I tried to hold onto the memory of Aleksander’s face but it sidestepped my grasp, and the harder I tried to reach for it, the quicker it escaped. As soon as my head hit the pillow, an image of long blunt fingers sweeping through tawny hair drifted in. Too tired to fight them off, I let them all tumble in. The tiny scar on his top lip. The trail of dark blonde hair that started at his navel. The set of his broad shoulders.
My hand slipped under my nightgown, caressed the tip of my nipple until it pebbled hard and sensitive. I pulled it between my fingers until I could feel the gentle tug coalescing heat and desire between my thighs. My palm skimmed the warm surface of my taut belly and traveled lower, searching for that neglected place that needed attention. I turned onto my stomach, my arm beneath me, and bent one leg, hitching it up. My hand moved in a steady rhythm, opened the folds, brushed over that tender nub where all feeling converges. A fever was growing. I quickened the pace picturing those delicious hipbones, the valley next to them, the cobbled muscles of his stomach. And then a wave of bliss so powerful broke over me that I almost cried with relief.
It must be the long stretch of abstinence, I told myself. I hadn’t been touched in ages. Maybe it was time I considered finding a nice man to spend some time with. The thought wandered away as I drifted off to sleep.
* * *
Any pretense of decorum or courtesy quickly disappeared. We began treating each other with open hostility, going at it like the Serbs and the Croats. Well, maybe not that brutally, but it still managed to shock the rest of the staff into incoherent gasps and wide-eyed stares when they witnessed it. He didn’t seem to be troubled by it, not one bit. On the contrary, he seemed to relish the opportunity––although my knee jerk reactions to his taunting did not speak well of me either. He also lingered around the estate more. That was annoying. He seldom slept at the manor during the week when I first arrived, electing to stay at his apartment in town because of its proximity to the office. Now every time I turned a corner, he happened to be there. If I didn’t know better, I might have thought he was purposely seeking me out to antagonize me.
A few nights ago I was asked to bring a glass of whiskey to his office. Entering quietly, I stopped short when I found him speaking on the phone. The warm, dim light casting a glow around his profile made him look like a gilded icon. The fact that I could actually entertained such a ridiculous thought made me want to punch myself in the face. His long body was sprawled out on the plush, coffee colored couch, paperwork everywhere. His chin tipped down and the cold glare of the laptop resting on a side table illuminated his face.
That’s when I realized how tired he looked. His hair was messy, like he had run a worried hand through it repeatedly. For some demented reason that I can’t explain, I had the overwhelming urge to smooth it back into place for him.
“What are the margins? I think we need to sell. I don’t give a shit, Tom, stop stepping on your dick and do it… I’m in no mood to fuck around…what else…I’ll decided what’s below the bar…we’ll hash out the details tomorrow.”
As the call ended, he glanced up at me. For a split second I thought I saw the beginning of smile, but it disappeared just as quickly. His intense gaze immediately snapped back to his paperwork, the sight of me too unpleasant to bear apparently. I placed the glass of amber liquid on the side table and waited for him to say something.
“You know…Switzerland is paying illegals to repatriate.” He continued to stare at his paperwork while I stood there frozen in disbelief, stunned by how easily malice fell from his lips. It took me a while to gather my wits and walk out. Unlike him, I was an amateur at mental warfare and did a poor job pretending that his jabs didn’t leave a mark. And for the life of me I couldn’t understand why he didn’t fire me if he wanted me out of his sight bad enough to suggest I should leave the country altogether.
A day later, as I walked by his office, I heard Isabelle’s throaty French accent floating out of the wide-open doorway. I turned to look and found her bent over him, her large breasts a short distance from his face as she arranged the lunch tray on his desk. When our eyes connected, I saw him flinch. Surprisingly, a deep flush developed under his tan. I stood there basking in his discomfort while satisfaction shaped itself into a sly smile on my face. The feeling of triumph was fleeting though. And as it faded, all that remained was an empty sadness.