Chapter One:
"Lately I'm foolish. I don't do this."
-'Crazy In Love Remix' Beyonce.
She doesn't know who he is.
Doesn't know his name. Doesn't know his age.
Doesn't know what he does for a living.
She doesn't know if he has a dog, or two cats.
Doesn't know if he is a bachelor, or if he has a wife and six or seven kids at home.
She doesn't know anything about him.
All she knows is that she is currently experiencing the most intense pleasure she has ever felt in her life. And he is giving it to her.
~Two Weeks Prior~
With a flick of her wrist the light inside of the oven clicks on illuminating the baking pan inside. Michelle crotches a little to make sure everything is working fine then returns to a standing position to make sure the temperature is set at the right degrees.
She moves on to the pot already boiling on the stove. A pop and a hiss make her jerk her hand back a little as the red sauce jumps from the pot to the stovetop.
"Damn," she shakes her hand that holds the spoon and licks away the residue of hot tomato sauce on her brown skin. She swishes it in her mouth a little to get a better taste. Not too much salt, not too garlicky "Needs basil,"
On her tiptoe she manages to get the herb down and adds in a dash. She stirs the mixture for a while then turns the fire down on the gas stove. Satisfied with how her sauce turns out and with the garlic bread already simmering in the oven, Michelle allows herself to look away from the food to check her phone that sits on the next counter. Her eye catches the time on the wall clock. It's just after seven pm, a little late she thinks but they still have time to eat dinner and go out if he makes it home within the next thirty minutes.
She picks up her phone, turns and then pushes up until she's sitting on the counter's surface, short rounded chestnut colored legs dangle and swing gently. Michelle swipes the screen of her phone and it lights up blue, casting a gentle glow her face. A knot forms in her chest filled with both disappointment and anxiety when the screen greets her blankly, no calls, no messages, no anything.
Michelle bites her lip and sits the phone down quickly as if that will make anything better. With both hands she pushes hair back from her face and holds it at the top of her head like a band. Her chin dips down and she closes her eyes, mentally counting and calming herself.
It can be anything. His phone could be off. He could have very well been in the middle of messaging her when it died on him and he's been worrying about ways to contact her. Or maybe he's trying to surprise her, make her work herself up just enough that he comes home with a gift or something that makes up for her panic. They could be in an area of the city where the service is weak and he can't get through. It most definitely cannot be that he's forgot, again, that they are supposed to have dinner together. Michelle refuses to let her mind spell out what most would deem extremely obvious. He's already two hours late from his normal 'off' time. There's no calls, no text, not even a brief one saying he's going to be home late. There's nothing but a blank screen and her biting her lip so hard to force the pressing anger down.
Deep breathes; she pulls herself together enough to lift her head. Michelle jumps from the counter and goes over to the stove. She stirs the sauce, pulls down the oven door and turns over the garlic bread, goes to the sink and runs a fresh round of hot water over the cooked spaghettis to keep them warm. A glance at the phone, she scratches behind her ear and looks away, glances again and then went back to the stove. She stirs the sauce again, checks on the bread once more, sweeps the floor, checks the clothes in the dryer and when there's nothing left to waste time she walks over to the counter where her phone rest. Like a looming dark shadow, she stands over it, peering at it with all her might to have something.
A touch to the scream, a quick swipe reveals nothing. Michelle impulsively picks up the phone and, without giving it much thought, dial's her husband's phone and waits. Her finger taps anxiously against the granite counter while it rings. She keeps a close eye on the red sauce, making sure it doesn't burn or pop anymore on the stovetop. The phone still rings without answer. Three rings. Four rings. Five rings. It goes to voicemail.
"Greetings, you've reached the phone of Arthur Kirkland. My apologizes for missing your call. If this is important, please try calling again as I may not have heard the phone. If this is regarding antique finds, please try calling my partner, Alfred Jones, at…"
Michelle hangs up, knowing both the voicemail message and Alfred's phone number by heart. For reassurance though, she calls Arthur again. When he doesn't answer, she calls Alfred and, thankfully, he picks up.
"Alfred," Michelle expels a sigh of relief, "Hey, are you with Arthur? Alfred?" She can hardly hear him if he's talking because of whatever background noise is going on. She squints as if it will help her hear better then leaves the kitchen so the hum from the stove won't interfere with their conversation.
"Alfred?" she repeats a bit louder. There's a bit of shuffling, the noise gradually fades but not completely until,
"Chelles," Alfred whispers, unusual for him really, "Hey, what's up?"
"Why are you whispering? Where are you?"
There's a deliberate pauses before he speaks. "You haven't talked to Artie? He didn't tell you."
She rolls her eyes at the question knowing how ridiculous it may seem that she hasn't communicated with her husband. "I tried calling, he hasn't answered. Are you with him."
"Yeah, we're," Alfred pauses and it sounds as if he moves the phone away from his face as she can hear mumbling but not what he's saying. Someone mumbles something back. Alfred laughs a little and the phone is brought back to his ear. "Sorry, Michelle. But, yeah, he's with me. We're with Feliciano. You remember Feli—,"
"Yes, I remember who Feliciano is." Michelle interrupts with a frustrated sigh and rubs the crease in her forehead. Alfred stays silent even through her huffing, "Where are you guys?"
It's unfair to Alfred, really, to be caught up in the middle of miscommunication—lack of in their case, between a husband and a wife. He's Arthur's closes friend and business partner. They've known each other since she and Arthur dated four years ago and it's always been the same. Whenever Arthur is out of her reach, she always goes to Alfred because, nine times out of ten, they're together. Perhaps they're together more than she is with her own husband. A pinch of jealousy creeps under her skin but she pushes it aside.
Alfred, for his part, takes a remorseful tone, like a child in trouble. "Feli took us to this art thing one of his friends had. Some French guy. It was a last minute thing, Chelles, I swear. We didn't even know we were going or the Feli would come by the place. He just said it was something we had to do because there's gonna be lots of things to buy and you know how Artie is…"
Yes, she knows her husband has a one-track mind when it comes to his profession. As an antique dealer and seller, whenever artifacts came close to being in his possession, Arthur tends to forget everything else. Including her and their dinner and movie they were supposed to be going to tonight.
Dinner.
Michelle rushes back to the kitchen and quickly turns the fire off from under the sauce. Red spots liter the stove. She picks up the spoon and gives the sauce a stir. Some sticks to the bottom of the pot, a little stiff and burnt. It takes everything for her not to just chuck it down the drain. Instead she tosses the spoon aside and moves the pot to a back aisle.
"Michelle? You okay?" Alfred questions cautiously.
When she reaches to open the oven a puff of smoke and burning garlic butter greets her. "No. I'm not okay," she snaps, yanking the oven mit from the counter, pulling the pan from it and just drops it on the nearest solid surface. "I burned the sauce and the garlic bread. Can you tell your partner to call his real life partner? Now. Please?"
"Okay. Just, go easy on him all right? There's a ton of good stuff here and Artie's really been working the crowds and getting good prices of some good stuff."
"I'll think about it."
"…You sure?"
"I'm hanging up, Alfred."
She hears him chuckle, "I'll tell him to call the Mrs."
Arthur does call within the next five minutes with a ton of apologizes and excuses as to how he forgot their dinner date. Michelle listens with measured patience as she cleans the messes she's made trying to contact him. He goes with the same explanation Alfred gave her earlier. They were in the warehouse, getting ready to lock everything away when Feliciano burst in telling them they had to follow. Arthur expresses that he didn't have time to think in light of the auction that would follow the art showing. Though he was leery about the time, he went anyway. Even though Feliciano is whimsical, he's a loyal source when it comes to these things. The Italian knows his antique art.
These are all stories Michelle's heard before. She knows how unpredictable and random the auburnette can be. She knows that he's often on point with his assessments of good art. She knows how much both of them love haggling prices and the thrill her husband feels at finding and getting a valuable piece of something for a steal. She only wishes he would give that much attention and concern when it came to her and things she wanted to do.
In the end, he does promise to do just that. They make a plan to go to this jazz lounge she's visited once or twice. Arthur promises to be home extra early. They set the day for Thursday and Michelle promises to make dinner and not burn it.
They part with her mildly satisfied. She puts the food away as leftovers and decides to eat a sandwich instead. The evening goes on a bit lackluster, with her watching TV until about midnight before going to bed.
When Arthur returned home that night, she's unsure.
~Thursday~
Michelle goes to the cupboard to get two plates and two cups, and then sets the table. A bottle of red wine sits between the plate settings. Pour sauce over steaks bring it to the table. Put the vegetables in a separate eating dish bring it to the table. She waits for maybe twenty more minutes before deciding she can eat without him. An hour and three glasses of wine later, Arthur still isn't home.
She checks her phone to be sure she hasn't missed a call. There's one message, telling her that he and Alfred finally managed to strike a deal with one of Feliciano's men. They went to some shanty looking club the Italian suggested and he thinks she should check out the lounge without him.
That's been almost thirty minutes ago.
Michelle scuffs and throws the phone on the table next to his cold plate of prepared food. A chuckle escapes her. She shakes her head as the chuckle develops into more of a laugh. Maybe it's the wine making this situation seem so funny. It's most certainly not a laughing matter. She knew, God knows, she knew this would happen. It always happens likes this. The fact that, even knowing her husband as much as she does, Michelle still hopes that Arthur would come through for her.
But he doesn't and it's always the same excuse. It's always work, always buying and selling, antiques and everything that has nothing to do with her. Yes, Michelle knew when she married him that Arthur is passionate about his job. She knew that he takes pleasure in going through old books or the thrill that comes from refurbishing a chest of drawers. It's one of the things she loves about him. The passion and thrill in his green eyes when something so simple as a lamp comes into his possession. If his job means she has to compete for his affection and attention, Michelle would rather live penniless in a shack than alone in a house that's supposed to be filled with two people.
She pushes her chair back and takes her empty plate to the sink. She's restless because she can feel the pain again, that sour, twisting sensation in her lungs that she tries to smother by cleaning dishes. But it does hurt to be put second all the time. A part of her reasons that at least he called this time to warn her. Arthur even suggests she go to the jazz place anyway, without him. It's not the same though. Michelle wants to go with him, for them to enjoy themselves, to do something that she likes for once. Yet the sacrifices are always on her part.
She wipes her face of tears scrubs needlessly at a pot. Arthur's food is wrapped and put away.
When the kitchen is cleaned she goes towards the bathroom, removing her shoes as she passed through the bedroom. Her reflection is the first thing she sees and it's a dreadful sight. Runny mascara, semi-swollen eyes, she looks like a wrecked mess. To think that her husband, her stupid husband who can't see a good thing when it's standing right in front of him, causes all of this.
She loves Arthur, she really does but something he just makes her so anger with him. Michelle snorts at that, angry is an understatement. It's like he prefers work and Alfred to her. It's like he doesn't even want to be with her anymore. She knows that's not true. Arthur adores her but it feels like that when he does things like this. It's hard to see the forest because of trees and, honestly, she's tired of feeling neglected. She has desires too. She has things she wants to do and one of them is go to that jazz place.
It's not like she needs his permission to go either, even if he gave it. Michelle is, for all intents and purpose, a grown adult capable of making her own decisions. If she wants to go than she will and Arthur can just…he can just kiss her round behind for all she cares right now. Let him have his art, antiques, Alfred and every other thing he wants. She is going out tonight. She is going to have fun without him. For once, Michelle is going to be the one not considering her spouse. The idea alone brightens her mood considerably and she wipes her face clean and forces a smile.
It falters when she takes in her full appearance "I look horrible," Michele concludes. The dress she's wearing is rather casual for the occasion. The lounge isn't really upscale, more of lounge/club spot that doesn't call for her to be fancy. That doesn't mean she can't look nice. "Then maybe Arthur'll see what he's missed out on."
The words come out a bit bitter but sets off a light bulb in her brain. When was the last time she actually got all dressed up and nice looking? It has been a little while and maybe tonight is the perfect night to look like more than a housewife. There's nothing wrong with her. She's beautiful by any standards, maybe a bit short but some men like that.
Arthur did.
She almost gags and grunts sarcastically at the thought. He has an odd way of showing his love. Then again, maybe seeing her all dolled up will remind him. At the very least, it'll make her feel better.
So she reaches up and undoes the bun at the top of her head, letting her dark tresses drop freely. Michelle finger combs the tangles, fluffs her hair out then judges the look in the mirror. "Meh, let's try…" she pulls it all to one side and put it in a messy braid. The lounge gets pretty packed after a certain time and having her hair all over her neck will get hot quickly.
The braid keeps her hair down but is still sexy enough to look good. Satisfied, Michelle leaves the bathroom, unzipping her dress on the way. The last thing she wants is being reminded of what tonight was supposed to be. Instead of a dress, she goes for a pair of fitted jeans, her favorite pair that shows enough curve but not too tight. She pairs it with a red off the shoulder shirt, good enough to keep her cool and tastefully show off some skin. A pair of comfortable low wedges completes the look. Michelle redoes her make up and after grabbing the essentials she's call for a taxi instead of taking her own car. She's already had three glasses of wine and, tonight, Michelle plans to release all inhibitions
It's nearly 10 pm when the taxi drops her off near the corner. She may not have always been the person to go out but she doesn't expect this on a Thursday. Actually, she's never really had the chance to be that person. When her and Arthur met, she was nineteen years old. They married the next year and have been together for the past three years. Since he's not the type to go to clubs and bars, she's had to compromise on that part of her personality.
But Michelle likes this, all of it. The moderate crowd surrounding the place, the sound of music coming from it as she walks up to the lounge. She's only been on a weekend and more early evening, never this late into the night. The place is all dim lights and lounge sofas tuck off in even darker corners. There's a bar with people crowding it, a space for dancing and a little platform for live performances. Michelle orders a mojito and sits alone at one of the few single chairs with a table.
Most people are here with people, friends, relatives, partners; it doesn't matter. She doesn't really see anyone there alone like she is. At first she just observes, watching as people come in and out. By the time she's on her second drink, a young woman takes the stage to sing for a while. It's one of the most beautiful songs Michelle has heard in awhile. She finds herself relaxing more, getting more into her element without Arthur around. He would never show his face at one of these things. It's really a pity, as he has no clue how enjoyable it is to share a small space with people you don't know yet all of you enjoy the same thing.
Maybe it's the thin haze of smoke that permeates air or the fact that she's on her third mojito but she joins in a conversation with some girls at the bar. She finds herself being a lot more open and chatty than normal. They speak about music and life and troubles. When one of girls mentions her crappy ex-boyfriend, Michelle tells her there's more fish in the sea. When another comments about how her boyfriend would always miss important evens, she stress just how much she can relate to that and tells them how Arthur often overworks and forgets about her.
One of the ladies offers a sympathetic pat on her shoulders and tells her there's always more fish in sea.
She assumes Michelle isn't married. Michelle can't find it in her heart to correct her or the rest of them when they make a toast to being single.
The fact is though; she's laughing more than she has all week. There are certain liberations to pretending that she indulges in. She has to talk herself into not feeling guilty about the decision to just be her. Not Arthur's wife, not a stay at home wife but herself, Michelle. When she does, it's easier to pretend. Or it could very well be that she's a little more than tipsy at this point.
"I wanna dance!" one of the girls yells to her.
Gone is the sweet jazz music from when she first came, replaced with something a little more contemporary and upbeat. The lights are even dimmer as an even younger crowd comes into the place. In just a few hours, the quaint little lounge transforms into quite the dance spot.
Michelle readily agrees, sliding off her barstool as the woman pulls her along by the arm. She shoves her phone in her front pocket as it nearly dropped from her fingers in the woman's rush. The music throbs through the floorboards and the bar isn't even visible through the throng of people bumping and grinding to the overpowering beat. People sway and thrust in discordant undulation, limbs twining, bodies melding and caressing in a heaving, panting, sweaty mess. And that is exactly what Michelle wants. She works her way into the middle of this madding crowd and the thick air at the center of the mindless, dancing mob. When was the last time she danced? It's been so long that she instantly gets lost in the music and mayhem of it all.
For a few minutes, the two of them dance together, laughing all the while as they're bumped and pushed about. The smell of alcohol and sweat hangs in the air. Michelle closes her eyes and shakes to the music, spinning around a few times. Her limbs just do their own thing, No one here can stop her or tell what she can or can't do. No one here will forget about her or abandon her for work. Nobody here cares enough to do those things. All of them dance and live for the moment. So she does the same, pushing her unfortunate husband from her mind.
With her thoughts so free, it's no wonder that she takes in stride the sudden hands that settle on her hips, pulling them gently backwards against him. She opens her eyes, noticing her female friend is lost to the crowd. Briefly, she slows rhythm trying to find the other but her new dance partner seems determined to get her moving again. One would think she would escape his grasp but she doesn't. Michelle doesn't even try. Not when one hand proceeds to explore her thigh while the other digs a little dipper into her waist pushing and pulling forward and back, rocking them to the bass that thuds through them. Not when he takes hold of one of her arms and brings it up and around until her fingers circle his neck. Not even when he pivots just enough to allow her leg to slip between his so that her behind is grinding directly against the man's crotch. It's just dancing, she convinces herself.
A pleased huff of air escapes him when he leans his head down and they sway through never-ending remixes of popular song. With little resistance she lets him guide the tempo of her hip, fast for some and a slower grin for others.
It's a nice feeling. It's a 'I want you' feeling and the heat that follows has nothing to do with the surrounding people. It starts inside the pit of her stomach and spreads all over the more they move or when his fingers trail up her ribcage or when he whispers foreign words she can't understand. She's been in this position long enough to tell when she's turned on, judging by what's she's grinding against, so is he. The conviction that should be there is lost to the moment of them indulging in each other, the forbidden and almost dangerous notion of doing this with a complete stranger.
Michelle gasps when his lips wander over her shoulder and up her neck, teeth and tongue caressing the lobe of her ear. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, a voice screams that she should not let another man touch her like this. She's a married woman. No amount of pretending will change that.
Her hand that's on his neck is grabbed and it takes Michelle a few seconds to realize he's turning her around. When they're face to face, her heart practically stops. He's older than she imagined but it's just her luck that she prefers older men, Arthur being five years her senior. But this guy, no man, has to be older and, my, is he breathtaking. Even in such poor lighting, she catches glimpses of thick dark hair and dark colored eyes. He has a strong jaw and a beautiful smirk. She only knows that because he's smirking at her. She has no idea what her face looks like in this moment, dumbfounded perhaps. Whatever it is, it doesn't chase him off.
The exact opposite actually, he pulls her back to him so that they are hip to hip, chest to chest. It's a big chest too, with broad shoulders and strong arms that keep her close to him. It has to be dangerous for her body to go through so many changes all at once in such a short amount of time. The alcohol, of course, isn't aiding her at all. Everything feels so slow. So much so that she'd stopped dancing for a few seconds before, slowly moving with him again.
She can feel the effect her dancing has on him but she's very sure he's doing this on purpose. What they're doing isn't exactly dancing, not with the way his hands are all over her. At one point she's sure his hands go under her shirt but she isn't exactly innocent in all of this. Michelle knows very much what he wants when he leans his face in but she always turns her head and offers him her cheek or neck instead. He makes due with little kisses and nips a long her skin. They're heated kisses, searing and burning her sweat-coated skin.
The attraction is there and strong for both of them. Michelle can't deny that even if she wants to. Not with how compliant she's been with him. He's patience, she thinks, with the way she's been avoiding kissing him like he wants. Sometimes he chuckles; sometimes he says something that gets lost to the music. It's a flirtatious teasing game between them, one she knows she'll loose if she keeps playing with fire. And he is fire; igniting dormant feels in her and making her body react to his. Pair that feeling with drinking and something is bound to go terribly wrong.
And it does when his patience with her actions ware thin. A hand takes hold of her face and, this time, Michelle can't turn away. It's so unearthly slow how it happens, bass and heartbeat drums in her ears at the same rhythm. She get's a good look in his eyes before they close. Her breathing comes rugged and quickly, Michelle's eyes widen. She feels trapped but willingly so. An image of Arthur flashes in her mind's eye, snapping her out of the trace this man had her in. She quickly dips her head down so his lips come down on her forehead instead.
He laughs for real this time and pulls back, giving her a curious look but good-natured nonetheless. This man who's put up with her game this long leans his face towards her ear. He speaks just loud enough to be heard over the thundering base in a heavily accented voice that makes her breath hitch and insides warm
"I want to take you home."
A/N: I couldn't help it. I had to do another RomeSey story because I just had too! I hope you like it! It's only six chapters and majority of it is done already so that's reassurance! Also, the title for each is based of the song I listened to the most while typing! In case you were wondering. You probably weren't but whatever! I hope you enjoy!
-CeCe^^