The Perfect Storm

But the need to be inside her, to really consummate the desire that had been tormenting them, was greater than this sharp and focused pleasure. He did not want to come this way. He did not want just her mouth, or just her pussy. He wanted all of her. He wanted to look in her eyes as he entered her, and feel her arms and legs wrapped around him. He pulled himself out of her mouth. Reaching down to her body to grab her hips, he saw that she was already spreading her legs and reaching for him, drawing him down and towards her.

It was fast, urgent, and unstoppable. Neither of them prepared for the intensity of it and neither of them in control.

It was the thought of the other, more than their bodies, more than his cock and her pussy—knowing it was this person they had wanted, looked at, imagined, and desired for so long, that spurred them both on, that drove his hips harder and faster and made her meet his violent thrusts. They clutched at each other in a kind of madness, sweating and moaning, swept along by the knowledge that they were giving in, that they were finally fucking.

It was the perfect storm.

+++

A little while later Karen was lying naked, sprawled across the bed, with her head resting on Patrick's stomach. He was sitting up against the headboard with a sheet pulled just to his waist. He was smoking, and stroking her hair.

There was no longer any pretense that they were not going to stay in bed all day, that they were not going to give in, that they hadn't wanted this for years. Patrick was back to being much more in control of himself, however. He was quiet and thoughtful.

That fast, furious morning had astounded and surprised them. They were circling around it, not sure what was happening. But the intensity of that violent lust was over; it had given way to a slow, dreamy eroticism. Knowing they had time, that they could and would fuck again, gave them a sense of quiet, anticipatory desire. It filled the room like the rain outside, lulling them into a peaceful mood.

Karen said, "How long ago did you have thoughts about me? Did you ever think about it?"

"Of course. As long as I've known you."

"I thought so, but I wasn't sure. You hid it well."

"I'm your boss. It wasn't right. It's still not right."

"And yet here we are."

"Yes," he said, "here we are."

"So what made you leave that note? Say something?"

"I would think that would be obvious."

"What?"

He leaned down, ran his hands over her hips. "Do you have any idea what it did to me to see you . . . like that, last night? In that little white shirt?"

"Not really."

He kept running his hands over her body, then whispered in her ear, "I could not get it out of my mind, all day. I couldn't concentration on those depositions. All I could see was you. All I could think about was you, back in this room, waiting for me."

"Ah, so that's what made you so angry."

"Yes . . . "

He was feeling her body now, concentrating on what he saw, framing her hips, letting himself look and touch as much as he wanted.

"And then your ass, in my face, all night . . . "

He rolled over so that he was propped up on one elbow, and she was lying passively beside him.

He put his cigarette in the ashtray, letting it smolder. He wanted to look at her as if seeing her body now for the first time, as if the past night and morning had not even happened. He was fascinated by it, by all her curves, by all the aspects he had noticed and wanted to touch, but had never let himself until now. He was pouring over her like one of his legal briefs, giving her his entire, focused, concentrated attention.

His big strong hands, veined and so masculine, spread out to her breasts, cupped them and held them, flicking their thumbs over her nipples.

"These are so beautiful. Such perfect, tiny little nipples."

He traveled down her hips, reveling in her curves, looking and concentrating, taking a puff from his cig, loving her body. He circled and caressed and massaged her flat, tight stomach, and then his hands moved down to her thighs, first the outside, and then moving into the inside.

He caressed her mound with his thumbs, and the small little trimmed triangle of hair, taking it all in. He looked at her face, wanting to see her eyes when he reached under and felt her gently, much more gently than he had the night before.

"And this . . . "

He treated it all with the same calm, undivided attention. He watched, removed almost, with a steady curiosity.

He whispered as he continued, slow and determined, "I've wanted you for so long."

+++

The storm settled in as a long, unrelenting, steady and heavy rain mixed with wind, darkening the skies all day. It wrapped them into a tight little cocoon, encouraging intimacy, and as he continued to just touch her, they started to talk.

+++

"You know I don't think I've ever asked you what you did before you started out with me. Because I know you're too damn smart to have always been a paralegal."

She smiled. "No, you never did ask."

"Well I'm asking now . . . "

She said, "I was in art school, in California."

At this he gave another one of his startled looks, then just smiled to himself. Of course she would be a "creative type," just like his ex.

"Hmmm . . . what kind?"

He found this incredibly attractive. Someone who was so different from him.

Karen did not particularly want to talk about this. It was very painful. She just said, "Photography."

"So why did you stop . . .? How did you end up here?"

Ah . . . that was the point.

"Because of the relationship I was in . . . ," and she could not stop the emotion from showing in her voice.

And from there, he drew out the whole story. She talked and talked as he continued to study her body. She talked quietly and he listened quietly, paying attention.

At one point he said, "So you made him choose."

"Yes."

"Why did you do that? Why couldn't you live him with the way he was?"

There was much more behind THAT question than she knew.

She thought about it. "Because I couldn't stand that he had made something I could never share in more important than me. If we'd been on the same wavelength, maybe it could have worked, but there was no way. We were too different."

Patrick leaned back and took a long drag from his cigarette, crushed it out, said, "I think I understand that."

"Oh yes?"

"Yes, I do . . . "

He rolled over, lay on his back, one arm over his head, thinking.

Karen turned and got on her elbow, so she could see his face.

"So are you going to tell me about Linda now?"

"I already did."

She gave him a look. "No, you didn't."

He leaned back on his arm, sat back and spread his legs a little, and started to talk. The white sheet came just to his crotch, and Karen gazed down at his flat, hard stomach. He was so fucking hot lying there, vulnerable and open, as he began telling her his story, starting with how they'd fallen in love.

At one point she interrupted him, saying "I cannot picture you with an artist. Of any kind. That makes no sense."

"Well, what about you, with a Bible-thumper? Does that make any sense?"

As she listened, surprised, hearing a kind of mirror image of her own life, she had mixed emotions. She pitied him, but identified with the ex-wife.

She asked him, "Well didn't you see where she was coming from? Don't you get that she felt abandoned?!"

"It was my LIFE, Karen. My WORK. There's a lot you don't know about me, about why I do what I do, a fuck of a lot you don't know!"

He calmed down, leaned back. There was no point. He'd already been through it too many times

before.

They were silent for a long time, until Karen said, "Face it. We're our own worst nightmares."

Patrick laughed, and spread his legs wider, because he felt himself getting hard. He looked down at her, reaching for her hips, wanting her even more.

"Oh, I don't know about that . . . "

He pulled her onto his lap and started kissing her neck as he brought her hand to his cock.

"It wasn't all a nightmare, was it?"

+++

What could they do? They had reached the eye of the storm, both inside and out. There was nowhere else to go, but to face the impossibilities of life, to realize that it was not perfect, and that love did not always work out.

Their desire swirled around these impasses like a hurricane, but this time it was both more tender and more violent, because their emotions had caught up with them.

There were four people in their bed, not two. They raged out their lust, hurt, passion, and anger as each embodied the ghosts of the past, as if they could fuck it all out of them, and in doing so, finally move on.

Karen straddled Patrick on the edge of the bed; they stared into other's eyes as his cock slowly filled her up, each moment making her gasp and moan. She rode him hard, looking into his eyes, letting him see deeply into her, frantically kissing him and grasping his head when she came on his lap, as he watched and told her how beautiful she looked.

He got behind her, pushed her head down, drew her hips up, and told her to turn around and look at him, and Karen knew that this was how he used to like to fuck his wife. She knew because it was in his voice, in the way he moaned, desperate and out of control, "Oh baby, oh fuck baby, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come!"

They exhausted themselves in a fury, then rested until they reached for each other again, saying "I cannot get enough of you."

They went all night, until the storm wore itself out, until there was nothing left, until they fell into a tangled heap and slept, not aware that the sun had finally begun to come out.

+++

When they boarded a plane later the next day, the world looked brand new. It had been washed clean, glittering and clear. The plane bore them away from the rhythms and temporality of nature, back to New York, back to reality, and away from each other.

As soon as they returned, Karen told Patrick about her decision. She was going back to art school, starting over, finishing her life.

He understood. He wanted her to stay, but at the same time, he didn't.

+++

And so the storm passed, and everyone was happy.