He knows, of course, about the affair. Even if Walt hadn't told him he would have nosed it out, that's what he does after all. But he doesn't think Skyler knows he knows so, of course, he doesn't mention it. At least he doesn't mention it right now with his best wool trousers around his ankles and his favorite fuschia oxford rucked up over his nipples. The lime green tie has been tossed over his shoulder, cavalier-style, but it was her toss not his after she used it to reel him in, to make her interest crystal clear - he was a fish on her line. He was able to shrug out of his suit coat but he has a suspicion that it might be the ball of fabric he's currently grinding into the carpet beneath the worn sole of his left wingtip.

He's a man who can clearly see both sides of his bread and one of those sides is buttered and even though his toast always seems to fall condiment side down on the invariably dirty lino he still knows which side is slathered and which side isn't. And he always - always - knows who's holding the butter knife. The last week has been a relentless show of feminine force with Walt White's estranged wife wielding the flatware. Okay, so he gave in and muddled comically through the fifteen minute legalese with Ted Beneke and he had to admit he had one eye on the garbled instructions of the delectable Mrs. White and one eye on the slender slightly effeminate man on the other side of the desk and okay his mind went there. He could not imagine the two of them twisting in their own soft core porn show. Just couldn't do it, and that wasn't for a lack of trying or for an ignorance of the art form.

And when it comes down to all that flexing imagination he's got to stop and wonder why he finds the tall blonde so irresistible. Decidedly not his type. Dress size, hair color, marital status and ethnicity notwithstanding there's just something about her that doesn't suit his style and yet she's had a starring role in his own personal fantasizing for some time now and the Ted Beneke connection did nothing more than act as gasoline on his already burning barrel of trashy desire.

And all of that is really just something to think about to make himself last longer because this woman is so smoking hot, so real, so solid, the pinky white flesh full and pliant beneath his fingers and he doesn't give a rat's ass about Ted or Walt or why she's letting him drive into her the way she's letting him. He wants to close his eyes and just feel how exquisite his current situation is; Skyler White flat on her back on his desk, ankles hooked over his shoulders, and he's leaning down into her, both hands splay fingered beside her head, he can feel the short silky locks of her hair trapped and pulling beneath his palms but she certainly seems past any point of caring about a pain that miniscule and he tries to not slide forward and pull her hair right out of her head but he's beginning to see black around the edges of his vision. He can't really say whether he'll be able to keep from collapsing atop her or not after all its been longer than he would ever care to admit and she's so beautiful and so willing and maybe just maybe he will fall on top of Walt's wife when he's finished because he can. And because she just knocks the breath out of him that much.

And because it's his desk when it comes down to it. His office. His neck on the line.

But really, is that true, he finds himself wondering as he cracks open one eye and looks down at her, her head thrown back, her mouth slack. Walt is classic cuckold and just doesn't seem to be able to get his ire up about the fact that his wife, his estranged wife who changed the locks thank you very much, is a grown up woman with grown up woman needs and while he's off playing chemist in a bad Mexican B-flick his wife is playing doctor with the lawyer.

She opens her eyes, looks up at him and licks her upper lip slow and he's up and over the edge and that's all she wrote, the fat lady done sang her last tralala and he leans forward, slides his arms under this woman who doesn't belong to him, and pulls her up against his chest, and presses himself back down into her ample bosoms. He turns his face to save his nose from smashing into the stapler and his mouth latches onto the side of her neck and he suckles like a baby. Her legs are wrapped around his waist now and her own arms are around his body, her fingers fast and hard in the well of his 's something so comforting in being held by her that he almost, almost but doesn't, weep tears of gratitude.

They really should get up and re-dress and re-arrange clothing and find some sort of something or other to clean up the desktop and call the hospital and get a status update on Beneke. Stupid sod.

But right now, he's been served his own slice of heaven and he's going to digest that for a while. Skyler has his earlobe between her teeth and she's purring some nonsense into his ear and he closes his eyes tight and wishes the stars that were exploding on the insides of his eyelids were really the stars in the night sky and that the two of them were in a Cadillac convertible with the front seats fully reclined and the atmospheric vault of say Phoenix spread over their heads, a bottle of crisp champers in an ice bucket in the back seat and two flutes balanced on the dashboard and her hand in his hand and a diamond the size of a Chihuahua's head set in a platinum band inside a velvet box in the pocket of his waistcoat.

These are the simple wishes of Saul Goodman.