Desperate to Touch

With my eyes on the painting, hung up to the right of the fireplace, not centered above it, I take a sip of the vodka and soda.

“Do you like it?” Seth asks easily. “I thought about taking it down before you came, but I wanted to know if you remembered.”

“My birthday,” I say, giving him the information he’d need to know that I recall exactly when the photo was taken. “I remember… I love it.”

His exhale is easy as he takes another drink. I watch as he swallows and he only glances at the art piece before looking into my gaze. “I thought you’d like it for the bedroom,” he admits and a flash of emotion plays in his eyes. He breathes out like his thought is funny before downing the drink and abruptly standing. “I couldn’t throw it out,” he says with his back to me as he walks to the kitchen. “I couldn’t touch it.”

As he makes himself another drink, not bothering with ice and simply adding more whiskey to his tumbler, I hold on to mine. Feeling the diamond pattern carved into the heavy lead crystal.

Even with the cool drink, my throat feels dry and tight.

“A painter hung it while I was out. He thought I meant to hang it. And I couldn’t touch it to take it down.”

“I’m sorry it bothered you,” I speak and my voice cracks before I down my own drink.

He’s there, placing his glass on the coffee table and holding his hand out for mine when I finish.

On his walk to the kitchen, he doesn’t respond to my comment other than to say, “Everything happens for a reason, doesn’t it?” Damn, do I hate that response right now.

He can’t hear my faint yeah from where I am as he stands in the kitchen. After handing me my glass, this one full to the brim rather than only halfway, Seth takes off his jacket and unbuttons his shirt.

My pulse quickens when he continues to undress himself until he’s only in his suit pants. I watch as he takes off his shoes, slipping his socks into them like he used to do. His muscles ripple with power and precision. The fire emphasizes every dip I crave to touch.

He’s older, his shoulders broader, his body more muscular and toned. I can’t take my eyes from his taut skin and the way his body moves. The warmth from the fire is nothing compared to the heat that kisses every inch of my skin while watching him.

“Getting comfortable?” I ask him. Again, nearly teasing. He looks up at me first, dropping his polished black shoes to the ground next to the fireplace, closest to the hall we walked down last time. With an asymmetric smirk, he comments, “You didn’t change, did you?”

“So much of me has changed,” I answer him without thinking about what to say. Without forming a list in my head of every aspect of my life that doesn’t at all resemble who I used to be.

With my manicured nail tapping along the glass, I speak up, telling him something I decided I had to confess hours ago when I was thinking about how tonight would play out. “I made excuses for you today.” My hardened voice and the confidence in it, makes him hesitate before he takes back his seat in nothing but those pants. Everything about him reads powerful and dominant. “I blamed myself for your actions.”

With his legs spread, he leans back with his drink, his gaze moving between me and the fire, but landing on me in the end when I don’t take my gaze from his.

He sips his drink rather than responding and I tell him, “I won’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Blame myself.”

“Then don’t,” he answers easily enough. My bottom lip wavers until I take another unsteady sip and close my eyes.

“What you did yesterday…” I trail off as I remember how I felt on his desk and the wave is an onslaught to my confidence.

The sound of him leaning forward forces my eyes to open wide, the sofa groaning, before I feel him closer to me.

“What did I do that was so wrong that you felt the need to make an excuse?” His question holds a taste of menace.

“You wanted to humiliate me.”

“The fuck I did.”

Anger rolls off of me in harsh and unforgiving waves. “Yes you did, you acted like I—”

“I wanted you to know how I coped with you leaving; I wanted you to feel it.” His words are rushed, pushed through gritted teeth. Clearly he’s referring to the note. Which is an entirely different matter.

“You had me lay on that desk so you could prove your power over me.” I know that’s why. I know it is and I can’t even breathe as I wait for him to deny it. “To demean me.”