Impulses

by Brock, V. L.

  Lacing Samantha’s back and neck with passionate kisses, she cranes her neck, and I soon meet her lips. With the heated prickles of each droplet meeting its fate on our flesh, with deepened muscles rippling and tensing, and the force of pending orgasms, we intentionally become victims to all-consuming, ultimate sensations. My grip around Samantha’s middle tightens, as her legs start to crumple under her weight, her muscles giving away to the delicious spasms of her orgasm as she calls out my name.

  And I am soon following. I thrust into her one last time, and then still. My own raging muscles tense, and allow the constriction of her walls to drain me dry.

  “I sincerely hope that is decaf you’re consuming, Miss Kennedy.” Advancing to the kitchen island, I press my sapphire tie against my shirt and fix my tie-bar in place.

  She hands me a steaming mug of freshly made coffee. “Yes, Mr Wentworth,” she raises her mug in the air, as if making a toast, “and I have never tasted anything as disgusting in my life. But it beats herbal tea.” She takes a tentative sip, her contorted facial expression, alongside the upturn of her lip confirms the assault her palate is enduring.

  I attempt to disguise my throaty chuckle with a sip of black coffee.

  “Oh, you think this funny, Mr. Wentworth?” she glowers at me. “Maybe I should demand you switch from the good stuff”––she gestures to the black mug in my hand with her brow––“you know, for moral support.” She strolls to the faucet.

  “As much of the gentleman I am, beautiful, and as much as I love you, it’s safer for everyone if I stick with actual caffeine. You wouldn’t like me without it.”

  “Really?” After she tips the remaining contents out of the cup, she rinses it and places it on the drainer. “Going all, Hulk on me now are you, Mr. Wentworth?”

  She leans against the counter and brushes her scarlet wrap dress over her hips. My hands tingle, my pulse hastens, and my throat is suddenly dry. Steadily placing the cup onto the granite, I carry out my muted appraisal with a voracious glare. The material clings to her body, emphasizing her swelling belly along with her breasts, and those matching red suede, heeled pumps are more than enough to set in motion certain audacious thoughts.

  Releasing a weighted sigh, a ghost of a roguish grin dances across my lips. As appealing as she looks in her outfit, I can’t quash my urge to slowly strip her bare, and after last night’s and this morning’s exhortations, I know she wouldn’t object. Her spoken words of a time ago swirl around my mind like a whirlwind, sucking up any reasoned thought and expelling them into the neighboring district, Temptation cannot exist without the agreement of desire and opportunity. Damn temptation.

  As she walks past me, and heads for the exit, I snare her in my arms and lock my hands against her ass. “On a serious note, I have no idea how I am going to get any work done today.” Staring amorously into her powder blue, widened-eyes, I tuck a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. Leaning forward, I press my lips to hers and bestow her with a lingering kiss that makes the world stand still. As I pull away, I mutter against her, “You look beautiful.”

  Her hands caress my upper arms as she steadies herself. “You’re too kind, Hayden,” she grins, and hangs her head. Her discomfiture is tangible.

  I pithily recall the earlier days of our relationship when embarrassment and self-consciousness radiated from her in waves with every compliment I bestowed her. We both acknowledge that there will be significant changes to her body at this time. Although she may not witness, she is always my focal-point. I’m incapable of coping if my eyes are starved of her radiance for more than a few hours––even then, that’s too long.

  With every passing day something new is happening, another part of her body alters. For me, it’s exciting to see what will change next and how, but for Samantha, someone who needs to feel sexy all the time––someone who befell victim to an eating disorder in a hasty attempt to lose weight…

  Nothing can ever possibly make me feel disgusted with her form. To me, she is flawless. I just hope that my words and displays of affection are enough, and will aid her in embracing the changes, and not shy away from them.

  With our hands laced together, Samantha and I make our way passed the white marble reception desk, through the lobby to elevator four. I punch the button and focus on watching the numbers dwindle from overhead of the elevator doors, while waiting anxiously for the car to greet us.

  The deathly silence which hung between us during the journey to work continues to loiter like ravenous piranha’s waiting to strip to us to the core––a deathly silence, an awkward, secretive silence, to which I have no indication as to what prompted such diffidence. Last night was amazing, this morning has been sensational. There is no reason as to why I have once again stumbled on involuntary negativity, caught unprepared by unpleasant, sombre suspicions. I find myself detained, an awaiting target ready to be shot down as the sense of foreboding and the gut-churning awareness that something menacing is looming in the distance, riles my anxiety and paranoia.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” I fight through the uncommunicative fog and glance down at Samantha. My rebellious lock unbinds and falls onto my brow. She peeks up meekly from under her mascara-coated lashes. “No pulling the same stunt you decided to pull yesterday. Understand?”

  Brow knitted together, and pursed lips inform me of her befuddlement. Unclear as to my words, she shakes her head and raises her shoulders.

  The elevator pings, the doors effortlessly glide open. Loosening my clutch, I slip my hand from the warmth and softness of her palm and splay it at the small of her back to steer her inside.

  “What stunt?” her voice is firm and heavily perplexed as she turns to face the doorway. I push for the twenty-first floor and the doors immediately shut behind us.

  “You know exactly what I am referring to, Samantha. Don’t be so obtuse.”

  Once again, she shakes her head briskly. “I’ve no idea what y––”

  I glower at her, my eyes flared and stern, halting her in her tracks.

  “Oh, do you mean…”

  “Yes, Samantha. And I mean it, you stop it. You have to stop being so careless.” Her face falls with rueful indication, and I instantly chide myself for my blatant level of inconsiderateness. I sigh with what seems like the weight of the world being ousted from my body and settling in the confinement of the elevator. “Oh, beautiful…” I step towards her, sealing the space between us and drop my leather briefcase at my feet. Clearing her profile of her thick mane, I sweep it over her shoulders so it tumbles in waves down to the middle of her back.

  With both of my hands, I frame her face, my thumbs smoothing over the arch of her cheekbones then trace the plumpness of her lips. I hold her with the seriousness of my regard.

  “I’m sorry, please forgive me…” my gaze softens and soon falters to her mouth as she licks her lips, then back to the wounded expression displayed in her shimmering, sea blue eyes.

  “It’s Okay, Hayden, I understand. I should think more about, Rose. I won’t do it again.” And she smiles her reassuring, mesmeric smile. Like a sacred talisman, it pushes my anxiety and unease aside.

  The elevator sounds, and opens on our floor. Bending to retrieve my briefcase, I take hold of Samantha’s right hand and escort her into the firm.

  “Good morning, Mr. Wentworth. Morning, Sam,” Chloe beams from behind the walnut veneered desk. Her hair falling in soft, overlarge, bouncing curls around her shoulders.

  “Good morning, Chloe,” I nod before turning to Samantha and placing a hastened kiss on her lips, prior to heading to my office.

  As I approach the wide entryway that separates the reception from the corridor that holds the offices, I spin on my heel. “Chloe, could I ask a favor of you?” I frown, my voice enriched with the reinforcement of my earlier demand of Samantha. I watch her rounding the desk to join the blond.

  “Of course, Mr. Wentworth,” she takes her seat and lifts her black framed glasses atop of her head. Samantha stands behind
her, waiting patiently for me to speak with her hand perched upon her hip.

  “Could you please make sure, that my pregnant, stubborn, dissenting fiancée does not lift anything heavier than a few files? I caught her lifting a one of the boxes in Victor’s office yesterday.” I glare pointedly at the sullen looking redhead who purses her lips, and narrows her eyes.

  “You did what?” Chloe squeals, whipping her head around madly, and gapes up at Samantha. She swats her arm in warning. “You’re pregnant, what were you thinking.”

  “What is this? Pick on Samantha day? I am not made out of glass you know. Women have been having babies for thousands of years.” And I am guessing I’m not the only person scowling at her as she steps away from Chloe. For a little blond thing, Chloe really can do angry.

  “I told you, Hayden”––Samantha draws her focus to me, her left hand caressing her abdomen––“I am going think before my actions…for, Rose,” she acquiesces and beams an apologetic smile in my direction.

  I nod my head overstated. “Good.” And just like that, the disagreement is put to bed. My subconscious regards me pointedly and mouths, really, with a raised brow, fully aware of which route my impish contemplations are taking.

  “Who is my first appointment with this morning?”

  Samantha sweeps the mouse over the desk, and glances at the screen, “Your first is at 9:45,”––she pries her eyes from the screen and peeks up at me–– “with Mr. Hudson.”

  Mr. Hudson…Mr. Hudson. My hamster runs on his wheel in my memory banks as I endeavor to recollect how the name sounds familiar. “Thank you, Samantha.” She blows me a sneaky kiss, I chuckle at her sentiment and stroll down the reversed L shaped corridor, to my office.

  Methodically bouncing against the suspension of my chair, my elbow resting on the arms, I stare out of the panoramic window behind my desk. I steeple my index fingers and press them against my lips while losing myself to deliberations and reflections. We haven’t even spoken about the wedding since…well, actually, coming to think about it, we have never talked about the wedding. I don’t presume Samantha would want to be heavily pregnant while walking down the aisle.

  I fist my hands into my hair, pushing back my wayward lock. Tipping my head back against the cracking leather, I inhale deeply, a smile filled with anticipation and excitement slowly manipulates my mouth. Just over five months left. That’s all…five months. I idly remember a little store that prints designs and wording on clothing a few blocks away. Inspiration strikes but quickly dissipates when the beeping sound of the office phone pulls me from my musing.

  I spin in my seat and pick up the receiver.

  “Mr. Wentworth, Mr. Hudson is waiting in reception.”

  “Thank you, Samantha, could you show him in, please?” I fist through my hair again.

  “Of course,” she hangs up, and I place the receiver back in its cradle, before organising my desk with parchment and my pen.

  A mere few moments later, a light knock resonates from my door. I welcome them in, push myself up from the seat and walk around the desk. Greeting the tall, medium build man, donning a sharp pinstriped suit, I shake his hand. Ah…Hudson, now I remember––a man, carrying the burden of his nuisance ex-girlfriend.

  “Mr. Wentworth,” he nods.

  “Mr. Hudson,” I nod back and gesture to the leather seat at the desk. “Please, have a seat.”

  “Can I get anyone coffee, tea, water?” Samantha asks politely, but we decline, with a shake of our heads. “Very well,” she steps out of the office, and secures the door behind her.

  The leather chair creaks and cracks under my weight as I lower myself into it. Recovering my pen, I repose myself against the backrest, and roll the ballpoint deftly over my knuckles and weave it through my fingers.

  “How can I help you today, Mr. Hudson?”

  “I took your advice, after our last meeting. I informed my ex that I gained information from a lawyer and that if her harassing and duplicity continued, I would assure we would go forth, and do whatever is deemed obligatory, for her maliciousness to cease.”

  I push myself forward, perching myself on the edge of my seat, and straighten out my papers.

  “And I presume, that as you’re attending here today, that the female in question, continues to instigate problems?”

  Hudson glances down at his fingers, which lay knotted in his lap. He looks overwrought and exhausted, as though he has no life left in him––complete desolation. He offers a lifeless nod. Upon eventually lifting his head to face me, a shudder marks its way through my body, seizing every hair follicle and commanding them to stand to attention. His blue eyes are jaded, and moisture builds within their margins.

  “I can’t do this anymore, Mr. Wentworth,” he shakes his head repentantly. “I’ve lost weight, I have lost most of my social circle; I am, for a lack of a better term––a hermit. I’m unable to concentrate on my work, which has resulted in me having time off.” Exasperated, he rubs his brow. “I am so, so tired.”

  The profundity of sympathy and compassion I have for this man is irrefutable. His anguish is unambiguous. I was there, right where he is now. If I can help alleviate his problem, before it gets graver, then I will use whatever means necessary. Substituting my compassion with a raw, intense need to defeat the suffering, which one man can bear from the wrong type of woman, I take a cleansing breath.

  Hayden, you are too emotional connected with this case, my subconscious shakes his head blatantly. Yes, maybe I am. Nevertheless, I push him back.

  “Mr. Hudson, would you like for us to continue. Would you like me to take your case? I can file the lawsuit, and we can get the ball rolling as early as tonight. The court clerk will draft a summons, which means the lawsuit of Defamation of Character is legitimate, and the process will then officially begin.”

  He rubs his hand over his brow and sheathes his teeth with his lips.

  “We could put a claim in for defamation damages, otherwise known as ‘personal anguish’ damages. With documented evidence, or even family or friends testifying and voicing their beliefs of how your behavior and health has been affected, we could have her on IIED.” He peers up at me, his face marred with bewilderment and fatigue. I smile dutifully. “Sorry…I mean, Intentional Infliction of Emotional Distress. That could effectively help compensate you for any loss of earnings you have experienced due to being absent from work.”

  He nods faintly, if it wasn’t for the streaming light from the window behind me reflecting onto his slightly balding head, I would have thought he was motionless.

  “Yes, please,” he mutters under his breath.

  Nodding, I offer a smile of upmost support. As I remove the lid from my pen, I ask, “Could I have your full name please?”

  “It’s Lionel Joseph Hudson.”

  I write down his name on the paper before me.

  “And could I have the Defendants name please?” I ask without looking up, as I finish scrawling his surname.

  “It’s Hayes. Addison Hayes.”

  There is an instant muffled, ringing in my ears, my vision rotates as the room spirals, claiming me, sucking me in further and deeper down the rabbit hole, exposing me once more with flagrant intent to my own inner demons.

  I am ashen; the blood draining from my face, from my hands, my legs. My pen slips from between my fingers and lands with a thud upon my desk. My body is numb, while my stomach pole-vaults to my throat.

  “Mr. Wentworth?” Hudson’s voice is a distant echo. I strive to cling onto the sound, to reel me back, regain my composure…or lack of it.

  Addison Hayes…my blood runs cold even at the mere sound of her name. She’d packed up and moved away from San Francisco when things finally ended between us. That was the last I knew. And although I still bear the psychological hindrances of her inflictions, they are nothing in comparison to the possibilities that she could be lurking around the next corner, back to her old tricks.

  How many corners are there in the two hun
dred and thirty one square miles of San Francisco, Hayden? Don’t you think you’re over reacting? My subconscious sips his Southern Comfort, with unheeded ease.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Hudson.” With overwhelming hesitancy, I redirect my focus from the paper, and lift my head up to face him. “Addison Hayes?” I wince as her name slips from my tongue like molten iron.

  “Yes. Addison Hayes. She’s twenty-nine and resides in the Inner Sunset District.”

  I close my eyes, my body burns, aches, prickles and trembles with anxiety and fear. I feel as though someone has doused me in gasoline and stands before me, tormenting me as they wave a match with could subsequently put an end to everything. The thorough lack of control in my life that I now sense is overpowering.

  “Mr. Wentworth is there something wrong?” His already anxious self, now weathers my own angst which is radiating off me like solar-flares.

  I shake my head and lick my drying lips. I focus raptly on the mystified man before me. He looks at a total loss, like someone has pulled the carpet from beneath him. Fuck it––that’s how I feel. I knew this morning, on the way to work that there was going to be a hindrance, a quandary…something ominous advancing.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Hudson. I can’t take your case,” my voice is broken while my eyes fill with tortured tears. I felt a connection to this man. I intended and expected to help him overcome the downward pull that he is braving. It will not get any easier for him…not with Addison at the helm, anyway.

  He pulls in his brows; his mouth opens and closes concisely in bemusement. Finally, he whispers, “Why?” and that single word is blemished with anguish, such disillusionment, I being to choke on my own heart.

  I pull open my top right, desk draw and successfully retrieve my address book. Running my finger down the right-side, I open up onto the page I sought. Quickly copying the number onto a small piece of paper, I rip it from the notepad and hold it up to my chin like a prized settlement.