I am married.
But I was on a business trip.
Horrible excuse, I know, but when I am all alone, in a place where no one knows me . . . I tend to drift out of myself and I subconsciously become someone else. Another man all his own. A man who strives for only the best and takes when he spots the best.
I own a security company whose headquarters is situated in London, but I was looking to expand to Ireland. That day had been busy. Negotiations with the man I intended to buy a building from were frustrating and I feared I did not have enough money to give him what he wanted, so I went to a pub when it was all done. It was loud, festive . . . an almost stereotypically Irish pub filled with everything one would expect; with beer, women, and drunk women. I smiled as songs were sung and dances were danced, but I was tired and I simply wanted to down the brew the bartender was so kind to place in front of me when he saw the exhaustion in my expression.
I thought I would remain unnoticed. With my quiet demeanor, my lack of enthusiasm, and the yawns that would occasionally escape my mouth when I was not filling it with beer, I thought I was unnoticed. However, a young woman, her eyes dark and warm like honey, her smile bright and blooming, her hair dark as sin, slid her hand up my leather encased arm until her fingertips tickled the base of my neck.
"Take me home with you," she told me and a flush of arousal and embarrassment colored my face. I lifted my own hand to remove hers and shook my head.
"I'm married," I replied and she stared at me blankly for a moment before disappointment clouded her features. Her lips, as swollen and as red as if they had just been kissed, poked out in a pout and she flounced away, probably to find someone else to satisfy her for the night; I was not sure, I had long returned my attention back to my beer.
"You should have taken her somewhere," a voice whispered in my ear. I jolted in surprise and glared at the man for startling me. He merely smiled back with bright white teeth and thin pale pink lips. For a moment, the smile was so wide I could not see his eyes because they were squinted in his expression of mirth. But that was only for a moment. The smile faded and those eyes fully opened and I was amazed. So clear they were. His eyes scared me. "I said you should have taken her somewhere."
"I told her that I was married," I informed him, turning my gaze back to my drink to avoid his eyes.
"Am I what?"
"Married?" he chuckled and I instinctively looked to him once again; I wanted to see his smile.
"Why would I lie about being married?" I asked and the smile I wanted to see widened.
"I suppose you're right," he replied. "You don't hear much about men who lie about being married, do you?"
I cleared my throat, not finding him funny in the least and turned back to my drink.
"Is that the only reason?"
"The only reason you did not take her home? Your marriage?" he reminded me, leaning back on the bar and angling himself so that I could see his face in my peripheral vision.
"I'm also in love with my wife," I said with a bit of anger and he laughed. "I have morals, you know."
"But you're a man."
"So are you," I quipped back after his redundant statement.
"Men are weak creatures. We succumb easily to temptation," he explained, but I shrugged.
"So I shouldn't even fight the temptation?"
"I'm just saying that . . . you must be a better man than me . . . I would have simply suggested we go to her place, instead," the man said smoothly as he combed his pale hands through his silvery hair with a sigh. "But, then again, I've never been married."
I finally turned to meet his gaze and frowned that at this angle, his bright hair and bright eyes shown in amazing opulence and I found myself thinking that he was the Devil. The more he smiled the more I frowned and he eventually moved from his post on the bar and wandered away, leaving my poor mind to wonder about him and my eyes to follow after him.
Two hours later, I was still at the bar, cradling the same drink and debating whether or not the glance he had given me across the room meant something. I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed; what did I mean by "meant something?" Why was I looking for meaning in a simply meaningless glance from a simply meaningless person I would never meet again?
I looked up and he so happened to glance at me again, his clear, demon eyes glowing with . . . interest before he smiled at me . . . I know the smile was for me specifically . . . and then he left the bar. I left money on the bar less for the drink I had hardly sipped and more for the space I had occupied for so long. I stood and I followed.
He was standing at the corner when I came outside, looking towards the bar I had just left behind and when he spotted me, his smile widened for a second and he turned and began to walk.
I really did not know what I was following him for.
Honestly, I did not understand it myself, but I recall noticing the sway of his body as he walked and the illumination of his amazing hair each time that walk crossed under a street light.
We walked for ten minutes maybe, in pure silence, a leader and a follower on a mission Lord knows where. We reached a building and I stood with him in the small entrance as he buzzed himself in. I followed him into an even smaller elevator and he touched his finger to the very top floor.
I stood as far away from him as possible and he watched me from his post on the opposite wall with those eyes of his. The dark bar must have made them so clear; they were greyer when I got a good look at them, just as his hair was less silver and more blond. He was staring straight back at me during my entire scrutiny of him and he unzipped his jacket and unbuttoned his light blue shirt until his porcelain skin shined out at me and I caught a glimpse of a small pink circle when he moved to leave the elevator as it stopped.
I continued my silent following of this man and didn't smile back when he occasionally turned to bestow me with small ones. We finally reached the door at the end of the long hallway and he opened it slowly, leaning back on it as he made room for me to brush past him . . . He smelled nice.
His home was nothing less than what I thought it should have been. It was decorated in soft colors; off-white and pale peach and warm beige. It was relaxing. He closed the door behind him and the room we were in fell into darkness from the lack of light the hallway had provided. Instead, moonlight shone through the large pane windows across from me and cast the room into various degrees of shadows. He took my jacket and gestured for me to sit on one of the two long, cream colored couches facing one another in the center of the room.
As I was sitting, I noticed that he was near a bookcase, fiddling with what appeared to be a stereo. Soft music soon floated through the air, nothing romantic, though. It was a song I recognized to be American, one I remember hearing during my college days in the States. He swayed slowly to the man's low, tormented voice and I watched as his jacket and open shirt melted from his shoulders and arms into a dark puddle at his feet. I wanted to ask him why he was so pale, but he left the room before I could.
I closed my eyes and leaned back on the couch, taking deep breathes and calming myself down, hoping to get my heartbeat aligned with the slow tempo of the song. I heard a slight rustling sound and the soft clink of glass being set down on something and opened my eyes to see that he was sitting directly across from me, now devoid of the jeans he had been wearing just a moment before.
"Why are you so pale?"
He looked down at himself as if he had not realized what he looked like. He trailed a hand down his chest, over his stomach, then his boxers, and stopped at his naked thighs. "I've always been this way."
I nodded and watched him reach into the bowl he had just set on the table between us. "Want one?"
I stared at the Hershey's Kiss he held out to me and shook my head. "I don't like chocolate."
"Pity," he replied, opening the silver wrapping and popping it into his mouth. "It's good."
"I'm fine," I replied, just content to watch him suck on the candy for awhile. He reached for another one and the song ended and began again. I turned my head to the stereo and he laughed.
"I like this song."
He smiled again and bit in the kiss that rested at the tips of his fingers before standing and walking around the table between us. He stood over me, swaying to his song and melting the chocolate left in his hands with his fingers. Then he sucked the rest of it into his mouth, licking lightly at his fingertips as he straddled my lap.
His wet fingers traced my lips as he pushed himself closer to me. I gasped and they dipped inside for me to taste. He pressed the side of his face to mine, his breath catching slightly as his parted lips brushed against my earlobe. My hands were gripping his waist, begging him to stop moving his hips the way he was moving them, but they eventually accepted the movements and helped them along. His own hands were cradling my head, forcing me to look up into his eyes, which in the darkness had once again become cool and demon like. He pulled my glasses off the tip of my nose, tossing them carelessly aside and lowered his face to mine as if . . . as if to do something more than bring our mouths close enough so as to taste one another's breath. One of my hands lifted from his waist and found a place in his hair. I yanked his head back and pressed my face into the pale length of neck my actions fully exposed. His skin was quivering, his throat contracting from the unreleased moans he kept from me, and I fully intended to have them as I turned my head sideways and ran the tip of my nose from his collar bone, over his Adam's apple, under his chin, to his mouth. When the tip of his nose touched mine, a soft sigh brushed against my lips. His fingers were in my hair, tightening and relaxing until they began to massage. I moaned my appreciation and used the hand still around his waist to press him closer to me, causing him to sit up higher on my lap.
He pulled back slightly to unbutton my shirt and I looked down at his pale chest, impressed by the rosy color of the tight buds located there. I touched one and he gifted me with a moan. His fingers, so long and nimble looking, seemed confused as to what to do with the buttons of my shirt and eventually, he yanked it over my head with frustration. I laughed when my arms remained caught in the still buttoned sleeves. He laughed as well, but it came out more like a pant and his shaking fingers, as slowly as they could, released my wrists and soon the shirt was on the floor. He studied my chest with open admiration and the hands tracing over the planes of it were warm. I touched the rose bud on his chest once more as compensation for what he was doing to me and short nails curled into my chest as his eyes shut.
"Sensitive," I mused as my mouth replaced my fingers. His moan this time was more like a muted sob and his back bowed back for a moment and surely he would have fallen had I not been holding on to him. His frantic hands touched my head, my cheeks and ears before they settled on my shoulders and pushed me until I was pressed against the back of the couch. Then he kissed me. He tasted like chocolate and it was good.
He released my mouth only so that he could gasp for air before capturing my mouth again. I pushed him until we were sideways on the couch, him beneath me and bucking up into me as I sucked on his sweet tongue. I pulled back and yanked his boxers down to the middle of his thighs. His breathing was harsh as I stared down at him. It was red and straining, dripping and wet already. As I sat frozen, I moved my gaze up to his clear eyes and he pushed me off the couch. With his underwear still dangling from one ankle, he straddled once more and leaned in for a soft kiss.
"Stay here," he whispered before standing and disappearing from the room. I followed him.
He had left the bedroom door open and I peered in to see him rustling through the drawer of his nightstand. He jumped when my arms wrapped around him. I pushed him towards the bed until he was bent over it, pressing his backside onto the front of my trousers. I thrust back slowly with every moan of his and gentle roll of his hips. My hands roamed his back a moment before settling on the smooth skin of his behind.
"No," he moaned softly. "I can't hear the music in here."
"What music?" I asked as I turned his position around and pushed him onto his back in the center of the bed. I crawled over him, kissing from his navel to the center of his chest as I did so and smoothed my fingers up his body. He shivered as the cool metal of my wedding ring settled on his nipple. He led that hand to his mouth and those pale pink lips of his sucked my finger in until the gold that adorned it was pressed against grinning teeth. I pulled my hand away.
His legs fell open and I fell between them. They wrapped around me as his hands pushed between us and fiddled with my belt, my zipper . . . His cool hands slipped into my trousers . . . into my boxers . . .
"Nightstand drawer," he whispered. I sat up and leaned towards the drawer, reaching inside blindly to pull out various objects . . . trivial things like address books and TV guides, but also things that made me blush like . . . sex toys, lubricant, and magazines. I recognized the feel of a foil packet with the tips of my fingers and smiled. He smiled at me and reached above his head to his discarded vibrator and felt around until he found the lube. "Sit back."
I sat back and watched him touch himself.
I watched him watching me as he moaned and arched off the bed, fingering and pumping deeper and deeper into that tight part of him, shivering with pleasure and excitement and what I hoped to be anticipation of what was to come. He bit his lip and thumped his head back on the bed.
"Now," he gasped. "Now."
I yanked my trousers down as fast as I could, ripped the packet open and covered myself.
He was so warm.
I pressed my face into his shoulder . . . I tasted his sweat . . . I bit him . . .
His legs were around me, pulling me deeper, sinking me into him.
He pressed his face against the side of mine, his mouth open and harshly panting against my ear. I wrapped my arms around his waist, beneath his body and pulled him closer to me. His head fell back and I kissed his neck . . . his skin was irresistible; I had to kiss all of it, taste all of it. My hips were working at a maddeningly slow pace; I couldn't force them faster, just as his desperate hips couldn't force them faster. I wanted to pull back and look down at him before pulling him against my chest and kissing him deeply, but he had a hand behind my neck, pressing my face into his shoulder, forcing me to lick the drops of sweat beading on his smooth skin until I could not think beyond the salty taste.
I turned my head until my nose rested on that spot that was not quite his shoulder and not quite his neck . . . I tightened my grip of his hips . . . I placed my weight onto my knees so that his body was better aligned with mine. The change of position seemed to have scared him. His breath no longer consisted of pants, but full out gasps and sobs and either pain or pleasure. I found myself pepper every part of him I could with tiny kisses until, finally, his hands cupped my face and he looked into my eyes with a silver gaze filled with shock and heat.
"Name . . . Name!" he whispered hoarsely, becoming fierce when my expression held confusion. "Your name!"
"Why?" I breathed, pushing my hips forward harder and harder until I was sure he had forgotten our conversation minutes later until he spoke up once more.
His hands dropped from my face to my shoulders, then dropped from them to the bed and he arched back, pulling his long arms above his head and creating the most sensual lines with his body. "Name . . . I want . . . scream it . . . please . . ."
"Harry," I whispered.
His back arched until I was sure he was bent over backward with the top of his head pressed against the mattress as he cried out, "HARRY! HARRY! HARRY! HARRY!"
He decorated the skin of my stomach and his with his pleasure. It was thick . . . hot and it . . . felt amazing . . . He tightened around me and I decorated that tight part of him as I cried out to the ceiling, to God.
"Harry," he whispered to me. "Harry . . ."
We kissed . . . a simple, tired motion of lips pressed against lips with no other function that to want the contact. Only one of his legs was still around me, loosely though; it ran up and down the back of my calf lazily. The aftermath was tiredness, the afterglow was darkness, but I did not want to move. I only wished to remain pressed to this man with only the evidence of what we did drying between us. I closed my eyes and breathed in his sweat tainted scent of smoke and water. After a while, his fingers began to idly twirl the hair at the base of my neck.
"Harry." I looked up at my whispered name. "I like it."
"What's your name?" I asked, but he shook his head.
He smiled then, somewhat bitter and self-deprecating, but otherwise filled with humor, albeit dark. He pushed a hand through his blond locks, dark while damp with sweat and shook his head once more. "I don't want you screaming my name when you're with your wife."
I closed my eyes and smiled humorlessly at that. I was on a business trip; a small one just to speak about plans of expanding my London based security company. My smile widened. I had only wanted a drink. Then I wanted demon eyes on me. Then I wanted pale hands on me. Then I wanted chocolate kisses . . . My smile began to hurt. I wanted his name.
We kissed again and I reluctantly pulled myself away. He pointed to a door, the bathroom my eyes had questioned about, and followed me inside the small room. He pressed me back against the cold porcelain of the sink and ran a warm washrag up and down my body. He kissed a spot on my collar, and then wiped that away with warm water as well.
We managed to find all my clothes and my glasses and he helped me put my things back on as he, himself, was wrapped in a sheet.
He didn't give me a kiss as we exchanged a silent farewell in his doorway.
I tried not to look back as I walked down the long hallway, away from his apartment and him.
I tried not to look back.
I am married.
I'm married, damn it.
I looked back. He was standing in the doorway, his silver hair once again blond in the hallway's bright light, his skin amazingly pale against his white sheet, his eyes grey and still demonic. He curled a finger at me, beckoning me like a child.
I went back to him.
Author's Note: I wanted to write some smut as I've been procrastinating with the next chapter of Pathetic Me. Hopefully, I'll start writing some more of PM now that I've gotten this out of my head. I'm sure there will be a sequel to this story when I procrastinate on something else later. -DMH