The Passionate Mistake

by Amelia Hart

  “No, no I like listening to you talk. And every now and again when it all gets too much I let my mind wander and I think about your body for a while. That keeps me riveted.” He pretended to splutter and look indignant, but she thought he was pleased by her comment, delivered with a smirk.

  “You mean it’s not my rapier wit that amuses you?”

  “Frankly I can’t decide if I like your happening mind or your hot body more. The question defeats me.” She shook her head in pretended sadness.

  “Either are at your service. Both together I’m not sure I can manage, after this weekend of gluttonous debauchery. I might be just about able to string two thoughts together when I’ve got my hands on you. Best not to count on it though.” He stroked her fingertips lightly, suggestively, and she couldn’t believe the thrill that went through her at that delicate touch. How could she respond so strongly to him when – as he said – they’d spent so many hours satisfying themselves in bed already, and so recently? It boggled belief.

  “No, no,” she said, speaking almost at random as she withdrew her hand. “We must cultivate a little discipline.” She was still not used to the feeling he gave her: of being totally off balance, adrift without a strong sense of her true self. It wasn’t just the lies she had told. She was so different in character when she was with him. Not a bad different. But extraordinarily, specifically horny, for one. Fixated on him. No other man would satiate this desire. And happy. Gentle. Unfocused.

  “Discipline? Are we talking whips and chains here?” he quirked an eyebrow at her, and she laughed.

  “No! I just mean we have been rather . . . wallowing in it lately.”

  “We’ve reached the end of your tolerance for sybaritic delights, then? You want something more cerebral? I can manage that. A little transcendental meditation, perchance?”

  “Say what?”

  “Meditation.”

  “Get out.”

  “No, actually I’m serious. I do it every day, for about half an hour. I reckon it’s that that keeps me from burning out.”

  “I can’t imagine you burning out. You’re always so . . . chipper.” When he gave her a slightly questioning look she realized that was an incongruous observation from someone who knew another as little as he thought she knew him. “I mean, you just seem that way each time I’ve seen you. And in your letters. Um, transcendental meditation. Sure. Why not? Let’s give that a try if you’re sure it’s so good,” she hurried on.

  “You’ll find it useful, I think. It’ll help you mellow out.”

  “Mellow? I’m mellow.”

  He snorted in a way that made her shoot him a suspicious glance. He met her look, interpreted it accurately, and raised his eyebrows as he said, “You’re about as mellow as a firecracker.” He was smiling at her, inviting her to smile with him, but she frowned instead. “I like that. You burn so brightly you’re – well – mesmerizing.”

  She considered the metaphor, and thought she saw a link. “Burning? Sunshine?” she repeated the name he had used for her a few times.

  “Yes. You’re so hot and glowing. But sunshine can also be a soft, nurturing warmth.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Too many metaphors. What was the damned man trying to say? “Now I’m confused. Firecracker doesn’t sound the same as soft and nurturing.”

  “More that you could remain yourself and yet develop the soft, nurturing, sunshiney part of your personality.”

  “Say what? You mean instead of the harsh and glaring part?” she said with an edge to her tone, seriously ready to be offended now, both by the specifics of his words and the thought that he was trying to mould her personality.

  He looked at her, shrugged and was silent.

  She paused, considered, reviewed what they had each said. He sat and looked at her with his infuriatingly patient expression. Finally she rolled her eyes at him. “So fine,” she muttered ungraciously. “I guess that wasn’t the most mellow reaction.”

  “Sadly not,” he said, shaking his head mournfully with that ever-present twinkle in his eye. “I can only imagine what you must be like when you’re sexually frustrated and on edge instead of your current laxed out self.” He looked smug.

  She blew a raspberry at him, and he laughed outright. “Come on then,” he said, getting out of his chair and coming around behind her. He hauled her up with hands under her arms and she caught her balance and stood. His hands went to her shoulders and gave them a friendly squeeze. “I prescribe transcendental meditation, for sure.”

  “Is that so, doctor?” she said, trailing in his wake as he led the way down some stairs and around the corner, in an area of the house that she hadn’t been in yet. She didn’t really want to try something new in front of him, in case she looked foolish. At the same time she didn’t want to refuse to try something he recommended. She wanted him to think she was agreeable and brave. “You know, you should have been a therapist. You’ve definitely got that whole thing going on.”

  “Being a manager is a lot like being a therapist. Not deeply with any one individual; just on a shallow level with everyone, to keep things flowing along.”

  They were walking down a wide corridor brilliantly lit by skylights meters above their heads, then suddenly another twist and there was a courtyard before them, a giant glass box open to the sky where the Japanese theme of the entrance garden was continued with large stones, pebbles, sand and mosses, a small maple tree and a bubbling steam that appeared, trickled over a series of black rocks and into a dainty, perfect pool. When he opened the door she could hear a gentle burbling sound. It was so evocative of peace that she couldn’t help taking a deep breath.

  “Lovely,” she said.

  “Mmmm. This was the other thing I really like about this house. I shouldn’t have called the place soulless, really. This is its soul.”

  “It’s so unexpected.”

  “This is the spot I like.” He pointed at the top of a big stone, where a hollow invited sitting. “You try it. I’ll sit over here.” There he went again with the selflessness. His lack of defenses against her, his generosity, even in the little things, struck her with guilt at unexpected moments, making her feel small and unworthy.

  “I can’t take your seat.”

  “A change is good too. I’ll be fine. You go ahead.” She wasn’t going to start another disagreement, so she settled herself on the boulder. The stone was smooth, and cooler than the air around it. That was welcome on a full summer day when the air was already hot even in the morning. He had found another seat, a little lower than hers so their heads were on a level. She looked at him expectantly.

  “So what exactly are we supposed to do?” she asked.

  “It’s extremely difficult. You have to think of nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Think of nothing,” he repeated.

  “How is that difficult?”

  “Try it and see.”

  She was suspicious. That sounded ridiculous. He must be joking. But apparently that was all the advice he was going to give, as he closed his eyes and shifted himself minutely into a more comfortable position then was still.

  So alright. She closed her own eyes. Think of nothing. Nothing was like whiteness. She thought of a blank page. Then a blank horizon. Then the word nothing, seeing the shape of the letters hovering on her blank page. Then she wondered if her skirt had ridden up when she sat down, and noticed her nose was itchy. She straightened her skirt and scratched her nose. She could do with a drink of water, too. Not that she was very thirsty. But with the stream tinkling away so close . . . Then she remembered she was supposed to be thinking of nothing.

  So she thought of white. Plain white. Which someone painted a bold splash of red with a calligrapher’s brush. Then drew Japanese characters on, in bold, slashing black lines. Japanese like the influence for this little garden. She knew a little Japanese. She had learnt it at school. She went through a few words, then phrases, trying to see how much she could recall out of context. Then sh
e remembered she was supposed to be thinking of nothing.

  She sighed. “This is difficult.”

  “You can try thinking of a single specific thing if you prefer. Or a word. Or even a phrase.”

  She liked that better. An affirmation, then. She was used to using those. Not recently, but she had done it before.

  ‘Better every day,’ she thought to herself. Better every day. Better. Better. Better every day. Better how? Stronger? More knowledgeable? Better than everyone else. Better. To be better. To become better. Bigger and better.

  She thought of cheeseburgers.

  “Damn it. This really isn’t working for me.”

  “Persistence is such a sexy quality.”

  She blew another raspberry at him, then settled down to pretend to be the sexiest transcendental meditator on the block.

  When a half hour had passed in an agony of impatience to be doing something, he finally declared it enough time, and she hid her relief as she jumped to her feet. Obviously not well enough, for he put his hands on his hips and surveyed her, rueful.

  “Too much, too soon?”

  “Oh. Ah, I think it’s good to try something new. And maybe I’ll get the hang of it with practice,” she said, with lavish amounts of diplomacy and optimism.

  “Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “Thanks for giving it a go. We’ll have to think of some reward for your perseverance.”

  “Oo, yes,” she said, with much more enthusiasm, making him chortle.

  “You are totally earthy.”

  “You know you want it,” she said, saucy and bold when she felt the ground solid under her feet. Sex was something she understood. It was tenderness and a deeper emotional connection that left her off balance and needy, reaching for something she barely recognized.

  “You’ll wear me to a nub,” he sighed.

  She sidled up and slid her hands into the back pockets of his shorts, rubbing up against him slowly. “Such a sexy nub,” she purred, then leapt away with a laugh and a taunt when he reached for her. “Catch me first.”

  They chased and played, made out and talked for hours about everything and nothing, like teenagers.

  The afternoon unwound like a perfect spool of thread after a café lunch at a little place around the corner. “Just to get out of the house,” he said, and she nodded and agreed, though privately she thought it unlikely a mere café could better the quality of his cooking, nor provide a more pleasant ambience than the peace of his home.

  She was wrong though. Not about the food, which was savory enough but nothing outstanding – but the atmosphere in the dappled shade of the ferny courtyard surrounded by other happy Sunday diners was charming.

  It was good to get out, rather than just retreat from the world in an attempt to charge her batteries through time alone. She was so solitary these days. It probably wasn’t healthful for her. If a friend had described their own life as she would describe hers if she was truthful, she would have been concerned for their wellbeing. It was lonely.

  Not that being surrounded by strangers really changed that of course. But today she wasn’t alone. She had Mike. They finished lunch, lingered over coffee, walked hand-in-hand home and stopped off on the way at the local park to lie on the grass on their backs, chatting as they watched puffy white clouds float by.

  “I miss grass,” he said. “There’s certainly none at the office, and the only grass I have at home is the sort of low maintenance tuft or two that one trims with a pair of scissors every six months.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Not the kind of stuff you could lie on. You’d probably kill it.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Lying on the grass like this feels like being a kid again. I used to do this on the farm all the time when I was little. Lose myself in a field, find a spot without cowpats, lie and look at the sky.”

  “Mm.”

  “Are you going to sleep?”

  “What? No,” she said, proving it by opening one eye and squinting at him.

  “You were. We should have a swim.”

  “A swim. Oof, that sounds like too much effort. And all that sand everywhere, and getting sticky . . .” She was thinking of her make-up, imagining it all washed off and leaving her as colorless as Cathy, her hair drying flat too. No good at all.

  “Well if not on the beach, how about a pool? I have one.”

  “I don’t think I’m up for a swim, sorry.”

  “Then you could just lie on the lounger and wait for me to come pounce on you.”

  “All cool and big, and wet from the water. Hmmmm,” she mused aloud as she considered the idea, eyelids drooping as she surveyed him and mentally undressed him once more. Surely she was crazy, to feel the heat rise again? Even tender and slightly sore from the hours passed in his company, his bed, she could still fantasize about the next time she had him alone. She was insane with lust. No doubt about it.

  “Yep,” he grinned at her.

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said, and he laughed at the thread of eagerness that underlay her acquiescence.

  So they returned to his home, walking linked through the leafy suburbs under the hot sun, and he swam in the pool that was bounded on three sides by the house, on the fourth by a tall fence that cut out any view of the neighbor.

  He swam naked and she watched him from behind her sunglasses, pretending to read a book and trying not to drool betrayingly. And when he finally came to her he was as cool and wet as he had promised. And quickly big and hard too. His body dampened her clothes wherever they touched, and she didn’t care, enjoying the sensation of water sealing their skin together. They cavorted on the lounger, then on the floor just inside the house, laughing and rolling back and forth, slowly peeling off her few layers of clothes.

  He took his time, sliding in and out of her, pausing, playing, lingering, no urgency and no rush to completion. Like they had hours. Like they had forever. And she closed her eyes against the bright sunlight and pretended it was so.

  After dinner – a platter of tasty tidbits and nibbles he threw together, she reluctantly said: “I’d better get going.”

  “You could stay a few more hours if you like. We can make sure you get home in plenty of time for your beauty sleep.”

  “I have a few chores I need to get done at home,” she prevaricated. “A busy working week ahead. Shall we say next weekend?”

  He tilted his head to one side, considering. “It seems a long time,” he said frankly, and it warmed her he should say so, should imply it was hard to wait that long for her. “I go for early morning walks. I haven’t done it while we’ve been together, but we could meet up along the waterfront. See the sunrise, even.”

  There was no way that could fit in with her necessity for concealment.

  “I can’t,” she said, disappointment making her voice sound harsher and more abrupt than she meant it to. He was silent, and she rushed on to repair any wrong impression. “I mean, I’d love to hang out, but that’s too early for me. Can’t cope with an early start like that. Um.”

  “How about in the evenings then?” he said, and his tone was neutral. “Dinner, maybe?”

  “I don’t think that will work,” she said miserably, well aware how that sounded. It was even worse as the silence dragged out, he waiting for a reason or explanation, she unable to think of one.

  “No quality conversational time then. Do you want to just sleep over? I can give you the code.”

  “Oh, ah.” She examined the idea. What if it was late? What if he was already asleep? If she didn’t let him turn on the lights when she woke him? That way he wouldn’t get a good look at her.

  He watched the dawning smile on her face with a rueful look on his own. “You don’t want to talk to me then, you just want sex,” he said drily. “I fell so used.”

  “We can talk too. I never said we couldn’t talk,” she protested.

  “No, don’t worry. I’m not offended. Or at least I shall try to bear up under the strain of being wanted onl
y for my body.”

  “Your extraordinarily gorgeous, smoking hot body.”

  “Yes, that one. Here.” He took her by the hand and led her to the keypad by the entrance, had her enter the code a couple of times while he watched until he was sure she could get the door open. She felt embarrassed by his trust in her, when she was so unworthy of it. Not that she’d ever dream of stealing from him . . . or . . . well not his physical goods.

  Then he said casually, “I’ll be home in the evenings this week, but after that do check ahead before you come. If I’m not here the alarm will be on, and it’s monitored. Slightly embarrassing if there’s a false call out.”

  Which meant there wasn’t quite so much trust involved, after all. But still.

  She went reluctantly, stealing back twice for a last kiss as he stood at his gate to see her off. The desire to go past him, back into the house, and stay there as if there was no reality to face, no tomorrow, was a powerful one. She could not have asked for a more perfect weekend, marred only by the knowledge of the secrets she kept from him. If only she could have this forever, just this, exactly like this, she thought she would be happy for the rest of her life, and she didn’t want to go.

  Even as she walked away she found herself racking her brains for a reason, some bargaining chip she could use to convince herself it was okay to break her own rules and stay.

  Each boundary she set for herself, to protect her from the pain of his discovery, was such a flimsy barrier anyway. She was not proof to the lure of him. How long would it be before she threw all vestiges of caution to the winds?

  Not long, not long, her instincts told her.

  So why not just stop now? Just stop it all, completely. Stay with him.

  And when she had the thought she walked faster, almost ran to her car, to escape before she could betray herself and destroy the fragile happiness she had snatched. Caution! It must be her watchword.

  She waved a final time and pulled away from the curb, concentrating on driving sedately, so she was almost as slow as him. Around the corner she let out the breath she had been holding. Safe, for this one minute. Safe from her own impulsive stupidity.