Mirror, Mirror. Amanda McIntyre
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I’d imagined him working in a fine men’s clothing store, or seated behind the executive desk of a successful company.
The fantasy of our being a couple lasted less than the time it took for us to crash hard and fast into one another, our bodies jerking in primal rhythm to satisfy the ancient urge. The ferocity of his breathing mingled with his deep chuckle.
“My god, you’re fantastic,” I uttered through the shuddering aftermath of my climax. He lowered me to the floor and rested his forehead to mine.
“You’re right, we are good together.” His eyes rose to mine then and in them I saw a look of regret.
Reality was a bitch. There was so much more that I wanted to say, but I dared not risk it, not now and likely not ever. My husband was a very powerful man despite his disabilities.
“Perfection, love. You better go now.” I dipped beneath his arm before he had the chance to kiss me again. I got lost in his kisses.
I slipped on my peach-colored satin robe and this time kept my eyes lowered as he dressed. I couldn’t chance the piece, however infinitesimal it might be, of my heart to have any feeling toward him.
It wasn’t part of our agreement.
He dressed facing away from me and we spoke no more. I didn’t even look up until I heard the door shut quietly behind him. I walked to the oversize mirror and studied my reflection. With great calm, I picked up my hairbrush and stroked it through my short brown hair. There were just a few strands of silver showing my age, but nothing so noticeable a good hairdresser couldn’t fix.
Yes, I was still a viable, passionate woman and I could rival any of the twentysomething divas I often lunched with and who often looked to me as a “seasoned” woman for advice. What a strong and wonderful marriage I had. Wasn’t I the lucky one?
I wondered how many others like me existed out there. One or two? Ten or twenty? It wasn’t exactly a topic you might bring up at an afternoon charity tea.
We, whose lives, mastered by passion, are caught somewhere in a vortex comprised of need and circumstance. We agree to whatever is necessary to derive a moment of pleasure in an otherwise cold and sterile world and be able to enjoy the good life.
The phone by the bed rang and I knew it was Paul. I picked up the remote phone receiver, my throat still dry from the mind-boggling sex. I grabbed the bottle of champagne, praying there was a little left. All that was left of the ice was chilled water. There was enough for one glass, maybe two.
“Did you enjoy yourself, my dear?”
I’d become a pro at disassociation. “Why, of course—didn’t it appear so?” My response was short, rather snappish, and I reeled in that part of me that remembered the look of regret on my lover’s face. With careful precision I steadied the bottle as I poured the golden nectar into my glass. I glanced up, my eye catching my lover’s glass still on the nightstand.
“You looked lovely, as always, Charlie.”
The soft tone in his voice caught my heart unaware as it did always, and what’s more, he knew it would. I closed my eyes, draining the glass as I held the receiver a few inches from my ear.
“Was he as…proficient as the others?”
I hated the part where he insisted on analyzing every moment, but I played along. After all, the man I’d just let ravish me all afternoon was off the scale in terms of “proficient.”
“He was,” I agreed, setting my glass on the dresser, readying to pour another glass. I wanted to embrace the bubbly haze of the champagne and enjoy the afterglow a bit more. Maybe I was being selfish.
“He won’t be back, you know. I can keep them just so long, and then they get on with their lives. This one mentioned a fiancée, I believe.”
Two pricks in the same moment, one on the phone and one to my heart.
“I thought it must be something like that. He told me it was his last time.” I licked my lips and stared into the mirror. I was careful not to say too much, give him too much praise. Yet if I showed any displeasure, I wasn’t sure what my husband might do.
My reflection stared back at me, my eyes still bright from sex, my cheeks flushed from arousal. But I could see his face, his ice-blue eyes peering at me, dissecting my every nuance.
My gut twisted, but I fought hard to keep my expression objective, almost apathetic, but not quite.
Paul could read me like a book, and if he had an inkling that I might have actually had some feeling for this man, or any of them, he’d sever our agreement, and then where would I be?
“Will I see you at home soon, then?”
My eye caught the champagne bottle, condensation running in rivulets down its side, leaving a pool on the dresser. “In a little while. I’d like to shower first.”
“Understandable.”
There was a brief silence.
“I’ll have Jenkins waiting downstairs, whenever you’re ready.”
“Fine, thank you.” The words stuck in my throat mixed with the bile forming there. I hung up, refusing to look again in the mirror.
Chapter Two
“I want you to wear the pearls this time.”
It was a cloudy day, causing me to have to turn on the lamp beside the bed. I stood transfixed at the bedside, studying the long strand of pale pink pearls that lay across the satin coverlet. I picked them up and let them dangle from my fingertips. They were quite beautiful, really, glimmering in the soft glow of the lamplight.
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