Instagram ellopiageenos: thinking about the good time

11/28/14

thinking about the good time

 He leans forward, his eyes glued to mine, molten gray and hungry. Holy shit! I swallow instinctively. “We’re in a small, reasonably sound-proofed office with a lockable door.”“Gross moral turpitude.” I enunciate each word carefully.“Not with your husband.”“With my boss’s boss’s boss,” I hiss.“You’re my wife.”“ no. I mean it. You can fuck me seven shades of Sunday this evening. But not now. Not here!”
 Next time you come and see me, make an appointment, so I can at least have some prior warning of your adolescent overbearing megalomania.
 “Are you laughing at me?” I narrow my eyes.“I wouldn’t dare,” he says, holding his hands up like I’m threatening him at gunpoint. He’s in his navy suit, looking crisp and clean with floppy sex-hair and a guileless expression.“You need a haircut,” I mutter. Turning away from him, I step into the elevator.“Do I?” he says while brushing his hair off his forehead. He follows me in.“Yes.” I tap the code for our apartment into the keypad.“So you’re talking to me now?”“Just.”“What exactly are you mad about? I need an indication,” he asks cautiously.I turn and gape at him.
 “Do you really have no idea? Surely, for someone so bright, you must have an inkling? I can’t believe you’re that obtuse.”He takes an alarmed step back. “You really are mad. I thought we had sorted all this in your office,” he murmurs, perplexed.“I just capitulated to your petulant demands. That’s all.”The elevator doors open and I storm out. Taylor is standing in the hallway. He takes a step back and quickly shuts his mouth as I steam past him.
 “Stop this,” he whispers. He takes the two steps between us so he’s standing in front of me. Gently he tucks my hair behind my ear and caresses my earlobe with his fingertips, sending a shiver through me. Is this what I’ve missed all day? His touch? I shake my head, causing him to release my ear and gaze up at him.“Talk to me,” he murmurs.“What’s the point? You don’t listen to me.”“Yes I do. You’re one of the few people I do listen to.”I take another swig of wine.
 His brow furrows. “ you know I have . . . issues. It’s hard for me to let go where you’re concerned. You know that.”“But I’m not a child, and I’m not an asset.”“I know.” He sighs.“Then stop treating me as though I am,” I whisper, imploring him.He brushes the back of his fingers down my cheek and runs the tip of his thumb across my bottom lip.
 “Don’t be mad. You’re so precious to me. Like a priceless asset, like a child,” he whispers, a somber reverent expression on his face. His words distract me. Like a child. Precious like a child . . . a child would be precious to him!“I’m neither of those things. I’m your wife. If you were hurt that I wasn’t going to take your name, you should have said.”
 I’m wearing my gray pencil skirt and a sleeveless blouse. Right! My inner goddess gets out her harlot-red nail polish. I undo two buttons, exposing a little cleavage. I wash my face then carefully redo my makeup, applying more mascara than usual and putting extra gloss on my lips. Bending down, I then brush my hair vigorously from root to tip. When I stand, my hair is a chestnut haze around me that tumbles to my breasts. I tuck it artfully behind my ears and go in search of my pumps, rather than my flats.
 He pulls me into his arms and holds me, burying his nose in my hair and swaying gently from side to side. He smells his heavenly self.Oh . . . I’ve missed him. I wrap my arms around him and fight the urge to cry. Why are you so infuriating?“I hate fighting with you,” he whispers.“Well, stop being such an arse.”He chuckles and the captivating sound reverberates through his chest. He tightens his hold on me. “Arse?”“Ass.”“I prefer arse.”“You should. It suits you.”He laughs once more and kisses the top of my head.“A requiem?” I murmur a little shocked that we are dancing to it.He shrugs. “It’s just a lovely piece of music.”





















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