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Marc Mason is a freelance writer based in Tempe, AZ.

Saturday, January 07, 2006  

She slid the martini glass to the side and leaned forward, spilling herself across the table and making sure she that she was presenting herself for maximum effect.

“You heard me,” she whispered softly. “Four simple little words.”

I locked eyes with her and took a sip of my whisky.

“Do. You. Want. Me?” she repeated deliberately, giving me a sure smile that told me she thought she already knew the answer. And she did. But what was I going to say?


We had been doing this dance for a year at this point. From the moment she strolled into the office, flashing her wedding ring and enough attitude to break a man, she had sniffed out that I craved her. That I wanted nothing more than to take her home, throw her against the wall, tear every single scrap of clothing she was wearing into tiny strips, and fuck her until one of us died from exhaustion or dehydration. She knew. She thrived on it. Hell, after a while, after I denied and denied and denied, I began to realize that she wanted me to do it. Or at least say it.

I sometimes wondered if I said it, would she get off right then and there, not a finger on her?

But I refused to break or budge. Not me. For one, no matter how much I may be starving, I don’t steal another man’s food. As long as she stuck with him, stuck with his deep pockets and pretty face, forget it. We’d met a few times, and he wasn’t the type of guy I could respect; he lacked anything resembling personality or honor, and I have no use for that. But what he did have was a wife, one he promised himself to, and as someone with a sense of honor myself, I at least respect that.

There was another reason, though, that I refused to give in. I don’t like to lose, you see.

No question, I could have her. But doing so would give her me. After all this time, I’m not so stupid that I don’t recognize a power play, and if I said the magic word, I’d be through. I’d be gone at that point, controlling nothing, not even my own lust, and that was unacceptable. We are all slaves to something, but nothing is quite so intoxicating as power, whether we hold it or desire it. Sitting there at that table, right then, I had a wealth of it, and she wanted it, far more than she really wanted me.

“Aren’t you going to answer me?” she breathed. Her left eyebrow arched. “Kitty got your tongue?”

I let the entendre slide past me. She’d never been this aggressive, this blatant. For a moment, I began to wonder. Maybe things were going south at home. Maybe I should take her at her word. And then I collected myself again, and remembered whom I was dealing with.

The whisky burned my throat as I slammed the rest of the glass down my gullet and stood from the table. I walked around to her side and hovered over her. She gazed up at me, curious, and then stood, beginning to smile as though victorious. She started to say something but I stopped her, whipping my arm around her waist and pulling her into me. I grabbed her hair with my other hand and tilted her head, moving in to kiss her with a vicious intensity. She began kissing me back, hungrily, and her arms wrapped around my neck.

I slid my arm from her waist and trailed it through the small of her back, and he knees buckled for just one second. I let her go at that exact moment, and she slipped backward, and steadied herself by sitting down for a moment. Her head trembled as she looked at me, stunned by the moment.

“No,” I said, hiding the excitement I felt, the quiver working its way through my gut, and I turned to walk silently away.

3:16 PM

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