.”

I turn my head just in time to see her throw her head back and laugh, the sound so pure and unexpected that I find myself smiling.

“Not space-space. Not like the “final frontier” or some shit like that. But space…room to breathe. To grow. To dream.”

“Mmmm.” The sound is throaty and erotic as hell. “Poetic.”

It is poetic for me, and I instantly regret my words. Seems like I can’t stop the word vomit when I’m with her. There’s just something about Ally that distracts me just enough to forget myself, beckoning my truth like a siren’s call. I just want to tell her…everything.

Maybe we were friends in a past life. Or lovers.

“Why did you leave me this afternoon?” she finally asks. I knew it was coming, yet the words still feel like nails on a chalkboard.

“I had to.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “I was distracted. And when I’m distracted, I can’t do my job.”

She frowns, and turns to her side, her front completely facing me. “You were distracted…by me?”

“Yes.”

She hums a response but doesn’t press for more. Instead she jumps to her feet, her sandals slapping against the pavement. “Hey, are you hungry?”

“Hungry?”

“Yeah. You weren’t at dinner. I figured you must be hungry.”

I shake my head. Sharing a beer or a bowl of ice cream is one thing, but breaking bread with the woman would be just asking for trouble. And I’m fairing just fine in that department on my own, fuck you very much.

“I’m good.”

Ally takes a step forward, close enough for me to see the floral pattern of her sundress from the corner of my eye. “Did you eat dinner?”

“No.” I peer at her just in time to see her roll her eyes.

“Well, I want to eat something. And you’re not going to make me eat alone, are you?” She flutters those dark auburn lashes, and her eyes grow as large and round as the moon.

“What about your ice cream?” I don’t tell her that I already polished off that carton and had to send out for more.

“Nah. I need real food. I’m hungry.”

“How are you hungry? Wasn’t dinner a couple hours ago?” I let my gaze sweep her slight frame, wondering where the hell she packs away all those daily bowls of ice cream. To society’s standards, Allison would be considered skinny, maybe even a bit understated. Her breasts aren’t naturally large or inflated with mounds of silicone or saline. Her ass is pert and small, just large enough to fit in my palms. And her hips are narrow, yet shapely and feminine.

Allison is a real woman. She isn’t pumped full of filler or snatched and pulled to the point that she can’t breathe. She’s comfortable in her skin, and that makes me all the more intrigued by her, and confused by her reasons for being here. Women as confident as her shouldn’t give two flying fucks about being subservient sex slaves to douche-canoe little shits like Evan Carr.

“Yeah, it was. And while Pan-seared Chilean Sea Bass in a dashi-soy broth is good, it’s just…not satisfying. It’s kinda cold and vacant. There’s no heart in it. No soul.”