The Amatory Sinner
It was amazing what a woman could do to a man, without even trying to do anything at all. Day in and day out, she taunted him with all the nothing she did, tortured him with her kindness, her camaraderie. Why, she even walked just to spite him, beckoning him with every tilt of her hips, every tap of her foot. Even now she mocked him, as she stood by his desk, as she opened a drawer, as she bent to retrieve a fallen pen, as she greeted him with the usual respects.
As she greeted the other with a smile and a kiss on the cheek.
The greeting she showed the other was usual, routine now after so many times of seeing it, but still he despised it. No one else minded in the least; most even enjoyed it. "Congratulations," they'd tell her, as well as the receiver of the kiss. "How about another?" others would joke. "One for me too, eh?"
A smile would come to his face when he voiced the last request-a false expression put up to hide his wrath.
To the second, she'd often comply, however the second touch of affection would be less of a greeting. Their lips would brush together, lightly at first, but then all joking and casualty would fade: Soon they would appear as if the whole world had left them alone, as if there was no one else now and never would be as long as they stayed connected. Their arms would wrap around each other, their bodies would move closer-all the time making him boil with rage-before she would pause, finally stopping the madness to chuckle easily and send the other off with a wink missed by all except him and the other. But he knew that, were it up to them, they would've kept going on in that same revolting manner until their muscles gave out.
Oh, how he wanted that kiss, that touch, that feeling of warmth around his body.
No, that was wrong. Of her, he wanted much more: Nothing but the whole of her would satisfy his greedy soul.
It would be rather easy for him to get what he wanted. For all her strength, she would be easily overpowered. He would grab her tight, hold her like the other did, and press their lips together with such force they'd fall to the ground. Other than that, he would not be forceful: It would take that single kiss, perhaps two, before she gave up whatever struggle put forth, and she would realize how foolish she was being! How foolish it was to choose the other when she had him, when she had the man who held the flames of hell in his fingertips! Then she would succumb to him; he would whisper her name, as she shouted his to the heavens, dizzily entwined within his lustful grasp. He would stroke the velvety blanket of her skin, run his anxious hands of her sweating frame, and she would do the same to him; his lips would taste all of her, his body know every recess of her captivating form, and she know all of his. And she would be happy with him, happier than she knew she ever could be, or ever had been, with the other one.
Then it would be the other glaring enviously at him; the other who couldn't stop from staring at them as they kissed; the other who cursed every move she made, as it was made away from him. Then her heart and soul and body would all belong to him, and they'd be the couple showing outwardly their passions no matter the atmosphere.
It would be so very easy; especially now that he and she were alone. He had the key, she did not; he knew of his intentions, she did not.
So easy, until she turned to face him, obviously feeling his white-knuckled gaze upon her.
"Sir, is there something wrong?"
Her eyes, as they found him now, were light and curious: Hazel boring into coal-black with such force of warmth he suddenly found he could barely move. Those eyes were like those of an angel, passing judgment on a sinful soul without knowing of his crimes. Beneath that accusing, unknowing, gaze, he clutched his desk.
All he had to do now was stand. If he moved fast enough, she'd be still in shock, giving him time to lock the door and hypnotize her with the charms he knew wouldn't fail even on a woman with such fortitude as she.
But when caught by that look, that innocent, inquiring, warm, insult of a glance, he could do nothing, like a demon speared through the heart by an arrow of heaven's messenger.
"No," he raised his voice just above a whisper, clenching his fists below the table. "Nothing, Lieutenant."
His elusive angel blinked, smiling peacefully to her commander. Then she made her way to the unlocked door, paused before the threshold, and finally turned back with a small salute, damning him forever with three simple words:
"Until tomorrow, Colonel."
And he was alone.
Forever he would be alone, left in eternity with his shameful dreams. Even if his wish came true, she would never love him, not the way she did the other; never would she give him the look of yearning she gave the other. He would forever be tormented by her eyes, by their love, for he would only see her as his angel of judgment, and she view him as a fellow officer.
As much as he wished, that view would never change: For he was an envious, greedy, lustful demon, and she was an angel; an angel that would forever be out of his reach, winging above him and his sinful desires without a second thought.
Can't you see, Riza? There is something very wrong. This horrible demon, you see, has fallen hopelessly in love with the one angel that will never, ever, come down to him.