If You're Feeling Unfaithful

She had this shy grin on her face that Patrick couldn't even describe. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He didn't know what to do so he kissed her. "You're fucking gorgeous, you know that?" Patrick told her. "And I know my marriage is failing and my life is pretty shitty right now but I really like you." Patrick's words were jumbled between kisses. His hands grasped her breasts gently, and he was more than satisfied by what he saw. He couldn't take his eyes off of Cherie, pulling back the comforter for her to crawl under. She laid on her back against the crimson pillows, her fair skin standing out against the soft fabric. Patrick's hands rested on her waist, slowly drawing lines down her sides to the waistband of her light jeans. His fingers traveled to the button, his eyes locking with Cherie's as if asking for permission. A slight nod and a smile were answer enough, and Patrick began tugging the denim from her body.

Her pile of clothing was nearly complete, save for her panties, which Patrick took in upon gazing at her fully in the dim light of the bedroom. Her simple black lace panties were taunting him, hiding what he wanted most. He leaned down, hovering over her to place kisses along her neck and chest, straight down to her nipples. He sucked and licked her breasts, teasing her nipples with his thumbs and tongue until they stood at attention. Cherie let out soft mewling noises of pleasure, her fingers sifting through Patrick's hair. His kisses continued down her stomach, toward her panties, and she couldn't believe a married man was going down on her. Patrick was painstakingly hard from just touching her. He couldn't even think of what was to come. He couldn't even think of the last time he'd felt this way with his wife. Cherie was here, and offering him what he needed most.

He hooked his fingers around the edge of her panties, tugging them down her legs carefully, finally completing her pile of clothing beside the bed. He let out a low whistle at the sight before him. "Fuck," he breathed, smiling down at Cherie. She stretched her arms above her head, and he couldn't help but notice the way her ribs poked against her pale skin. He stood from the bed then, head spinning. He shoved his jeans down his legs mechanically, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He knew if he caught sight of this scene his conscience would guilt him for the rest of the night. He just needed this. He couldn't describe it, couldn't quantify what it was, but he needed it, like some form of release. And Cherie was his saving grace.

He straddled Cherie's hips, his dick straining against the thin fabric of his boxer briefs. He rubbed her clit in small circles with his thumb, and he didn't have much experience with women, but he knew this was something that did the trick. And sure enough Cherie was smiling, arching into his touch. She reached out blindly, palming his cock through his underwear, taking him completely by surprise. He slid his fingers down to her slick entrance, entering two fingers into her waiting wetness. She sighed happily at Patrick's actions, especially when he picked up his pace. He removed himself from his straddling position to lie on his stomach, kissing along her thigh to her center where his tongue met her clit in an electrifying exchange, earning a gasp from Cherie's parted lips. She whispered his name, her thighs brushing against his cheeks lightly, but he didn't stop, didn't pick his head up until she begged him to do so. She chanted his name on repeat, wriggling from his grasp as the pleasure was too much for her to handle. She had never felt this way, and Patrick couldn't say he had either; two halves, finally whole.

Cherie grasped the waistband of Patrick's boxers, tugging them down to reveal his hardened dick. Her eyes grew wider, perking up with a little more excitement. Patrick tossed his boxers into his pile of clothing on the ground, lying beside Cherie. She stroked him with painstaking slowness, her mouth hovering just above the head of his cock, breath ghosting down the shaft. She ran her tongue along his length carefully, watching his face change from apprehensive to a pleasured smile. She took him into her mouth easily, earning a growl from the back of Patrick's throat. He couldn't take this for long before wriggling from her lips, swollen and pink. He began kissing her again, more fervently, while also searching his nightstand for a condom.

"God, Patrick," she sighed, pulling away from him. She laid her head back on the pillow, looking up at him. Her dark hair fanned around her, cascading down her shoulders in brunette tendrils. Patrick stared at her for a moment, shifting the condom packet between his fingers. He inspected the scene before him. He barely knew this woman, but he was in love with her. This woman wasn't his wife, but he was having sex with her. The image both amazed and startled him. Another woman in his home. Another woman on his wife's side of the bed.

It was only when a quiet hiccup came from her lips that Patrick realized Cherie had covered her face, and she was crying. "What's the matter, sweetheart?" He whispered, pulling her into his chest. His arms were wrapped around her tightly enough to bruise, but she welcomed the embrace nonetheless. She tried to steady her breathing, to offer some explanation for her emotional breakdown, but she couldn't stop shaking long enough to form a sentence.

"I just...I don't know Patrick," she sighed, defeated. "This. This isn't right. And I know your marriage isn't exactly what you want it to be, and she isn't how you want her to be, but I don't think this solves anything. I love you, I really do love you. I'd like to think you meant it when you said you loved me."

"Of course I meant it--" Patrick interjected, soon cut off by Cherie's words.

"But you have something outside of this, whatever this is," she murmured sadly. "I don't. This is it for me, Patrick. You're it. But you'll never get to be it, you know? All I have to look forward to are creepy guys trying to pick me up at the bar. You have a life outside of this. You have a wife. And I don't know what your relationship is like, but it was built on something. You didn't decide to marry her for no reason. You still have that, outside of this. I don't get that. I don't think I ever will."

"God, Cherie," Patrick breathed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I just need you to know I love you. Fuck, do I love you. And I don't know what's going to happen after tonight, but I don't want you to forget this, all right? This isn't something that just gets lost to the sands of time. This withstands. God, Cherie, I don't know." Patrick pulled away and looked up at the ceiling for a long moment, his hand frozen on Cherie's shoulder. "Fuck, I just don't know." He kissed her as soon as the words left his mouth, tumbling against her pink pout.

The sadness that had hung over them evaporated to lust, Cherie opening the foil condom wrapper to roll it onto Patrick's dick. He let out a low groan at her touch, kissing along her neck hard enough to leave marks. Secretly she hoped he would. Patrick had butterflies in his stomach, running his dick along her opening, back and forth. He asked if this was okay, to which she replied yes. For some reason, even in the heat of the moment, he needed confirmation that his actions were all right. He didn't know why, but it was something he had always done.

Cherie sighed as Patrick entered her, his hands bracing himself on either side of her head. It took a couple moments to adjust, Patrick not wanting to rush, and honestly it was like they were teenagers again. Cherie kissed his collarbones and traced his vertebrae with her middle finger. Her touch was electric against his skin, giving his body new life. Eventually his rhythm was found, steady and quick, and each time he slammed into her, Cherie found herself closer and closer to her climax.

Patrick bit his lip, watching her come undone beneath him, and it was something he wished he could witness forever. Her breathing became shallow, her caramel eyes slipped closed as she whispered Patrick's name on repeat. A final gasp and, "Fuck, 'Trick," signaled her peak. Patrick finished close behind after she whispered, "I fucking love you," against his throat.

Patrick didn't want this to end, he didn't want the sun to rise. The sun rising meant a new day. A new day meant unknown. What was going to happen the second he opened his eyes in the morning? Would Cherie still be there? He liked to think so.

This was where he felt his safest, wrapped up in his sheets with Cherie in his arms. He didn't want to face the world, or anybody else, ever again. All he needed was in this room. He knew Cherie wasn't asleep, despite the clock reading close to four in the morning. He prayed she would sleep, but more than anything he knew she wouldn't.

Patrick slipped off into a sleepy stupor far sooner than Cherie could even think about going to sleep. Her thoughts raced, her heart hammered. The damage had been done, and yet she was still a nervous wreck. Patrick's sleepy breaths tickled her neck, his nose pressed just underneath her ear. Just like Patrick, she didn't know what was to come the second the sun rose. She gave herself about another three hours before she'd be faced with a decision.

Was she going to stay, further fostering, yet damaging this relationship? Or was she going to leave, ending it completely? She couldn't say. It was something that was to be answered once the sun rose. She couldn't take her eyes off of Patrick's face. He looked angelic, curled against her, a slight grin on his lips. She sat up a little, pulling away from him just the slightest. Her eyes darted around the room, observing her surroundings. She noticed Patrick's glasses--black thick frames--on the nightstand and she sighed. He wears glasses. She couldn't stop thinking about all she didn't know, all she wished she could know.

What is Patrick like when he wakes up in the morning? How soggy does he like his cereal? What does he look like while he brushes his teeth?

These things were meaningless, of course, but they meant something to Cherie. This was the only way she would ever know Patrick. In a bar and in his bed. In the driver's seat of his car, illuminated by city lights. She wouldn't get to watch him make pancakes or take his dog for a walk. She wasn't a part of his life, and even though they loved each other she probably never would be.

This truth stung worse than anything. She curled herself closer into Patrick, hiccuping back her tears. The clock only read 4:42. She still had a couple hours to relish in his embrace. The sobs shook her shoulders as she pressed her face into the comforter, trying her hardest to hold her breath, to hold in her emotions. She didn't want to wake Patrick, but it was too late. He sat up quickly, running his hands through his hair. "What's the matter?" He whispered frantically, holding Cherie's shaking frame in his arms. "Don't cry, sweetheart. What's the matter?"

She shook her head, slowing her breaths down, grasping Patrick's face in her hands. She pressed her forehead against his, and he wiped the tears from her face with his calloused thumbs. "God, Patrick. I'm sorry. I'm so dumb," her voice wavered as she tried to explain. And it wasn't even having sex with him that got to her. It was everything else; they had connected. Cherie was a firm believer in soulmates, and even firmer believer in that they could be anybody. Tonight, she'd happened to have found hers. She had never met a truer spirit, and she fell for him fast and hard. And to have him validate those feelings made it feel like ten trillion fireworks had gone off inside her. But when the smoke faded, the smell of sulfur still lingering, the reality of the situation was present. Patrick had a wife.

Cherie couldn't help but feel guilty. She felt guilty more than anything. Here was this man, involved in a relationship as sacred as marriage. Here she was, ruining the sanctity of that marriage. She was a homewrecker, a cheater. She couldn't even fathom what was going to happen after this. But for as much as she felt guilty she felt an even more frantic need for Patrick. He was her soulmate, he was everything she could have ever wanted in the entire world. But he wasn't hers to want.

"You're not dumb, sweetheart." Patrick kissed her lips briefly, bringing her back from her overbearing thoughts. He wanted Cherie to sleep, and he wanted her to be there when he woke up. She admired his ringless finger, taking his hand in hers. "You're tired. Go to sleep, my love. I'll see you in the morning. Okay?"

"Okay, Patrick," she whispered, but her mind had been made up. It was going to be a clean break. She wouldn't sleep, and Patrick wouldn't see her in the morning. He'd probably never see her again.

Cherie slipped from the bed just as the sun was coming up. She smiled down at Patrick's blank, sleepy expression and his disheveled hair. She traced the slope of his nose, curve of his lips, edge of his jaw. She wanted to remember this exact moment, and Patrick's entire being, for the rest of her life. She worked her brain into overdrive, straining to store every nuance of this small moment--and the past night--into her memory. She found it nearly impossible to leave his side, sighing quietly at herself in the mirror, wearing solely Patrick's t-shirt. She scooped her clothes from the floor and found the master bathroom after a little searching. She used his Irish Spring soap and his shampoo, slowly washing away any evidence of their actions from just hours before. When she returned to the bedroom in her jeans and Patrick's shirt he was still asleep. She sat by his side once again, almost wishing for him to wake up and stop her. "I love you, Patrick," she whispered, pressing a feather light kiss to his forehead. She stood, silently stalking out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

She couldn't help the tears that fell as she searched for a lone piece of paper and a pen. She scrawled out a quick note and picked up his wedding band from the coffee table. She stared down at the small piece of metal in the palm of her hand. Such a small emblem that stood for so much. Or stood for nothing at all. She noticed his initials, and the bride's, carved into the shining band. Tears stung her eyes and she climbed the stairs toward his bedroom for the final time. She cracked open his bedroom door, poking her head in just the slightest to find him still asleep, ruby red sheets tangled around him. She placed her note on the nightstand along with his wedding band, turning her back to him. She tried her hardest to keep her sobs quiet, but each time she tried to leave she couldn't will herself to do so, praying he would wake up and keep her in this blissful bubble just a while longer.

But the cab had already been called and Patrick was in a deep, undisturbed sleep. Their fate was sealed. It was over. Patrick was married, Patrick had a life. Cherie turned to look at him one final time, cupping his cheek in her hand softly before breaking away. She forced herself from the safety of his bedroom and back downstairs. She observed the objects in his home--neatly kept and quite eclectic. She couldn't help but wonder what was his and what was his wife's. She slipped on her shoes by the door, petting his dog on the head before stepping onto the porch where she waited for her cab. She enjoyed the sunshine and the garden, so those almost made up for what was tearing her apart inside.

She wouldn't forget, she couldn't forget, even if she had wanted to, she wouldn't. And even as she slipped into the cab and turned her back on her blissfully short romance, she couldn't shake the sadness or the anger or the heartache. She couldn't help but gaze at the house as the taxi took her away, seeing Patrick stick his head out the front door as they turned the final corner, bringing his house out of view. Her thoughts flashed to the image of him lying peacefully in bed, the sheets a pool of crimson around him. He was gone. This was it; their time was up.

*

Patrick had awoken when he heard a car door slam. He sat up, greeted by an empty bed. He noticed a sole earring on the pillow Cherie had restlessly occupied just hours before. The moon.

He was the moon, she was the sun. Meant to be together, but two entities that can never meet.

Startled, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed, pulling on his boxers in a frenzy. It was the gleam of his wedding ring on the nightstand that halted his movements. There it was again, scorning him, perched atop a folded piece of sheet music with his name scrawled across in red Sharpie marker. He picked up the paper, unfolding it with shaking hands and knowing disappointment. His eyes welled up with tears--angry and torn, yet understanding. Her words stung each time he read them over.

Patrick,

You gave me everything I could have wanted in the span of a few hours. More than you could ever give her. More than she could ever appreciate. And I'm so thankful for that. I love you, I really do. But here we are. The sun and moon. Meant to be together, except not. You know what I mean. You always do.

I love you. I probably always will. Don't wait up for me, our fate's sealed. Rip my heart out.

Your Cherie Amour.

Patrick dropped the letter, dropped the wedding band. He sprinted down the stairs in hopes of catching her, stopping her from doing this to him, hurting him this way. But it was too late, and he caught sight of the cab turning the corner just as he stuck his head outside. He slammed the front door with a frustrated yell.

"Goddamn her," he shouted to the empty house. Goddamn Cherie and her stupidly beautiful metaphors and her stupidly beautiful everything. Goddamn her for leaving him so broken. Patrick trudged upstairs to his bedroom once again, the recollections of the previous night burned into his memory. A beautiful blur of laughter and tears and passion. He never wanted to leave this room if it meant never forgetting.

He picked up the note, rereading it again. Our fate's sealed. The words hit him like a wall; realization took over, all anger melting away. He was the one hurting her. How could he have been so selfish? He was married, their fate was sealed.

It was nothing more than one night. But maybe that was all they needed; an eclipse. A brief moment for the moon and sun to finally meet.