The End of the Affair

Another short and sweet 750 word story. Well, maybe not so sweet...

Hope you enjoy, Belle

*** Them ***

"But I love you," he said. They both cringed at the plaint in his voice. The whine reverberated through the hotel room.

Silhouetted against the setting sun, she leaned on the doorjamb leading to the balcony. Her mahogany skin highlighted by the gold in the atmosphere. He watched her turn slowly to face him. Her naturally kinky hair expertly picked out to frame her narrow face and emerald eyes.

"You love that I'm not your wife," she sighed.

She took one step toward him. "You love my skin. You love my hair. My legs. My mouth. My accent. You love that I curse in French."

She took another step. "You love that I've let you do whatever you wanted. You love that I've never expected anything of you."

She moved again, and he moved toward her. She drew herself to her full height, besting him by four inches in her flats. She looked down at him. In the fading light, they stared at each other, taking the measure of the person opposite. Her eyes glittered. His shone with unshed tears.

"You can't leave me," he said. They both knew his bravado was hollow.

She picked up her bag, sliding away from him. His hand snapped around her forearm; his grip a vice. She raised one elegant eyebrow, tilted her head.

"I'll tell your husband," he whispered, playing his last card.

She barked a laugh. "He already knows."

As if shocked, he dropped her arm. "So does your wife," she added.

*** Her ***

"Did you break his heart?" her husband asked.

She stood in their living room, backlit by the glow of a full moon. He looked her over, taking in the outline of her body through the thin cotton of the long dress she wore. He stood, stepping to her and looking her evenly in the eye.

She shrugged. "Maybe," she said, "he said he loved me."

Her husband gripped her shoulders and slipped the straps of her dress sideways so it fell to the floor. He smiled, his white teeth visible in the low light, only a few shades more pale than his skin. His hands traced her arms and he leaned forward. His lips brushed her jawline and he inhaled deeply.

"You carry his stink," he said, his tone low and grave.

"Home to you," she replied, husky and aroused.

His tongue tapped her neck, licking softly as his hands circled her waist and pulled her to him. His hands traced lower, cupping her groin and her rear. He dipped a finger between her folds, parting her the tight curls of her bush, and sliding over her nub.

She leaned against him, resting her cheek on his shoulder, welcoming his inspection.

"You carry his jism."

He pressed his hand to her, testing her depths until she contracted around him.

"Home to you," she whispered, breathy and soft.

She clasped her hands behind his neck, leaning her taut body into his embrace.

"Always home to me."

"Always. You are my home."

*** Him ***

He stood in their darkened bedroom. He hung his head, hands fisted in his pockets, toes digging in the carpet, anxious. His heart beat fast and his skin flushed. He closed his eyes and waited. He heard movement and looked up. His wife leaned against the doorway of their bathroom. Her eyes glittered, and her arms were crossed under her chest. He looked her over, dressed in her thin silken nightgown with her nipples prominent and her hip jutting out.

He tried to read the expression on her face, and failed.

On the second try, words exited his mouth. "She told you."

His wife nodded. "Over lunch today."

She strode to him and circled him, stopping to look him in the eye.

"You smell like her perfume," she said, gruff. "Why her?"

He cringed against the question. He didn't have an answer. He closed his eyes, remembering the feel of her skin under his hands, and the nap of her hair as it brushed against his thighs. He sighed, thinking of the unique scent of her musk, and the feel of her in his mouth. He shook his head.

"You met her," he said, left with nothing but the hope that her charisma would explain what his mind could not.

His wife stepped back, sitting on the end of their bed, leaning on her hands and crossing her legs. He turned toward his wife, awaiting her judgment.

"What did you think?" he asked.

She shrugged. "You've done better. Who's next?"