Needing More

Needing More

She’d forgotten the affect he had on her, was surprised it was still there after all this time.

He sat back in his chair, completely at ease, one arm thrown over the back, the other holding a pint of beer. For a moment—an eternity—he stared in her eyes, without saying a word.

That’s what she’d forgotten.

She could remember the first day they met, the last time they'd fucked, and countless things between. But that stare…she’d forgotten that soul-penetrating stare. It told her he wanted her, would clear the table of glasses, Blackberries, and bar coasters, bend her over the edge and hike up her dress to thrust into her right there.

He held that intense gaze until she squirmed. It was her tell and he knew he had her. His lips curved in triumph as he sat forward, set his drink on the table. His hand skimmed across her cheek, curved behind her neck, pulled her close. He brushed his lips across hers, flicked his tongue at the corner, murmured an invitation; one she desperately wanted to accept.

“I can’t,” she said.

He pressed his forehead against hers. “Your husband.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of resignation. He sat back, ran a finger across his lips.

Her eyes followed the movement as she swallowed, nodded. “Yes.” It was barely a whisper.

And it was a lie. Her thoughts weren’t consumed by the one waiting at home. They were filled with another. One, she realized then, she would always need, but would never have.