Disclaimer: The characters and real people do not belong to me. The characters belong to the WWE and the real people own themselves. This is rated M because it's got swearing and graphic situations, if you're underage, mosey along now...
A/N: I don't know what's with me lately, I guess the writing bug has hit! Anyways, this is a new one from me again. It's going to probably be a 2-shot, more than likely, like I'm 99 percent sure it'll be a 2-shot unless someone convinces me otherwise. I'll probably finish up the second chapter this week.
Anyways, I hope you enjoy the latest from me and please, please, please leave me a review because they're so pretty and shiny and I love them, even if they're not nice, that's fine too, I just hope you like this, let me know! :)
She hated it sometimes when he left.
She actually hated it all the time but if she pretended like it was only some of the time then somehow, it made things easier. But there was nothing she could do so she pretended to tolerate it, maybe she even pretended to like it. No, she never pretended to like it when he left. In fact, she wouldn't even act like she was awake when he left. He probably thought she wasn't a morning person when she actually was. She just pretended not to wake up so he would leave without saying something that would leave her hanging for another day.
She always promised herself that every time they had sex together it would be the last time. By the time the morning came, she'd be so resolved that she would delete his number from her cell phone and pretend like he never existed. By the afternoon, he'd call her and she'd recognize the phone number and she couldn't help but answer because she couldn't help but care about him and then the process would start itself over, like rain. At least in this cycle she cherished every time they slept together because she always feared it would be their last.
They had lives outside these walls, believe or not, lives that didn't include each other. She often hoped that one day she'd wake up and have a new life, one where they could be together, but it was just never meant to be that way and the sooner she accepted it maybe she could make the last time truly the last time. He had a family that he obviously cared about. Some nights she'd listen to him talk about some great new achievement his kids had accomplished. He'd get this look of pride on his face as he spoke of them.
Somehow, when they were in a room alone, it was like whatever was out there didn't touch them in the same way. If she saw his children with him at a show or some event, she'd feel a panging in her heart like a soft stick against a metal drum. She'd drop her eyes and try not to look up again until it was safe. Yet, when they were in a room together, just the two of them, the night pulsing around them, she could picture these kids being her step-kids, having fun with her, hugging her, loving her like a second mother. She could be good to them.
But nothing lasted outside this room and maybe that's why she held on so much and pretended that she only hated it sometimes when he left. He didn't know she loved him. That would be too much. Why do people even start affairs if the chances of forever are so slim? Yes, yes, most marriages end up in divorce anyways, but usually it's the affair that is the catalyst and then the adulterer realizes their mistake and is repulsed by the person they'd had the affair with. She knew her time was coming.
She was going to wake up one day and he was going to look at her and be disgusted by her. She tried steeling herself for that day, but she knew that it would come, fast and furious, and would take her by surprise. So she didn't tell him she loved him because that would be revealing too much and she didn't want to appear to be the weak one. She was supposed to be strong and brave. He would tell her that sometimes, talk about how strong she was and how tough she was, but in the moments when he left, she never felt strong or tough.
She'd lay there on her stomach or on her side, facing away from him. If she was laying on him while they slept and he woke up, he'd gently push himself out from under her. She'd pretend to roll over, sigh a little then she'd turn away from him so her eyes wouldn't be tempted to open and watch him go through the motions of leaving her. She never wanted to see his routine. She didn't know if he gathered his clothes first and then dressed or if he picked up each item of clothing and put them on one by one as he scavenged for him. Her eyes were screwed too tight to make anything out.
Then he'd climb on the bed and lay there for a minute and she wondered what he'd do for that minute. She never dared move so as to not break the delicate balance they had. He'd run his finger up and down her spine a few times, his touch lingering like a bead of sweat slowly moving down her back. She'd never asked if that was meant to wake her up, but she would just lie there as his index finger brushed against her spine.
Then he'd lean forward and kiss her shoulder, like a thank you for the evening. How was that small kiss supposed to sustain her through the day, she wondered. And when the last time came, when he kisses her on the shoulder for that one final time, how in God's name is that supposed to get her through a lifetime? It won't and she knows it and she's afraid that she'll not have anything once he's gone. Sure, she'll have her husband and her children, but what is living when you're not living the life you feel you were supposed to live?
They pretend when they're at the show, barely interact at all, very professional. They're afraid if they show the tiniest amount of emotion everyone will know. It's paranoia setting in. The taxing nature of an affair following them around. That's another thing they'll have to face. When does it get too hard? Do you just quit? She won't leave him, she knows it. She's tried, Lord how she's tried, but she can't and she's accepted this.
They never talk about them and what they're doing, not really. They just…do. They just are with each other and that's enough, it has to be enough. They'll talk of course, about their lives, about work, but never about them. Too complicated; they are simply too complicated for mere words to describe. They're more than words and words would only complicate things and muddle them into a swampy mess. So their words were surface words only, never meant to dig deeper.
The nights belong to them. Her husband doesn't travel with her and her kids are often with him since he'll be at home until tomorrow when she'll go home and lather, rinse, repeat this boring life she leads. But on the nights she's away, when she's alone, he's there and the night is theirs and theirs alone. There are no worries beyond the hotel walls, no concerns, no hurries, just them and they talk through their touches and that's their deeper.
It's in the way he undresses her, so slowly that it's almost torturous. He unbuttons one button at a time and then kisses the skin he's exposing. Sometimes his tongue will dart out and taste her skin and she's already sweating because he's there and he's with her and the heat is too much and he's licking at her skin and his tongue is hot and warm and sticky, but not in the bad way, in the best way. If she's wearing a skirt, his hand flirts with the edge. Her thighs are sensitive and he brushes his fingers gently back and forth on her skin, causing the small hairs to stand up at attention, ready for more touching.
Then her skirt bunches up, but he pulls away before he goes further and unzips it, pulling it off as she's lying there in her bra. It's the way he looks at her when she's almost naked, but not quite. There's a look there, hunger, lust, whatever you want to call it, but when he looks at her like that, it's rapturous. As long as he can stare at her in that way, she stares at him and it's like some weird observation gallery, him watching her, her watching him and it only lasts a moment, but there's a mutual admiration.
Their words are felt in the way that he runs his hands over her naked body and the way her legs part slightly to let him at her. Their bodies speak when his fingers slip inside her and her body arches up into her. They're not silent during sex, there are always mutters and groans and light breaths filled with nonsensical syllables of passion and lust, but they don't need the real words. She doesn't need to tell him where to touch, he already knows and he's delving in there, his fingers touching her where she needs to be touched and they go deeper until she's completely satisfied and then he stills and hovers over her and still no words, but intimacy, so much intimacy that the air feels thick with the perfume of foreplay and it's almost like she pictured exotic, far-off places to be in her mind, the air rich with perfumed, warm, musky scents.
His need permeates the air of sex and it mixes with the faintest smell of his cologne. If she could wrap them in a cloud of perfume and cologne and sex, she would, creating a cocoon impenetrable by the rest of the world. He needs no words either because her hand reaches for him and his fingers are in her and her fingers are on him and their lips touch and words pass in their breathing. His thoughts transfer to her via tongue on tongue and conversation is limited to their tangling of limbs and sweat and sex flowing between them.
When they're finally connected, words become simply a moot idea. He goes gentle because he wants to prolong it. She doesn't know why, doesn't ask. She is willing to take it however he wants to give it, but this is the way he likes it and who is she to argue? She doesn't. She lets him dictate the pace, always, like he's a timid gazelle and the slightest movement from her will scare him away. She just clutches at him, pushes up against him or on some occasions, pushes down against him, and moans her feelings as he buries his face in her neck.
He nibbles at her skin, piercing words into her body. They're hot and sticky and she loves him so much in that moment and she hopes that there's some way that he knows. Maybe since they're so connected at that moment his mind can read hers. Maybe when he touches her forehead with his and looks in her eyes, imploring her to finish with him so they can be together in that way as well he can hear her thoughts, read the words of her mind on the pools of gray she calls eyes and maybe if she looked she could see the words in the clear blue pools of his eyes, but it's too intense and she never thinks to look as he's grinding his pelvis into hers.
Afterwards the words still don't come except in gasps of air. They usually lay there until the urge rises in them again and maybe this time she initiates the action, kneeling between his legs and cleaning him off and getting him ready again. They're so far beyond the words, but yet, the words she longs to say, the words she wants to say can never burst free, not even in those most intimate of moments because it's wrong and he probably doesn't love her back and she can't break up a marriage any more than she already has. So they repeat what just happened again to even more satisfaction and then maybe sleep and she waits in a hazy state until the weight of the bed shifts and she can feel that index finger brushing down her spine.
Maybe one day the finger won't be there and she can't help but wonder if that day will mean he's not leaving or if he's already left and she's finally put a stop to whatever this is. She's mute when she's around him because she hates when he leaves, but if she tells him, maybe he'll leave and never come back and the possibility of that is terrifying. She wants the control in that area. If she cannot have control in any area of this fucked up situation, she wants the power to be the one to leave first. It's all she'll have because she's so sure she loves him without reciprocation.
Then one night he didn't show up and she's sitting there and wondering what happened and if she did something wrong or if he just decided he didn't care anymore. She worries and frets and it's sad and pathetic and she knows it and she hates…someone, something, anything, anyone for it because she's so damn insecure and how can affairs make you paranoid and insecure and she hates it, hates everything about it and this is it, she decides, this has to be it, because she can't take it anymore and she resolves herself not to take him in anymore except she's weak and she knows she'll take him back because she always does.
Take him back? Like they're actually dating or something and this situation is so wrong, but she can't let go right now though he doesn't care. She has things to go back to, people to go back to her, her husband, children, the whole like, but he was keeping her alive in ways her family couldn't. She couldn't explain it, but she loved him and she had never felt love quite like he supplied her. It wasn't this all-encompassing-let-me-write-about-how-it's-so-wrong-to-be-in-a-relationship-with-a-married-man-when-I-love-him-and-he-probably-doesn't-love-me-and-it's-all-a-crazy-bullshit-story or whatever.
And there's a knock and it's him and she knows and she gets up and she walks to the door because she's going to tell him off (her brain tells her, heart's still undecided), but he's pounding now and she has to pull the door open so he doesn't wake everyone in the building and there he is and he looks disheveled and she wonders if maybe he's been mugged and she worries, but then it's dumb, he'd kick someone's ass in a second so it must be something else.
"Chris?" she asks because this is the time for words.
"Steph, I need to talk to you."