Better than Helen

I looked at the small digital clock perched on the far end of the wall. It blinked 1:27 in time with the tapping of my foot. He was late. The small hand mirror in my hand snapped open, reflecting my pouted lips, which had been immaculately painted but got a once-over nonetheless, my blue eyes the color of Mediterranean waves, lined with black, the lashes full and long. Everything was ready. I snapped it shut again, running my hand through my violent red hair impatiently, and my foot set to tapping again. Oh, to be late on this day! I could practically feel my skin crawling with anticipation. When he got here, I was absolutely going to tear him apart.
We had been seeing each other in secret, out of necessity, for almost a half-year, and I still couldn't seem to ever get enough of him. He had to travel for his career much too often, but I would wait patiently for that one night when the lock of my front door would turn softly, and he would walk in with quiet feet, sweetly trying not to wake me. Should have known better, sweetheart. He'd come into the bedroom, and imagine his surprise when I'd be lying there, wide awake, in a dress of silk and lace, with tapered candles throwing their light over my waiting body. I would beckon to him, and he would dive into my embrace, becoming lost in a tangle of satin sheets and hot flesh, the line between one body and another becoming hopelessly blurred. I would smell the musk of his skin on me for days after that. But each brief, fleeting bout of romance did nothing but whet my appetite for more. But today, I would see him again, and all the pent-up energy of these last nine weeks would unleash in a wild tempest of passion. Set up the Richter scales, kids. This is going to be a big one.
The bell above the cafe door tinkled, and I didn't have to look up to know it was him. I raised my eyes, and there he was, in his fresh-pressed slacks and travel-wrinkled jacket. My eyes moved to lock onto those twin green lasers, and I felt my resolve weakening. Oh, beam me up, Scotty, it's been far too long...
His mouth quirked, and I had to physically restrain myself from throwing myself on his neck right there. Instead I feigned a sort of cool camaraderie, simply waving at him, making him come sit by me. I can't be bothered to get up. Right now I am drinking my vanilla chai, sir, and I am enjoying it thoroughly. But when he sat himself on the chair with a small businesslike smile, the smell of his cologne came to me on the air. The one he only wore for me. All at once, I realized that this coffee shop was a dreadful place for a meeting. Much too public. My chai was downed in a few swallows, and I headed straight for the door, his arm around my waist. I hesitated by the front counter for just a moment, and then pulled out a few crumpled dollar bills, placing them in the tip jar. I smiled and nodded at the teenage waitress who thanked me with a metal-clad smile. I had to share my joy in some way with the world. Or just the world within the St. James Avenue Coffee Shop. Gotta start somewhere, right?
My house was several miles away, so we drove back home, of course. Even though cars are so much faster, I feel they just take the mystery and intrigue out of the world. You pass by trees so fast that if you actually wanted to look at the details of the leaves or the delicate lay of the bark, you'd only give yourself a killer case of vertigo. And angry taxis blaring their horns everywhere like a cry to battle is not exactly what I'd call mood music. But right now, speed was key. I'd have time to look at trees later. Right now the only thing I wanted to see was his face, inches away from mine. His hands like conquering explorers, taking anything they desire. His gorgeous mouth, parted in passion, the knowledge that I made it that way, and...
I sighed, changing my mind about the fast-paced age we were in. Teleportation could never come soon enough, I thought.
The house appeared ahead soon enough, I thought, though I made a point not to look at the time while we were driving. Nevertheless, I thought I had never been so happy to see that old weatherbeaten fountain in my life. My hands had this whole time been running through my hair, tapping on the door handle, picking at my clothes, just waiting for something to do. And he, devil that he is, had made every opportunity that he could to touch me. Oh, of course you just happened to reach for your pen and your hand brushed against mine. Just a coincidence. So observant of you to notice that my muscles were tense, and such skill you have that you can drive with one hand and rub my shoulders with the other. Why would I ever find it amiss that you held out your arm as we made a hard stop at a red light? It was only to prevent me from flying through the windshield, certainly. How chivalrous.
He parked the car, and I thrust my door open almost before it was completely stopped. Waiting was something I'd had to be good at, I thought. But now all bets were off, and I was just interested in getting in the house before I died of frustration. Hell, it was one thing to have a noise complaint, but indecent exposure was thirty days. I fumbled for my house key as he ran his fingertips down my neck, unlocked the door as he wrapped his arms around me, and when we entered the house, I pressed against him with a moan, slamming the door behind me wth my hip.
With a small heave, he lifted me up around his waist, and carried me into the bedroom while my mouth fed on his. We fell onto the bed, springs squealing in protest, while I tried desperately to undo my blouse. He lay his hands on the front, and undid the buttons remarkably tenderly, sliding it off my shoulders with an artist's care. I ran my hands under his shirt, feeling his rippled muscles and hot skin under my fingertips. He leaned down to me, and pressed his mouth to mine hungrily, a lion closing in for the kill. Our fingers fumbled wildly with zippers and buttons, and finally nothing separated us but our own flesh. The musk of his skin enveloped me as his hands rested upon my knees, two messengers requesting entrance into the castle. Oh, but how could I ever think my drawbridge could keep him out? His hands opened the gate of my legs, and he ran his fingers over the soft skin of my thighs, smiling at my sharp intake of breath. I flashed my eyes at him, parting my mouth ever so slightly, letting my tongue slide over my lips. For the first time since the car ride over, I spoke, finally being able to be candid.
"Don't make me wait any more, my love. I need you." I hadn't intended on the purring tone invading my voice, but it did the trick. He leaned his head down to my ear, and I felt the tickle of his breath as he spoke. "I wasn't planning on it." With that, he thrust forward, sending the breath from my lungs in a lingering moan that seemed to carry all of the tension and frustration of these weeks far away. All we had was now, and oh, how sweet it was. I clung to his shoulders as I moved with him, riding a tidal wave of pleasure. My fingers twined in his black hair as I whispered words of love in his ear, sweet nothings that nevertheless felt right. I could feel the pressure mounting, and I knew that the dam would burst at any moment. And then, in a moment so intense it brought tears to my eyes, the levy let loose, leaving me shuddering in its aftermath. It is so incredibly hard to put in words, these things. Much of it is lost in translation, but if you have ever experienced it, you know just what I'm talking about.
I lay spent next to him, a great drowsy lion sated from the hunt, fixing into my memory the feel of his arms wrapped around me, the scent of his neck, the taste of his lips; all those tiny things which would have to see me through his next absence. I kissed his cheek, and he turned around to face me. He smiled.
"If I were here every day, would you still greet me this way?" His tone was only half-joking. I propped myself on my elbows, trying to get as close as I could to him.
"If you were here every day, would you respond this way?" I countered. "I'm not sure. I'd love to have you by me always, but maybe it's fate that you're always so busy."
He frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Well," I said slowly, searching for the right words, "They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, right? And observation definitely proves it's true. So why ruin a good thing in search of something better? Maybe our love may only be these stolen moments."
He shifted on his side, holding me closer to his chest. "Good girls don't steal things, you know."
I chuckled and raised my head to his ear. "But have I ever really been a good girl?"
He kissed my lips, and then whispered, "Good point. Time is meant to be stolen, if you think about it."
I moved my body so I was facing him from above.
"Well, then I'm a master thief, baby." Any other words he might have said were cut off with the press of a kiss and a sigh of passion.