Mistress

Chapter 66

“It’s okay to say enough is enough, Ben.” Anne looks up at me. We are so close I feel her breath on my chin. “Whatever you feel like you owe Diana, you don’t owe her your life. I don’t want to see you get hurt, too.”

She touches my cheek, and my resistance begins to melt away. No. This is a bad idea. You’re endangering her, Ben. Just being here puts her at risk.

She leans into me. Her lips are soft and moist, delicate and cautious. It’s the sweetest kiss I’ve ever received.

“God, you’re trembling,” she whispers.

Personal foul-illegal contact. Replay first down.

Okay, so we replay it. My mouth parts and our tongues find common ground. My hand slides inside her pajama top and Anne lets out a small gasp that turns into a low moan.

Illegal use of the hands.

Penalty declined; second base. I mean, second down.

She lifts her arms and I pull off her shirt and she tugs at mine and the steam of our desperation and fear and longing ignites something primitive between us. We are not two people whose lives are in danger. We are two people who have nothing but right now, only this moment. She is aggressive and desperate and hungry as her tongue invades my mouth, as she digs her nails into my hair, as she takes my index finger and places it in her mouth, as she arches her back, as she raises her legs and wraps them around me, as she whispers harder, harder, into my ear, as she grits her teeth and squeezes her eyes shut and cries out harder, harder-

This is wrong this is wrong but I can’t stop myself and I don’t want to stop, I want to remind myself that I still have a life and I can still feel something for somebody else and if I only have hours or days remaining in this world, I want to spend at least a small fraction of it with something, with someone, who is good, there is still such a thing as goodness in this world-

“Wow.” I lie on my back and stare up at the ceiling. I don’t know how much time has passed, but I’m guessing more than an hour. We are panting and coming down from the high, and I’m thinking fugitive sex-back to Seinfeld, when George was dating that prisoner and he liked the arrangement so he sabotaged her parole hearing-how did that not make my top ten list?

“Maybe our lives should be in danger more often,” says Anne, her head resting on my chest.

“Did you used to be a gymnast or something?”

She likes that. Her hair tickles my stomach. My limbs are rubbery, useless. My head is foggy. I’ve never felt better.

We interrupt this program for a reality check. That thing about our lives being in danger.

“This doesn’t change anything,” I whisper. “You have to get out of here. You’re not safe.”

She adjusts herself so that her chin is on my chest, her eyes are on mine.

“I’m not going anywhere. If you’re in, then so am I,” she says. “So, sweetie, maybe you should buckle up.”