Sensuality Still Hangs in the Air

Sensuality hanging in the air: it was a thought. A solitary nagging question of 'What if I did?' They'd written to each other and talked about it, of course, but somehow the situation had never quite arisen: timing, mood, other events getting in the way.

For the most part, the thought never surfaced, buried now in the layers of friendship, the discussion of books, love and the day-to-day demands of life.

Sometimes, however, like this afternoon, it invaded Clare's mind. It made her head spin and her body respond of its own accord, despite her attempts to overrule it.

At times like this, she struggled against the urge to touch herself; one part of her mind wanting to but another trying not to encourage the thought's growth.

By keeping her fantasies in the past, where they'd both shared them, it was under control. If she allowed herself to come picturing Andrew, imagining the way their bodies would meld, the way they would make each other feel, it could escape and grow. She might find herself saying something inappropriate - or worse, doing it: and the time for that had passed.

Clare fought against the thought, distracting herself with her publishing work: there was enough of that to keep her busy. The insistent seductiveness continued unabated all the same. She could feel herself almost ready to melt in the heat generated by her yearning. This, in turn, lent more credence to the thought itself.

Yes, her own arousal always aroused her further: it was a whirlpool that sucked her down until she couldn't hold back any longer. She just had to let herself float away, abandoning all control.

But no: she managed to keep her head above water. It was a struggle but she would not let herself think about him more than she had to. She would not think of kissing him - not the simplest little kiss possible. She would not consider how her lips might gently touch his, with barely any pressure as they enjoyed that first touch.

After all, she always knew that it was a certainty that she would never be close enough to breathe in his scent. She would never feel the warmth of his arm. She would never actually have to give in.

She shook her head, trying to shake off the mental sensation of him returning the barely perceptible pressure, trying to decide whether to take things further. Then, as their bodies moulded to fit each other's form, she shut her eyes tight. She would not contemplate thigh against thigh, chest to breast, arms gradually moving up to hold each other closer.

Her eyes screwed up would push away any idea of them kissing harder. The innocence would remain innocent. The pleasure would not give way to a strong hint of unfulfilled desire.

There were times when Clare could feel herself slipping. Then she would take a deep breath and bring her attention back to the document in front of her, but still...still...his arms strong around her back, gripping slightly now, feeling the taut muscles in her shoulders, releasing the tensions of her day as his hands started to move over her skin...the image haunted her.

The sky darkened outside as the afternoon drifted into evening and her proof reading was left unfinished. She could not return to her work. She was too busy returning the embrace: sliding her hand up his back to his neck, gently teasing the hairs at the base of his head, pulling him to her as the kiss deepened.

There was a streetlight that had just lit up outside her window and a tempting restaurant across the way. Pasta would be nice. Very nice. There was a tongue slipping over her lower lip. She was unsure which might happen first, but one was mundane and the other intoxicating.

He had created a world for her to escape to. The kiss, still gentle but teasing now was a frontier. His tongue running over her lips was a sentry. And hers: the reluctant traveller, hesitant at the border - still not quite daring to enter.

A moan escaping her lips, signalling her desire. A slight push of her mind reaching out to his and their tongues would be entwined. She put down her pen, giving into the kiss with a tremble now. The nerves became anxiety, worry and concern almost to the point of pain.

The thought of feverish tongues, grinding bodies, hands moving to her waist and lips to the neck became overwhelming.

And after that she was sure there would be a return to his lips, by now the kiss showing clear intent: her hands running over his body, his sliding underneath the thin cotton of her top, feeling the soft skin of her midriff then moving to her back, tracing his fingers up her spine. Her hands tugging at his belt, pulling his shirt out and sliding her hands up to caress his torso.

And then, the look: that point when she knew, if only for a single moment, that they both wanted the same thing more than anything else in the world. She could hold back no longer.

Her hand moved inside her top as she imagined him caressing her, his hand creeping slowly over her skin, teasing the underside of her breast before moving, achingly slowly, up over the soft flesh.

Clare moaned as she clutched her hand to her blouse. She moaned as she imagined him touching her. Yes, there it was: the first stroking; then the rubbing the ball of his thumb over her flesh; and then the pinching, getting harder as she squirmed excitedly under his touch.

Her other hand moved between her thighs, pushing her clothes aside to feel the wetness suffusing her. As her finger slid over her sex, slicking her thighs, she pictured him bending to take the tip of her breast in his mouth, one hand sliding down to feel her belly shivering, eager for more, eager to be filled and frustrated that he was making her wait.

Let his hand move so skilfully across the page. Let his hand move skilfully over her. Let him put down his pen. She wanted his fingers free to explore. She wanted them against her, inside of her, pressing and fondling and touching, just as her own fingers were pressing into her wetness. She wanted to feel more but it was too desperate, too urgent and far too needy.

She closed her eyes and remembered how she had dreamt of him kissing up and down her body, his tongue flicking over her skin: over her breasts, stomach and thighs until he reached her wetness and it darted in to taste her, like a humming bird in search of nectar.

The touch was fleeting, teasing, tempting, making her arch towards him and offer him all. She continued to rub herself, feeling the heat, the swelling, hard yet soft sensation of her flesh under her fingers. Her mind was his.

He would be aching with desire now. Yes, time to give him some relief. With her eyes still closed she pushed her hand down to the zip on her handbag and undid it, closing her eyes and dreaming that she was reaching in to take him into her hand, loving the way that he would pulse at her touch. She could smell him in the air but she wanted to taste him.

As she ducked to take him in her mouth, it was not the creak of a chair that greeted her. No, she could hear him groaning, obviously loving the way her tongue flicked over him, savouring the taste of the arousal she'd initiated.

It was inevitable that reality would creep back at the point. The warmth of the restaurant lights across the road intruded. Pasta. Food. An aperitif before he rolled up. She stood up, abandoning the proof reading and sliding out of her little office, carefully locking the door, so that the cleaners would not disturb the chaos that she worked in.

It was equally inevitable that there would be that trembling again as he pulled her tightly against him, his arousal obvious against her thigh; her lips moving over his neck, laying a trail from his earlobe to shoulder, eager to taste the salt of his skin.

When Clare finally slid across the road and ordered a martini, something to sip while she waited. As she pushed the menu away from her, thinking about how he would slide into her, pushing her back. She could hear it in her head - there was that creaking groan again, despite being tempted to let her take things to their natural conclusion.

As he bent over her, he would kiss her hard, parting her thighs - just like this - mmmmm - and sliding himself inside her in one move, filling her up more than the three fingers of her hand. Ah yes! Clare would lose herself in the sensation, in the 'what if I did', in the surrender...the sensuality hanging in the air... "Good evening," Clare smiled broadly. She reached up to kiss Andrew's cheek, shivering as he rested his hand lightly on her shoulder. "How are you tonight, darling?"

"I'm in a very positive frame of mind," he smiled back, pointing at the empty martini glass in front of her. "And you have started ahead of me I see, you naughty girl!"

"I am no lush, Andrew."

"I am the lush; you are a luscious, Clare. Shall I order a bottle and something to eat?"

"That would be lovely," Clare smiled and rearranged the cutlery in front of her.

"I see your new book on the 'algebraic exchanges before dinner' is selling brilliantly," Andrew laughed.

"I know," Clare smirked boastfully. "You wait until the sequel - 'post-prandial conversations leading to later'."

"I'm glad to hear it," Andrew said, watching the now infamous authoress sit down and take in how crowded the restaurant was. "It will need to be if you are going to luxuriate in white cashmere jumpers all the time."

"The dining room seems to be a bit of a racoon pit tonight," Clare complained.

"Unfortunately you're so right. Let me go over and order for us. It will save time waiting."

"Your kind offer will help us rise above the racoon pit, I'm sure."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Clare. Pasta alright for you?"

"I'll vote for anyone, Andrew, so long as you pay me enough. I have been contemplating pasta all afternoon."

"Anything else?"

She blushed.

"There was something else I see. Tell me about it when I get back."

She watched him walk across the room and have an animated conversation with one of the waiters. She loved the way he gesticulated and made his point. Mmmm - such a lovely point it was.

"Well," Andrew smiled on his return with a bottle of Chianti and two glasses. "Are you going to spill your saucy beans?"

"No one could call me anything but corrupt," Clare giggled, "but I prefer to swallow, not spill."

"I shall note that for later," he grinned.

"Take me as I am or don't take me at all."

"At least you are honest about it," Andrew frowned and Clare responded by reaching across and touched his arm reassuringly. "Can I call you venal, sweetie?"

"Well, you could," replied Clare, pouting a little, " but only if you are feeling charitable." "I agree. Venality can be a very overrated virtue."

"You are quite sardonic for someone who says he is in a positive frame of mind, Andrew."

"I didn't mean to come across that way."

"Were you saying the first thing that came into your head?"

"I'm amazed things still come into my head."

"And you think you are the only one who could be foolish that way, did you?"

"Well, it's hardly an all encompassing admission."

"I still find it very refreshing," Clare smiled.

"Why?"

"I know you like to see what others make of you before you commit."

"That might apply in the right circumstances."

"Well, don't ask me what the right circumstances are. I do so hate to be pinned down."

"I won't ask then."

"Actually," Clare giggled archly as she sipped her wine, "sometimes being pinned down can be fun! My! I am so full of contradictions tonight."

"I hope to be full of conversation leading to later soon," Andrew laughed, infringing Clare's copyright alarmingly.

"I'll let that go this time," Clare laughed and laid a book spine upwards on the table. She rustled through her handbag looking for her compact. Raising it up in one hand and lifting an eyeliner pencil up in the other, she began to tidy her make up.

"If a waiter peeked over your shoulder, would she be shocked to see what foreign novel you were reading?"

"I'm ashamed to admit," sighed Clare, "I'm almost too busy at work to read. It's quite regrettable. I have borrowed Crime and Punishment for effect."

"Your effects put me to shame," Andrew smiled. "I can only manage chic lit in my present frame of mind."

"Dostoyevski would be shuddering in his grave at your confession."

"I don't think the chic lit authors would be too happy either."

"I'm sure he wouldn't take it as far as shuddering, while they will take anyone's filthy lucre."

"A light tremor then?"

"Perhaps," Clare shrugged.

"Like that of your knee when a stray hand land upon it in a restaurant?"

"Stray hands make me aware of the proximity of friends." Clare put down her compact and reached under the table to squeeze Andrew's interloping hand. "They are inevitably followed by a shared smile and perhaps a playful pouting of the lips."

They paused and looked down at the delicious pasta dishes that had just been deposited on their table.

Clare was intrigued by what he had ordered for her. She tried to let her vague recollection of the list of fare wipe away the fleeting anxiety that she might not like his choice. Then she shrugged. The food did not matter, but she did need to etch every detail in her memories to be able to recall this moment exactly.

She looked away, feeling a little foolish at living in this dream world. Then she shrugged telling herself that she'd rather live in a dream world then face reality moment to moment to moment.

It couldn't be helped, Clare giggled to herself, pondering the extra moment and looking away not entire sure of the right words - the correct phrase that would fit. She needed something light, something casual - something to break the ice and stop her from realising Andrew had eaten her pasta as well as his own.

"That was perfect," sighed Andrew.

"It was, was it?" Clare frowned. "Oh good."

"You need to pay more attention, Clare."

"I don't always need to, to see right through you."

"Am I that transparent?"

"No, but you can be very greedy."

"Will you miss the pasta terribly?"

"If you had left me more than a morsel, I'd be less put out. I shall only stop berating you, when I have dunked my amaretto biscuit in your cappuccino."

"Perhaps you should taste the remnants of the pasta? Can you believe I have not yet wiped my lips?"

"My piggy friend has no table manners then?"

"None at all."

"Well it was considerate of you to offer."

"A smile such as yours deserves a service."

"Allow me to lean forward then," Clare began, "and forgive my clumsiness as I lose my balance falling halfway into your embrace."

"Oh my, you would do better to sit on this side."

"I would if there were room."

"Hey, that was mean!"

"Revenge for all those remarks about my bottom when we were both younger."

"Your bottom is not so much older now."

"It's still big enough to stop me running off with the waiter."

"You'd never leave me."

"Not until I get your biscuit anyway."

"That will take dexterity and ingenuity."

"Then you see my predicament."

"Solving your predicament has always been my bottom line."

"That is no excuse to fondle my bottom, dearest Andy."

"Desire knows no excuses. Where will it all lead?"

"To the ladies?"

"The facility is yours to use, should you so wish."

"If you will pardon me for just a moment, I will be right back."

Andrew watched Clare disappear through the crowd and then picked up her compact. He stared thoughtfully at it before opening it up. Then he pouted up and kissed the mirror taking care to make no noise as his lips meshed with the circle of burnished metal.

Feeling restive, he turned Clare's book around on the table and found that it was a book of verse. Flicking through it idly, he found it full of the greats. He read a few lines from several of the poems and sipped from another brimful glass of chardonnay. Was Clare still studying English after all these years?

"I return as promised," Clare declared loudly, stopping him in mid chuckle.

"Wee sleekit cowering timorous beastie," Andrew mouthed at her

"I beg your pardon?"

"Burns."

"I see you've kept busy in my absence."

Clare pulled the book out of his hands and began flicking through it herself, wondering why he had chosen that poem in particular to quote. Perhaps he was just drunk and silly she decided.

"One has to stay engaged. There are so many things to do in the bookshop of one's mind, but one must indulge the curious friend from time to time, must one not?"

"Absolutely," Clare agreed. "It makes it easier to be swept off the feet, to be surprised, overwhelmed, shocked by the timorous hand of the stranger."

"Would that be much more forward than another sleekit caress under the table?"

"Yes, but less so than your beastie hand under the hem of my skirt."

Andrew sighed and allowed a little break in the flow of those naughty ideas, as his hand grew bolder and more beastly. He advanced slowly and all the time, as she leant steadily forward, watched his face, trying to discern lust and passion and abandon in his eyes. With his free hand he took the book of poems from her hands and set it aside. His searching fingers glided against Clare's skin, growing bolder in the endeavours.

"And in a public place no less," Clare suddenly woke from her lethargic reverie. "My goodness! Will you be pausing to fondle my breasts next?"

"I prefer to be a little more discreet, no matter how well watered my companion," chuckled Andrew. "Anyway can I help the intoxicating aroma of your skin? It drives me to take such daring chances in the first place."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Your house is too far away."

"But is there a chance you might be interested in seeing my publisher's office?" Clare murmured conspiratorially. "They are conveniently located in the building across the street and we do have a cappuccino machine."

"But do you have amaretto biscuits?"

"Barrels full of them."

"Then, I could certainly contemplate the journey, reinforced by your generous donation of pasta and assisted by your arm."

"Donation is hardly the right word," Clare frowned. "I prefer to think of it as an investment."

"Are you paying the check too, then?"

"I see you still work in the charitable sector."

"You should never over analyse something or someone you like," Andrew pouted.

"I was making a joke, Mr Red-in-tooth-and-claw-and-béchamel-sauce."

"I was going a confession Miss-white-in-jumper-and-cornea-and-slip."

"It's nice to be liked occasionally," Clare agreed, seeing that her slip was indeed showing. She reached down and pulled her skirt down, restoring her immaculate woman of the world look. "Does my skirt look lonely now I have covered up?"

"No, it looks lovely. I have always liked your taste in clothes."

"Life can get lonely without 'like' sometimes."

"Even loneliness is amusing, once you find someone to share it with."

"You can be quite philosophical, when you contradict yourself, Andrew."

"If I couldn't contradict myself then I might end up rational."

"Heavens no!"

"And then, where would your next pair of shoes come from?"

"Are you coming? Or shall I wait for you to continue to offer me footwear?"

"Do you want to find me barefoot in the shadows then, Clare?"

"That could be very interesting, although I'd much prefer to find you barefoot too and much closer than this to me."

"We'll see about the vagaries of fate later, Clare."

"How much Chardonnay did you drink, darling?" Clare mused looking wide-eyed at the bill.

"I was thirsty."

"Let's face it, Andrew. If you'd ordered Prosciutto ham, that would have been cannibalism."

"You're always making fun of me," he pretended to sulk.

"I know you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all."