Impulses (48 page)

Is it even possible to long for someone you already have? Someone who is already yours? Because every day is the same, my desire for Samantha could not, and would not ever cease as long as there is air in my lungs and a pulse in my body.

“Okay,” she accedes simply.

Crossing her legs, she deliberately flashes the lacy tops of her hold-ups and discreetly observes my expression. With my blood surging and heating immensely, a buzzing sensation radiates from every nerve ending south of my hips. She curves that luscious mouth into a devilishly wicked grin and my cock instantly twitches with lustful intent.

“Damn you, Samantha Kennedy,” I hiss as I lunge forward, sealing my mouth over hers and possessing her as I flick my tongue inside the warmth of her mouth with sensuous wet licks and strokes. The intense yearning to have her in my hands explodes into an impassioned frustration. Like a child in a candy shop, the vision is so enticing that you want to explore every section, but not wanting to choose your starting point. I want to revel in it all at once; my two mere hands reluctant to select an initial zone to commence their sensual, lustful journey. It is moments such as these that make me wish for ten hands, so I could explore and devour every inch of her body simultaneously.

“We have arrived, sir.” the husky voice from the middle-aged man in the front seat announces, before opening his door.

Withdrawing our lips from each other, I rest my head against Samantha’s brow.

“Thank you,” I gasp, but unknowing exactly to whom I aim my appreciation; the chauffer for his time, or, Samantha, for being…Samantha.

Slipping out of the limousine, I extend my hand and Samantha accepts as she slips across the bench seat.

“Thank you,” she smiles, and while standing on the sidewalk between two, black granite, potted ferns, smoothes out any gathering ruffles from her dress.

It’s as though we have stepped onto a street in the middle of France. The block is narrow and cobblestoned. Only two streetlamps and several trees line the sidewalk. A large, red-bricked building with double, driftwood-like doors greets us.

“Where are we?” Samantha peruses up and down the block, before setting her gaze upon me.

Feigning an itch, I brush my hand down the outside of my breast pocket, the small, ridged cube presses against my ribs, reminding me of how a simple change in circumstance, after one single question, could alter the outcome of the night. Feeling a combination of nerves and excitement, I smile genteelly. “Come…” I order, and lead her gently by the hand through the double doors.

As we enter, we are inundated by ox-blood red walls and candelabras’ that hang from the ceiling and over the length of the bar, which is directly before us. The dark wooden, fireplace to our right has an overly-large round mirror hanging above it. And the keys of the grand piano to our left, are caressed by the deft hands of a dark-haired, middle-build man, donning a gray suit.

Once informing the waiter of our reservation, he leads us along the length of the bar, through a set of glass, double-doors. It’s intimate, with floor-to-ceiling, arched windows and liberal sized paintings of a noblemen and noblewomen adorning the surrounding brick walls. Dove-white tablecloths, with tall, thin, white candles and arrangements of red roses are placed in the center of each table.

The waiter leads us to an intimate round table in front of one of the great, arched windows. After handing us each a leather-bound menu, he bows his head then departs, leaving us to examine the carte du jour.

As we wait for our entrées of butter poached Maine lobster, I glimpse around the increasing number of people that take their seats. Couples on their first dates, an elderly couple sit in the far corner, holding hands while staring into each other’s eyes, people celebrating their birthday and anniversaries.

I’m fixated to my seat, all manner of thoughts revolving around my head, all manner of emotions emanating, coursing and seeping from my body. I lay my left arm over the table and grasp Samantha’s hand in a weak clutch, allowing myself to get lost in her bright, sparking eyes.

“Are you okay, Hayden?”

No,
I’m terrified;
my heart is assaulting my ribcage with its incessant, unrelenting rhythm. My palms are clammy with perspiration and anxiety oozes from my pores.

She cocks her head and inches closer over the table. “Hayden?”

Have you ever experienced a moment, whether it be a happy or angry moment in your life, and your body is restrained by an invisible force, yet your mind elucidates what action you want to pursue; whether it be throwing a glass at a wall, hitting someone…kissing someone…asking them a question? Well that is what’s happening to me. The one question revolves around my mind, and all different scenarios of her reaction are playing out.

I shift in my seat and take a warranted sip of my Sauvignon Blanc. Tearing my stare from Samantha, I glimpse around the room for a second time, absorbing the ambiance. There are many couples, it is a romantic setting, and we’re in New York…is this a little bit, too…

“Sir, ma’am,” the waitress interrupts my musing.

Relinquishing our laced hands, the waitress places the deep, squared plates in front of us.

“A toast,”––we raise our glasses––“To us and new beginnings.”

Beaming, she nods her head, before clinking as our glasses.

“And to, New York,” she quickly inserts, before raising the rim of the glass to her lips.

“And to, New York.”

Halfway through our meal, Samantha stiffens and lowers her forkful of food. She closes her eyes and her mouth curves into an enraptured grin. She inhales deeply through her nose, her cheekbones high, sculpted, with a dash of rouge.

“What is it, beautiful?”

Exhaling slowly, she hums in appreciation, her eyelids sealed lightly. “Piano Sonata, No. 14 in C-sharp minor,” she mutters in a honeyed voice.

What?
She may have well just spoken Russian to me. Thrown, I furrow my brow and purse my lips.

She flutters her eyelids and giggles at my donning expression. Biting the side of her lower lip seemingly embarrassed, she gestures in the direction of the piano. “Moonlight Sonata, by Beethoven.”

I push myself back in the seat, my eyes widening. “I had no idea you knew classical. Do you play?”

With unswerving flared-eyes, she sniggers, “What, me? Oh, God no. I wish.” She caresses the rim of her wineglass with her lips before continuing. “My cousin, Aimee has been playing since we were both children. I would sit totally hypnotized at the notes she could make that instrument resonate. It’s magical, to have such a gift.” The depth of her thoughtfulness is revealed in the progressive smile that soon takes shape. And her eyes overflow with warmth, affection and pride; a sense of pride that would be exuded from that of an older sibling.

Splaying my arm over the table, I take possession of her silky hand. Her smile gradually becomes lost, her eyes become darker. In a blink of an eye––in one memory––she looks years older than what she is.

“I love you, Samantha, so much. I wish I could put into words, or show you the scale of what I feel for you––”

She shakes her head, and tightens her glossy lips, effectively shushing me. “I know how much you love me, Hayden. I am still baffled by
why
you fallen in-love with me, but I know the extent. So there really is no need to keep saying it.” She peeks around at the restaurant and then back to hold my intense regard. “Look at where we are, how romantic this is, the thought you put into this. Actions speak louder than words, and your actions––”

“I just…I know I’ve been difficult to be around recently, but…I’m going to try harder––I have to,” I heave a sigh and shake my head. “I never thought that it was possible to feel this way, Sam. Before you, I was…well, you know what I was. How I felt, what I contended with. We’re
two peas in a pod––
albeit, dealt with our obstacles differently––but neither of us imagined that we would be here, feeling the way we do.” I glance down at the linen serviette in my lap. “I just want you to know how grateful I am, that you brought me back. You made my heart beat again and now, it only does so, because of you.”

Taking my hand, she raises it to her mouth, and presses gentle kisses the back of my knuckles, then holds it to her chest. “I know; me, too.”

“Come on, eat up. We still got one more thing to see before we head back.”

Samantha releases my hand and with wide-eyes, she gasps and raises her two fingers to her temple in a playful salute, “Yes, sir.”

I stand at the bedroom window of the suite. Despite the fact we’re on the twentieth-floor, it seems so much lower compared to that of the view from the Observation Deck of the Empire State Building.

Samantha’s face was a picture as she gaped at the array of warm oranges, brilliant white and techno-blue lights glimmering from the world below; definitely a Kodak moment which I will replay a hundred times in my mind for the rest of my life.

Yet even as we stood alone, over three and a half thousand meters in the sky, with an unobstructed 360 degree view of the city, it hadn’t felt perfect enough. And something in my mind told me that I should wait––that right now isn’t the right time.

Yes, wait for a little longer, Hayden. You will fuck up before you even ask her…you may never get the chance to ask her, and what a lucky escape she will have; the snarky voice of my paranoia meddles with my mind. Not again, please. Not again. There is no reason for this; the past days have been amazing. Why now?

With every strength I have, I replay all of the events of our mini-getaway, filling my mind with contentment, amusement, hope and satisfaction. My heart and throat constricts as the derisive, small voice weaves its way through my happy memories.

Those thoughts can only keep your heart warm for so long, Hayden. It’s only a matter of precious time before you witness her screwing with another man––whether it is literally or in that fucked-up, worthless head of yours.

I become increasingly aware of the sweat building and seeping through every pore of my body; from my back, to my neck, down to the soles of my feet. My paranoia watches on, enjoying my restlessness as his words of self-doubt sets a chain reaction, which soon has me imprisoned by my anxiety. Gasping, I attempt to reduce the asphyxiation caused by my fretfulness and stow the unsettled, jittery sensations of my organs.

I welcome the startling distraction as a pair of silky, smooth arms snake around my naked waist. As she locks her fingers and rests them on my abdominals, I push past the doubts and adverse images strewn together in my mind, and cover Samantha’s hands with my own.

Planting a kiss on my shoulder blade, she then rests her chin on my back.

“I’m not entirely sure how to observe things now.”

“What do you mean, beautiful?”

“Well, I know we’re high-up, and everything down there should seem smaller, but everything seems so much…bigger, than what they were from The Observation Deck. Does that make me greedy?” I can feel her playful pout against my clammy flesh.

Twisting in her arms, I place her under my scrutiny. Even with her makeup removed she possesses a natural beauty, her hair swept across her left shoulder, trailing down to her ribs in a loose braid. I stroke the arch of her cheekbone, and across the tiny amount of tan freckles, which are usually disguised by her makeup. She draws in her lower lip, clamping her teeth down on its plumpness. Her eyes teeming with unspoken questions, I feel her trying to read my mind; I am grateful that she can’t.

You are not worthy of this woman, Hayden. She deserves a real man; a man that has no underlining, psychological flaws, a man that she can wake up to in the mornings, and not feel anxious about what attitude he’s going to have towards her. She will be unfaithful; she will betray you, because you will push her away.

“Are you okay, honey?” she frowns, leans back slightly and gauges my expression.

Between shopping, sightseeing and reigniting our passion, we haven’t had time to think about anything else. We have been living in the moment, enjoying what time we have. But know things are slowing down, and the bubble that we have lived in for the last few days is going to get pierced by the huge knitting-needle that is reality. And I am terrified. I’m terrified that things are going to go back to how they were before we came here, my dreams, my bearing towards her.

That scathing little voice that I want to suppress has just made me realize…this is going to be something that could possibly become an enormous barrier for us both. She doesn’t deserve that possibility. I recall the pain lined through her voice and as I recoiled from her touch, and undeniable guilt spears through my heart.

“Can we talk?”

She nods gingerly, “Of course.”

Steering us away from the view of Central Park, we sit on the edge of the bed. Sam props her right leg beneath her and regards me with bated breath.

I focus down on my hands as I pick at the edge of my thumbnail. “I’m sorry––”

She grasps my forearm, and offers a reassuring squeeze. “Sorry, for what? You have nothing to be sorry for, Hayden.”

I peek back at her. The high slit of the lilac, satin negligée exposes her left leg, her breasts sit perfectly in the lilac lacing of the cups, and the spaghetti straps crosses her back. The dark pink hues of her areolas are visible through the netting as the bedside lamp emits a dim glow. She looks stunning and alluring, but the trepidation I am facing overpowers my want to feel her body through the thin material…to make love to her, while she wears it.

“I am sorry, for the way I treated you, the way I withdrew from you when you were only trying to help me…with my dreams.”

“Honey, it’s okay. You haven’t had them in a few days. I’m sure it was just stress.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t want to tell you. I thought that I would be digging my own grave if I had. But now, things are slowing down and I’m scared I’ll have them again. I’m scared I’ll treat you the way you don’t deserve…again.”

Her bewildered look and the slight shrug of her shoulders indicate her confusion.