Sunday, 23 January 2011


I am standing on the balcony of a hotel room in Bournemouth, looking towards the sea. It is a Friday afternoon in June. The sun is setting, and the hazy sky is alight with red and gold. It's pretty, relaxing in a way I had not expected. Work has been difficult this week, and I am glad to get away for a weekend. Time to forget. Time to forget everything.

There is a rustle behind me and I hear footsteps on the balcony. I start to turn but hands are heavy on my shoulders, a chest is pressed against my back. He drops a soft kiss onto my shoulder. A warm breath tickles my neck.

“You found me alright then?” I say. His hands are moving down my shoulders to my bare arms. I shiver.

“Everything was just like you said, Mrs... Williams.” He places emphasis on the name, a thread of amusement in his tone. It's his name, not mine. "The receptionist said you arrived about half an hour ago.”

“I did,” I say.

“How was the traffic?” he asks.

“Fine,” I reply quietly. I don't want to talk about the traffic, and neither does he. He only left a half hour after I did. He had work to finish, but I was desperate to get out.

His hands have slipped down to cross his arms against my chest, and now they are slowly creeping down the front of my blouse, undoing the bottom button so that his fingers can rest against the soft skin of my stomach. He kisses my shoulder again, and leaves his lips there, so that I feel his breath, short and fast against my neck. Through the thin cotton of my summer skirt, I can already feel him, hard and wanting. I place my hands against the rail of the balcony, lean into him. He obligingly moves a hand to rest on the small of my back, moves down to caress the curve of my buttocks. I bite my lip so that I don't whimper. He is so gentle, and yet so... present. My imagination has almost killed me thinking about this moment.

In a swift movement, he steps forward, pinning me between him and the rail, one hand still on my bottom, the other rubbing gently inside the waistband of my skirt, teasing my about what is to come. He is a long, hard line against the back of my body and my waist crushes into the railing, knocking the breath from my lungs, draws a gasp from my lips. He chuckles into my neck, his breath hot like fire, his kisses soft like cotton wool. 
He stands still, holding me in this position. I try to think of something to say, but the thickness of him, straining through his trousers into the small of my back, is all I can think of. I want to turn around but I can't move. I tilt my head forward and sigh. He kisses me once more, steps back from the edge. I turn around to look at him for the first time, study the lines on his face, the tiredness around his eyes, the stubble on his chin. He seems weary.

“You look tired,” I say. He looks away from me, nods.

“It's been a long week,” he replies.

“Lets not think about it any more,” I say. He looks back at me, studies my face in a similar way, as if he can see what I'm thinking through the small frown tugging at the corners of my mouth. He wraps his arms around me, pulls me closer. He's broader than I am, and he envelops me. I rest against his chest, until he tilts my chin towards his and kisses me deeply. Suddenly we are both just tired, passion not forgotten but put aside, as we hold each other, let the uptight stress of the day seep away and the exhaustion seep in.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” I ask. He smiles at me, and lets me pull away. I duck back into the hotel room, pour a glass of red from the bottle I ordered when I arrived. He watches me with interest, as though I were doing something more significant than fetching him a drink.

“What did you tell your husband?” he asks. I look at the floor.
“That I was away with work,” I reply in a small voice. I face him, pass him the glass. He looks at the liquid, sniffs it, takes a sip.

“Will he call?” he asks.

“I doubt it,” I say.

“His loss,” he replies.


Great sexual tension and anticipation is created here. This paints an intriguing picture of desire,
and uncertainty.
Brilliantly written.

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