by E V King
“Quite amazing…” The words had escaped me almost instantly.
“You…you like that?” His voice carried a hint of surprise and a lot of shock. He rephrased his words, as he realized I might take them as a sneer in disguise. I didn’t.
“Maybe…if you actually understand what they are singing. Nothing for me.”
I was fully aware that it wasn’t the most popular genre nowadays, opera in general that is; yet, I found it enriching, soothing and liberating; an added value to life not because of the lyrics, as he thought, but because of the emotion embedded in the music.
“Just change the channel, sweetie. Not tonight. No melancholy tonight.”
My hand grazed his leg, and my body slipped closer to his, a calculated move yet barely noticeable. An hour went by. Crept by, I should say, filled with playful glances, subtle caresses of hands trying to recover the vibes of the past, sly adulation of the tip of my stiletto along his shin, until our slightly inebriated state blurred all of our limitations.
His look burned into my eyes as his hand dove under the blood-red lace of my dress. His inner animal gave in to the seduction and nibbled at my lips. Milo’s nails hooked onto the delicate fabric as his hands rediscovered me. I felt the pressure of his entire body chafing along mine while delighting in the soft feel of his tongue on my neck. He rubbed farther down and sank to his knees right in front of me. I wanted to throw my head back, but the promise of sensation I deciphered from gazing at his humble position caused me to pause. This was precisely the type of proposal I had been longing for, and he had been the only one who understood. Desire sparked up my thighs, my wishes fulfilled by both of his hands firmly grasping my ankles. He spread my legs and callously shoved them upward. Our eyes met in that instant, and his shimmered like steel in the dim light of the floor luminaire, filled with a knowing recognition I’d found absent from the rest of the world. He was anything but reserved. Milo knew me, had known me for a long time, and grasped that I had no need for modesty right now. Three of his fingers brought me three steps closer to my inner truth. With rash roughness, he conquered me again.
“My sweet little slut,” he hissed between his teeth, just before he saw the traces of blood, remnants of his crudeness, staining his hand, which startled him slightly. “Sweetie, I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
My index finger hushed his lips. “You beast, don’t you dare worry. This is the right kind of pain.”
Milo pushed the red lace ever higher, and greedily his cheek grated up along the inside of my legs. Every thought in the world exited my mind. All worries, all considerations, all contemplations, all of it melted away as the resulting, ultimate, emptiness made room for a sense of vitality beyond compare. My head gave in and sank into the soft pillows beneath, while my slender fingers groped through his hair. I found pleasure in the way he dauntlessly licked away at my fire, taking it in, kissing and stroking and biting me straight into moaning oblivion.
This was hardly a supportable stance, but in a good way. I could not let this happen again. Just, I didn’t want him to just happen. Not like that very first time we got together, when I had been so lost in the moment that I didn’t fully live it the way it deserved to be lived. A moment must always be exploited to its full potential, but then again, years ago, I was still on the verge of discovering this wild tendency of mine. Back then, I was too young too fully appreciate this exquisite kind of passion, and very much like truly savoring a glass of a ’75 Romanée-Conti, I had to mature into it. He had been my sole longing for many weeks, many years even, and he was here now, right in front of me on the floor, within reach. He was here, and I wanted him so badly. Here. Now. My lace shell was now burning on my skin. I guided him up to kiss me. A kiss whose tempestuousness merely proved it had been long overdue, betraying our suppressed passions. It didn’t take long for the dress to hit the floor, for Milo to arrive where he truly belonged, mounted on top of me. But the heels stayed on; they still had duties to fulfill.
We gave in to the fire. The passion of the past. The passion of the present. It seemed stronger than before. More intense. Our honesty had absorbed all possible inhibitions. Milo was riding me hard as I sat on the couch with my legs folded around his neck, and finally everything felt right again, just the way it should be. This was hardly to be considered your average, day-to-day petting party laced with nostalgic sparks. This was a fight: with our natures, with our fever, with each other. All of it sharply contrasted with the tender-voiced ballad wafting in the background. Milo turned me ninety degrees and pulled me down by my ankles, making me fall flat on my back.
“Delicious slut, you drive me insane,” he roared just before he slapped me across the face. I gasped for air. What a wonder to feel the impression left by his hand scorching on my cheek. “You deserved it, you whore.”
He wasn’t the only one on the delightful edge of insanity; I was standing there right beside him. My lust was on the rise, and controlling myself was not an option. A bit clumsily, yet decidedly, I struggled up to taste another piece of Milo. He sighed his pleasure into our tiny world. Eager to witness more, I glanced up as he pushed into my throat.
“Hmm, you suck like one as well,” he sighed on.
He threw me down onto the couch and hit me again. His loins pinned me down, and his fingers sneaked around my neck. I instantly knew what was to come. The silent promise of pain to follow made my muscles contract; I yearned for it. His hefty yank on my hair freed my neck, and without the slightest hesitation, he violently clamped down on it. My breath was caught, and I loved every asphyxiating second. In combination with the anticipation of the liberation only he could offer, he suppressed me with his robust masculinity.
He allowed me to breathe. Just for a second. His claws dug deep into the flesh of my ass and pushed me on top of him. Once more he beat me pitilessly. I smiled and bit my lower lip. That man was fucking delicious. With a smooth gesture, I flipped my hair to one side. Shyly I turned down my eyes and knew I was blushing. I showed enough virtue to provoke more punishment.
“You whore,” he spat into my face. I licked the drops of passion from my upper lip and let the rest drip across my face. He indulged me.
“Hit me, bitch.”
It was a word that normally would have insulted me, but coming from him it was pure intoxication. I hit his face with a humble slap, for his blue eyes had stroked my heart in the process. He must have noticed and persisted, asking for more. I managed to do better this time, oddly feeling an uncontrollable desire to kiss him, as if I were worried he would forget about my sweet side.
Milo didn’t back down and responded with a spine-tingling whack.
“Spit on me, you slut.”
I bent over to reach his ear and whispered teasingly in search of confirmation.
“Do you really think I love you that much already?”
He remained silent. Maybe he didn’t know, maybe he hadn’t even noticed, but he should have. A simple yes would have sufficed for me to follow up on his demand. As long as he held back his answer, I would hold back this token of freedom. I wanted to comply, but only if he knew that for me this was my kiss upon his dark side.
My black stilettos were still on my feet as I climbed into the gigantic bed next to Milo.
“Estelle,” he said gently, “it’s time to make love, my dear.”
He didn’t seem like the animal from just an hour ago. I was sweet on his way of thinking and mad about his mind, maybe because his had proved to be as dark and twisted as mine. He understood the fine line that separates pain and pleasure and that could easily transform into trust and surrender. He understood and didn’t overthink. He lived. He experienced. Like I do, finally. Kindred spirits. That’s why I cannot let this go. Not again. I succumbed to his touch one last time. Soon this night of nights would come to an end, but not for a little while yet. The fight was over. My pumps lay battle tired next to the bed. The only thin
g left was total surrender. No word was left unspoken by our bodies; we tasted each other for one last, profound time, ending up in each other’s arms.
Just before falling asleep, he drew an invisible cross on my forehead with his thumb. That little gesture, bursting with kindness, pulverized my armor and turned my insides to dust. A wave of compassion made me feel more naked than at any other moment of the evening. He was resting next to me, his eyes closed, as my hand drew loving circles on his chest. Milo let slip with delight a sigh in which past and present collided. I allowed my eyes to brush along his face and silently fell apart in his embrace. Then I realized I was struggling in a battle against sweet sin, already decided years before. It took me several years to admit to myself I was actually in love with him, so much so that, shortly after that revelation, I decided to let him walk away without a word—for his sake and his family’s; something I had come to regret soon enough, even if it had been for the greater good. At first I had been clueless, or at the very least, that naïve girl I was back then chose to be in the dark about her passion for him by unjustifiably, unnaturally minimizing it in her mind; and that had been bearable. Ignorance, involuntary or less so, truly is bliss. But once our tempestuous kiss forced me to recognise its undying presence, there was no turning back, no way of erasing that knowledge; all that remained, was depriving myself, denying myself of the pursuit of my senses. A socially commendable decision that tyrranized my soul unrelentingly. And, tonight, I gave up on that denial by honouring my nature.
His arm tightened and pulled me closer against him. Milo turned his head to press a little butterfly kiss on my forehead, and already I felt despair viciously creeping into the bedroom. How would I ever manage to have enough strength to walk out of here of my own free will? Leave him here? I decided to wallow in the common pleasures of the hours still to come and slid closer, even if it were only for a little while.
Later, my phone honored my request, waking me up at the appointed hour. Crap, is it already over? I had never hated the sound of my alarm clock so much. I looked at Milo, still dreaming next to me. The temptation to wake him was there all right, but that would only make it all so much worse. On top of that, it seemed to me like an enormously selfish thing to do, to yank him out of his sleep and steal him away from his reverie. He deserved the rest, the peace, and the dreams. I slowly slipped out from under the soft covers, almost straight into my clothes. I couldn’t help but approach Milo, though, and let his vision caress my mind, as if I wanted to confirm that yesterday had been real and not just another episode in my all-too-lively fantasies. I heard his steady breathing and cuddled him cautiously. My departure was drawing near, fearsomely so. I tried to fool time by tidying the bathroom.
Another glance. Quick. What a night. What a man. Do I? Do I really have to? I snuck into the living room where his clothes were piled in a heap on the floor. Almost ecstatic, I detected another reason for delay. With the diligence and finesse of a servant, I placed his shoes neatly at the end of the couch. I folded his underwear with dedication and untangled the two dark balls I had found on the floor into full-fledged socks again. My watch showed it was time for my furtive good-byes. Time to be a big girl now. But I just couldn’t disappear like a thief in the night. As if all of it was a dream embedded in reality. As if all of it had been nothing at all. As if all of it had no meaning at all. I took the notebook that was lying next to the telephone and sat down in the leather armchair. This time I could not, would not, leave without a trace, without a kiss, without a good-bye. The only thing left for me to do was to write. I scribbled down a message, and by the end of it, my problem had returned. The message said what needed to be said, for now at least, but how did I say good-bye? On paper? The real question was, what did I dare write? I decided to just do it. I was getting too old for this crap, and I didn’t want to wallow in the regret of the unsaid again. I wanted honesty. I finished up and positioned the tiny note between his phone and wallet, making sure he wouldn’t miss it. Time to go.
And just when I had scraped together the courage to walk out the door, I heard my salvation and my downfall calling out from the bedroom.
“Do you have to go, honey?” I didn’t need more.
“Yes,” I whispered, as I went to sit on the side of the bed.
Still sleepy, he wrapped his arm around my waist. For a last time, I leaned forward to let my head rest on his chest and tried not to cry the tears that were already pushing into the corners of my eyes. But I didn’t want to spoil this last bit of what soon would be a memory.
In the end, I should deem myself lucky. Lucky for this second chance. Lucky because of this night. Lucky that in my life I knew someone who made good-byes this unbearable. I was lucky to have experienced this kind of heartache. My fingertips slid along his cheek as I patiently offered my kiss to his lips. Milo’s fingers ran through my long hair, and that was that. I picked up my bag, and the cool breeze of dawn brought me back to reality, back to my other life. The life of Estelle without her Milo.
Sweet darling,
I couldn’t leave without a word again. This time I want you to know what I am thinking. Tonight, the world was ours just for a little while. Soon, all of it will be nothing less than a memory we shared in stolen time, and you will carry a part of me with you forever. Know that I have no regrets, except that I am bound to leave you now.
Love you,
E.
Chapter Eight
A fresh wind blew through my hair as I stepped into the buzzing sounds of the city. I didn’t see Milo right away and started digging in my purse. Telephone, check. Purell, check. My horror at the sticky subway handrails of large cities would not soon disappear, and I found it hard to choose at first between texting Milo to notify him of my arrival or disinfecting my hands. Somehow, I felt watched by him, and, come to think of it, that was probably the case. Anyway, I couldn’t suppress the urge to ransack my bag like a nervous fool, because distracted as I was, I had thrown my phone back in there. Found it. I turned around to look for Milo, but I didn’t really need to search. There he was, sitting on a bench, a safe distance away, smiling from behind his sunglasses at my clumsy nature.
He had taken me off guard with his kiss and his embrace. Amid people. Real living things. Mind you, there was nothing, absolutely nothing, I wanted more than to feel his arms around me, having his stubble adoring my cheek and his lips blending into mine. But this happened out in the broad daylight of a sunny afternoon, in the middle of the busy streets of the European capital. This particular part of the city was filled with characterless modern structures, gray office towers, and wouldn’t feel the least bit alive were it not for the rush of people back and forth. The colorful lot—businessmen and women, tourists, inhabitants of too many nationalities to tally—lit up an otherwise uninspiring view.
“So, Estelle, where would you like to grab a bite?” he asked.
I was too far away from this world to reply in a timely fashion, and quite honestly, I didn’t give a damn. Milo was by my side. That was enough. His company. The rest didn’t even measure up in the slightest way to even be of any importance at all.
“You choose,” I said.
“No, seriously. Here? What would you like to eat?” He rattled on, nervously so, about the restaurants and options, proposing everything, including smoothies, and I still couldn’t have cared less.
“Darling, it really doesn’t matter. You pick,” I answered.
I knew that many women use exactly this type of phrase without the tiniest hint of sincerity, borrowing the words, abusing them really, to test if their lunch partner actually knows them, or even to fake indifference; in both cases, the result is long faces during the entire meal when the poor man makes the wrong choice. That wasn’t the case here. I honestly didn’t give a crap. He chose practical and close, and we sat down on a terrace with an exquisite view of a busy intersection. Milo reached out across the table to take my hand in his
and let it rest on the tabletop as I stroked it tenderly with my thumb. The noise of the passing cars was drowned out within the peaceful bubble surrounding us. See? This was more than enough. It was one of those common adventures I had never dreamed possible, never believed I would actually be so blessed as to experience. To have him reaching out for my hand, a silly little thing, conveying so much tenderness—that wasn’t at all meaningless to me. We chatted. We ate. He learned something. I did, too. All the simplicity of a common adventure. Enough.
“When do you have to get to your appointment, again?” he asked. My little white lie, but a lie nonetheless. I didn’t want such pretenses obstructing this indefinable thing we were doing. Not with him.
“Er…that was yesterday,” I blurted out, unable to keep myself from blushing. Milo put his glass back on the table and looked at me, surprised.
“What do you mean?”
I beamed back at him in silence. I was somewhat embarrassed to own up to my craziness.
“No way. You can’t be serious. Why do you come all this distance for nothing?” he sounded sincerely shaken. “You are a crazy person.”
“I disagree,” I replied dryly.
It was my true opinion on the matter. It is crazy how we remember all the worst moments, the crappy ones, the ugly ones, without fail. We are haunted by them because we let them happen half the time, the stupidities, the regrets. Fortunately, we also remember moments that outshine all others: sublime, pure, improbable, and irrational. Those moments are filled with unfettered and magical madness. So, no, I didn’t understand why he, of all people, would call me crazy.
People should enlighten me if I am wrong, though, or point out the reason. We are all guilty of putting in effort. For everything. For work, family, a colleague, a friend—just because we are supposed to, because it is widely regarded as the right course of action. We rest on it and do it all automatically. We move forward. But when I dare to act out of the simple desire to join him and share a moment of his precious time…If I move forward, starting from that profound wish to have a great moment of common life without reaping any personal benefit except his company, then, really, am I the insane one? The crazy one? Why would I ever go and do whatever, without question, without complaint, without fail, for the soulless mechanisms of life? And choose, yes choose, not to do exactly the same for the sole purpose of having him touch upon my heart again? Is it too much of an effort? It should be the other way around, but society is twisted that way. People aren’t crazy enough anymore, if you ask me. Anyhow, from my point of view, anything involving Milo couldn’t possibly entail an inkling of craziness. Having no reason, rationally speaking, is the best reason of them all, in my philosophy.