by Alison Tyler
“In that case, I’ll move back to London.”
For a moment, she was stunned. “No way. You belong there.” She paused. “Christopher, trust me, I can make the impossible work, too.”
“Yes…?”
It was the first time she had ever heard any hint of vulnerability in his voice, and that told her everything she needed to know.
“Yes, love. You’ve made me braver.”
When they finally said good-bye, she poured herself the last measure of Arran malt from the bottle Christopher had hidden in her overnight bag when she left, and sipped it slowly, savoring its rich, full-bodied taste. Switching on her monitor, she typed a letter to the agencies she worked for, informing them of her upcoming change of location, flagging up her availability for assignments in Scotland and the north.
Turning to the article, she rubbed her hands together and added her conclusion. Despite her earlier unwillingness, it took her only moments to complete the article. Now that the decision had been made, everything fell into place. Finally, she scrolled to the top, smiling to herself, and added the title: Arran’s Lure: making the impossible scenario work, despite the odds.
TENILLE BROWN
STRINGS
for John
A NOTE.
That was what would pass for good-bye. She left notes now instead of slipping out while he was sleeping, leaving his apartment in the middle of the night without a word.
That had been her thing for a while, leaving immediately after, not assuming she was staying the night, not waiting for him to ask if she would. She’d had to work up to it, admittedly, five years of marriage had her set in her ways; being on her own again, she’d had to teach herself the ropes.
Love them and leave them alone.
It was her mantra, her new way of life.
The note was polite if nothing else, and the two of them were that to each other: respectful, polite.
Yet it did seem distant somehow, even cold, considering. He had spent the last few hours inside her, after all, but what else could she do? Wake him and thank him for a nice evening? Tell him how much she was looking forward to the next time they fucked?
He slept after, always. They finished, and he would roll off of her and slip into immediate unconsciousness as if he had been hit over the head. He had begun mentioning that if she left while he was sleeping there was no way for him to tell if she had gotten up and left of her own free will or if she had been abducted. It was silly, even he had to know that, but he did have a point, which is why she began leaving the notes in the first place.
She never slept at his place, not even accidentally, not even after she had climaxed so long, so hard and so many times that she thought her legs wouldn’t last long enough to carry her to her car. Her eyes remained pried open. She would never let herself get that relaxed, ever.
After finishing the note, she dressed in the dark, fastening her bra, pulling on a fresh pair of panties and stuffing the old ones in her purse.
She pulled her wrap dress over her head and straightened it over her hips and thighs. She stepped into her stiletto Mary Janes, gave the dimly lit bedroom a once-over, then reached for her keys.
She always made sure she left with everything she had come with, no panties left tangled in the sheets, no earrings on the nightstand. Those were games people played when they were trying too hard, forcing something. It was what people did when they didn’t know their place.
She knew her place, and he knew his.
She glanced at the clock—11:45. At seven, the sun would peek through the blinds and stir him awake. He would roll over and remember she had been there but was gone. Not that he would expect her to still be there. Not that he had a reason.
He would read her note, call and see that she had gotten home okay and that would be that, the end of it, until one of them became restless and they found themselves together here again.
There was no in-between, no need for contact outside of this because that wasn’t what they were. They weren’t flowers and candy. They weren’t candlelit dinners and family picnics.
They were this, this thing they shared in the late of night. They were notes on nightstands, brief phone calls and flirty text messages. That was all.
She thought of kissing him before she left, leaving a light peck on his cheek as he lay with his face pressed into the pillow. But that might wake him, and he looked so peaceful. It would be cruel to disturb him.
Besides, kissing could be a tricky thing. She knew that.
For the most part, they kept their lips to themselves. The occasional kiss on the neck or tummy was fine, his mouth sucking on her breasts—she rather liked that—but his lips on hers, her tongue curling its way around his, that was dangerous.
She knew this because he had kissed her once before, really kissed her.
They had been in front of her house and he had caught her off guard. He had almost missed, as a matter of fact, his warm soft lips landing on one corner of her mouth so that she had to readjust for comfort.
If nothing else about that night, she remembered how she felt when he held her by the elbows and pressed his lips to hers, how his tongue easing into her mouth made her feel weak and light-headed, and how, if he had let her go a second sooner, she would have fallen into a helpless heap at his feet.
She decided that very night it wouldn’t happen again, and she assumed that eventually he had silently agreed it was too intimate. Kissing was something you did when you were in love, or hoping to get there.
And love complicated things, made what should be easy hard. They both knew that, had both been there and done that. They didn’t speak of the past too much, but they had both been casualties, victims of its wrath. The ink hadn’t yet dried on her divorce papers and he still kept his ex-girlfriend’s toothbrush in his bathroom drawer.
But this time, with this thing, they had gotten smart, both grown clever enough not to make the same mistakes twice. That’s why they got along so well. They understood that boundaries were important if you were to protect yourself. That was why it was easy for them to be apart and easy for them to be together. There were no expectations, no promises, no agreements.
There were no strings.
The music still played softly, something slow and sexy by Prince. He would sleep with it on repeat all night. She’d hear it in the background in the morning when he called.
She’d given him that CD, as a matter of fact. It was for his birthday because she hadn’t wanted to just ignore the importance of the date, but she didn’t want to make a big fuss over it either.
She wasn’t his girlfriend, after all.
Of course, she thought about not giving him anything, thought he might read too much into even the smallest gift, but she wrapped up the CD anyway, pulled it from her purse as soon as she walked into his bedroom that evening and slid the glossy wrapped square across the bed in his direction.
“This for me?” he had asked, picking it up and flipping it over in his hand.
And she had fumbled over her words. “Yeah, ’cause we always listen to the radio and you know, sometimes commercials come on so—”
“No,” he said, opening the present. “It’s cool. I get it. Thanks.”
And he had smiled and slid the CD into his boom box and pressed PLAY.
“I like Prince,” he had said.
And she had said “Good,” even though she had known it already. Knew it from the way he bobbed his head every time one of the songs came on the radio.
She knew because she paid attention, and she paid attention because they were friends and friends knew what friends liked. It had nothing to do with love, nothing at all.
She reached down now and straightened up the wrinkled sheet that covered his sleeping body. For one final time, she marveled at his silhouette, at his muscular legs and small waist, his powerful chest and strong arms. The heavy mass between his legs still showed strong through the covers though more than an hour had passed since his cock had bee
n solid.
He was short for a man and had pale skin. He was small, but strong. Strong enough to turn her this way and that when they were in bed, strong enough to evoke screaming orgasms from her every single time.
She hadn’t expected that. In fact, she hadn’t wanted fireworks. She’d had fireworks and what had they gotten her? And it was true she preferred the tall and dark men who had given her all those fireworks, but they had made a fool of her every time.
That was why she was careful with him, kept him at arm’s length at all times, made use of what he was good for and kept it moving. And even if she did get a little silly now and then and let an embrace last a few seconds too long, laugh too hard at a joke, that was okay. She was human, after all. She wasn’t made of stone.
The key to it all was control; to catch herself before she went too far, before the feelings stirred too deep; to not do little things like let him see her completely naked, let him see that her tummy was still a little full from the twins; to not let him know that she ate too fast and laughed too loud.
She jumped when she heard the sharp crack of thunder outside. She looked toward the window where the blinds were pulled open, then blinked at the bright flashes of light.
She had hoped to be gone by the time the storm started, to be in her own bed asleep when all the rain came down. It had been his idea to fuck that last time, to make use of the hard-on he had gotten from just catching a glimpse of her breasts when the sheet fell around her waist.
Just then, he stirred beneath the covers. He rolled onto his back, his eyes fluttering open. He stretched his arms above his head.
He lifted his head off the pillow and peered out the window. “Is it raining out?”
“I think so, yes.”
She had heard the first drop and knew that eventually the soft splatter would transition to a pounding force on the roof of his condo. She reached for the doorknob.
Then came the thunder again and the roar made her drop her hand. Her keys slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.
He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes.
“You don’t have to go, you know,” he said. “I would never send you out in weather like this.”
She exhaled. “I’m a big girl. I can drive twenty minutes in the rain.”
“I know you can,” he said. “But I wouldn’t want you to. I don’t want you to.” He rubbed the empty space next to him. “You can just lie down awhile, take a little nap with me ’til the storm passes over.”
And at that moment, she couldn’t think of any protest that would make sense, so she relaxed her shoulders, dropped her purse, and sat down on the bed. After all, would it be so bad if she stayed, if she lay beside him just a little while longer until the storm was all over?
She kicked off her shoes, kept her dress on and stretched out next to him.
She would lie here with him, but she wouldn’t close her eyes. And if she closed her eyes, it would only be for a second, to let them rest a bit. She wouldn’t relax. She wouldn’t get comfortable. She knew what happened when you got comfortable, even a little.
Her spot was still warm. She settled into the dip in the mattress where she had rested just moments before. She scooted back, nestling into the empty space where his body curved.
He held her close, his arm draped across her waist, pressing her back into his belly. He rested his chin into her shoulder. She would allow this, for a while, just until things settled enough outside for her to escape to safety.
The lightning popped so loud it made her shake. He held her tighter and kissed her on the neck.
“You scared?” He spoke the words into her hair.
“No…yes. Always have been since I was a kid.” She didn’t see the need to lie.
“I never liked storms either,” he said, but she figured he just wanted to make her feel better.
It did make her feel more comfortable, made the words come more easily.
“I remember I would run to my parents’ room every time one started in the middle of the night. I’d bust through the door and jump in the middle of their bed and stay there until it passed.” She stifled a giggle.
His breath was warm on her neck. “I bet you were cute when you were a kid.”
She chuckled softly and thought about telling him about all the baby pictures her mom insisted on keeping all over the walls even though she thought they were the ugliest things she had ever seen. But she reached back and stroked his dick instead.
He seemed to welcome the distraction and she welcomed his hand sliding down her thigh and slipping beneath her dress.
He pulled her panties down. His fingers grazed her pussy. He began to rub slowly, softly. His thumb found her clit and pressed gently.
A groan escaped her lips and her hips began to grind against his crotch. She felt him rise behind her, thumping against the stretchy fabric that covered her ass.
He pulled the dress up and over her head and tossed the ball of fabric on the floor.
She was wet, so wet that his fingers slid easily and swiftly through the valley of her nether lips. She reached back and grabbed firm hold of his dick, coaxing him closer.
Finally, he pushed into her and her body relaxed. He held tightly to her hips, bringing her to him, pushing her away.
Her throat was suddenly dry, her mouth open, lips quivering.
They moved in rhythm with the storm, with the sound of Prince seeping softly through the speakers. They moved slow. They moved fast.
“I don’t want to come yet.” He whispered words into her ear that were a plea for mercy.
The thunder crashed outside his bedroom window and the rain came down hard. Cracks of lightning lit up the sky.
She pulled forward, releasing his dick, and rolled onto her back. She parted her legs and he climbed on top of her, sinking into her again. She wrapped her legs around his waist, limiting his depth, keeping him in the precise place that would cause the fluttering in her chest and the pull at the bottom of her belly. She burst into uncontrollable spasms, squeezing his cock between her legs.
She clasped her thighs tightly against his hips when she came. He breathed softly against her ear.
“You cheated,” he said, laughing.
“Sorry.” She smiled in the dark, dragging her fingernails lightly down his back.
She forced him onto his back then and straddled him, gliding slowly up and down his dick until he came.
After she caught her breath, she rolled over beside him.
She stared at the ceiling, looked around the room at things she had never noticed before. He had actual curtains in his bedroom and there were no piles of clothes in the corner of the room. He kept his space surprisingly neat, in fact.
She thought about scooping her dress off the floor and slipping it back on, to put at least that thin layer of fabric between them, but lying here with him like this felt strangely safe, oddly right, so she remained still, her moist skin pressed against his.
She didn’t fight against him when he placed one strong arm around her and cradled her. She didn’t protest when—like the rain outside—sleep came down and covered her like a sheet.
Her eyes fluttered open at just after three a.m. Her body was limp, her head heavy with sleep.
His voice was laced with grogginess. “Won’t you stay? Tomorrow’s Sunday and we don’t have to do anything but relax. It’ll be nice.”
His grip on her wrist was firm. She looked back at him; his eyes were half-closed, his lips curved into a smile. He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb, waiting for her answer.
She stood up and went about the business of dressing and gathering her things. She looked back at him when she was done, at the innocent hopefulness in his eyes.
And for a moment, just for a moment she considered it, allowed herself to imagine what it might be like to walk around his apartment barefoot, to fix him breakfast and clean his dishes, to lean against his shoulder on the couch as he watched ESPN.
She thought o
f telling him yes, that the idea sounded quite nice. But she knew that if she stayed, if she spent the rest of the night lying in his arms, if she woke up with him the next morning, it would change things, there would be no turning back. So instead she leaned down, held her face close to his, and kissed him.
He closed his eyes and his lips relaxed against hers. Her tongue tickled the roof of his mouth, brushed quickly across his teeth.
It was enough to silence him, to push the idea far, far away, if only for the moment.
The moment passed quickly, so quickly in fact that she couldn’t be sure he was awake, or even if she was.
Maybe she had dreamed it all, because just like that he was asleep again and snoring softly, lying there like always, unaware that she was even in the room.
She picked up the pen and pulled out a fresh piece of paper. She thought of what she should say now. It was always something cute and witty, something he could wake up to and smile at and toss aside without much thought.
Yet, somehow what she wanted to say now didn’t sound cute or witty.
What she wanted to say weighed heavy on her chest. The words rose up like floodwaters, spilling into her throat, pouring into her mouth. She wrote them slowly, carefully, imagining the look on his face as he read them, wondering if he would smile, if his mouth would fall open in shock.
The words were strings pushing her forward and pulling her back. But as the minutes passed and her sanity found its way back, she pushed them down again, forced them to settle in her chest.
She scratched through the letters and ripped the paper to shreds. She balled it up and threw it in the trash. It would have been foolish to say the words, worse to write them. It was safer for them both if she didn’t.
Outside was so quiet now, it was hard to tell there had even been a storm except for the droplets of rain that ran down the window.
She gathered the rest of her belongings in a hurry, rushing, because if she rushed, she could be out the door. If she hurried, she could be inside her car and halfway home before the sun peeked over the horizon, and awakened the city.