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Money, desire and sex.
Fake smiles, faker laughter. The clink of champagne flutes, the low buzz of conversation. Men in suits, women in party dresses. The smell of overpriced perfume and superiority. It was the same as always. He felt so out of place there but nobody else seemed to realise it. He could act like them but he’d never be one of them. Secretly, he hated them. He hated them all.

He only came for Sara. He couldn’t stay away from her. Everything seemed brighter when he was in her company.

He’d been watching her for god knows how long. He wanted to describe her as something more than beautiful, because one overused word didn’t seem like enough of a compliment. She was more than all that. More than beautiful movie stars and beautiful sunsets. She was more.

It seemed to him at first, that he was glorifying her in his mind only because he was so desperate for someone real to connect with. But the more he asked about her and the more he found out, the more obsessed he became. She was everything he’d ever wanted.

At the party, men around him talked about money and politics and education. Women talked about designer shoes and jewellery and each other. Nothing felt comfortable. It was stiff and formal and no matter how many times he played this game, it never got any easier. He wasn’t losing, but he wasn’t winning either. He was just there; existing, but not achieving a single damn thing.

Champagne and caviar and Cuban cigars. All of it extortionate, all of it unnecessary.

Social climbers, fat cats, and trophy wives. They were people, just like all the other people in the world and when the end came, everyone would be lying six feet under. The mansions and cars would be no good then. The sprawling estates would be gone and everyone would have the same equal rectangular space in the ground. Why couldn’t they see that? He knew they should have feelings but they all acted like clones with only superficial differences in taste and wealth.

Maseratis and Lamborghinis in the underground parking lot. Cartier on their wrists and Chanel on their necks.

The ugliness of concealed greed. The want behind the gleaming white smiles, the irrepressible desire for more and more until more became too much and a lifetime of regret awaited them in old age. He saw them make the same mistakes and he couldn’t warn them because then they would be offended and he’d be cast out of the circles. And he needed the circles. He needed to go round and round with the same people only to keep the gnawing loneliness at bay. Even if they didn’t understand, even if they were blinded by their egos, they were still company. And company meant sanity.

But there was no originality, nothing new, nothing that excited him.

Except Sara. He’d tried to put her down into words but they were so flimsy and mediocre. He couldn’t write her onto a page; she was human, not a figment of his imagination. He’d always taken inspiration from strangers on the street, people who he wouldn’t see again and who could easily be written in a few sentences. Not people he knew well. Not her. No, he knew too much about her. Every last word in the world wouldn’t be enough for him to write an accurate description of her.

He tried. Doe-like. Brunette. Willowy. The words stared back at him contemptuously like they themselves believed they weren’t adequate.

He talked to her. Put on a front of cheerfulness and geniality and made her laugh. Every time he saw her, he tried a little harder, tried to get more out of her until she told him her secrets and made him swear to keep them. And all this time, he felt the tangible connection between them; something light and golden, hovering below the surface of his consciousness and making him believe she was the one person he could commit to for life.

They met in public but they met more often in secret because she didn’t want anyone to see them together. She said that people liked to watch the negative. People liked to watch others, to celebrate others’ failures, to see who was cheating, or who was getting fired or dumped. She said people needed to take a closer look at themselves because they only focused on other stuff so that their thoughts were pulled away from their own sad, suffocating lives.

He agreed, he obliged, he did what she wanted, because he would have done anything for her. She would come by his apartment when she had time and they’d talk and eat and fuck and act like two normal people.

It was harder at social events though. Like tonight. It was someone’s wedding anniversary; he couldn’t remember whose. Everybody watched each other under the lights of the enormous crystal chandeliers and everyone knew who the next person was. He watched them all sip at overpriced alcohol and mingle casually and wondered whether they would notice if he disappeared for half an hour. It was dark outside the huge windows and he figured there’d be some secluded place in the garden where he could get Sara alone.

She caught his eye across the room at that precise moment and smiled fleetingly before the crowd of glitterati swallowed her up again. He couldn’t blame them. She was bubbly and sparkly to be around and she emanated a certain unique warmth that made all people feel important. She was one of those rare people whom everybody loved and everybody wanted to be around, and none of them wanted her more than him.

He bided his time. He made small talk and sipped Dom Perignon and ate cake and tried to catch glimpses of her in an imperceptible way.

She looked effortlessly stunning in a black Carolina Herrera dress. Floral lace accented all the right parts of her slender figure and the dress looked like it had been designed solely for her. They shared the same jaded opinion of designer wear but that didn’t stop either of them buying it. The expensive clothes were almost a uniform, worn mainly to fit in with the crowd, but with the added benefit of making the wearer look good.

She looked good. She looked even better when she excused herself from the crowd and appeared at his side to murmur a soft greeting into his ear.

“Hey,” he replied. “Nice dress.”

“Thank you,” she said, like she hadn’t received the same compliment twenty times already. He liked to believe it meant more coming from him though.

“How’d you like the party?” she asked.

“Same as usual. Ostentatious and exorbitant, though better now I have someone to divulge that to.”

She laughed. “I’ve missed your superfluous vocabulary, you know.”

“And I’ve missed you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Since last night?”

“Yes.” he said, with a smirk. “You should be flattered.”

A waiter passed by them with a tray of glasses and they paused, watching him weave expertly in and out of the throngs of people.

“So,” he began. “I was thinking garden.”

“No.” she replied softly. “They’re planning fireworks.”

“Oh? I didn’t know that.”

She smiled. “You’re not meant to. It’s supposed to be a surprise ending. Original, huh?”

“Very. So the garden’s out of bounds. Why don’t we just go back to my place?”

She shook her head. “They’d notice. Besides, I’ve got a better idea.”

“What’s that?”

She sipped at her champagne, sparkling eyes locked onto his. Then she leaned in close and said, “Roof.”

He frowned. “Roof?”


And she turned and walked nonchalantly away, leaving him to follow her from an unobvious distance. He played it well. Slow steps like he was walking without a particular destination. He flashed a bland smile every time someone looked his way. Hands in his pockets as he reached the French doors which Sara had just walked out of. Then he patted his jacket down like he was looking for a cigarette before he slipped out into the warm, quiet night.

He trailed her around the side of the house and all the way up the flights of stone stairs which apparently led to the roof. He could hear her somewhere above him, her shoes clicking softly as she walked and he hurried his pace, impatient to get her alone.

Finally, he reached the top. The house had a flat Mediterranean style roof with fancy, stone balustrades around the edges. It was hushed and quiet and he could see the window glows of nearby houses and the bright, rapid lights of the distant busy roads.

He turned to see the outline of Sara’s figure against the backdrop of lights and as he walked towards her, she came into focus and he was reminded of how breathtakingly beautiful she was.

“We should be quick,” she said pointedly. “I don’t want anyone to notice we’re gone.”

He smiled. Ran his hand gently down the curve of her cheek and cradled her chin. “Me neither.”

She tilted her head back to look into his face and he bent his neck and kissed her hard, feeling their needs clash. He felt the blood run warm and fast around him, his heart beating a little quicker as her hands tugged his shirt out of his pants and slid underneath the cotton to stroke the defined contours of his torso.

Her hands felt small and delicate and he could smell strawberries. He let his fingers tangle in her silky brown hair and his tongue run around her champagne-flavoured mouth. Moments like this. He wanted it to last forever even though he knew it couldn’t. Sara’s hands slipped south to his belt and she was unbuckling it fast and easily, as he mentally thought out the mechanics. The ground was too hard to lie on. There was nothing to lean against, unless they wanted to fall over the edge. Stairs.

He sat on the top step with Sara on top, her legs either side of him. Her dress was around her waist and he reached between her legs to pull her damp panties aside. His fingers slipped into her wet heat and he stroked her gently, his thumb on her clit, and his forefinger crooked up inside her pulsing channel.

Her hand was wrapped around his hard cock, squeezing hard as she ran her fingers up and down the thick length, and it felt oddly natural as she guided it towards her entrance. He pulled his fingers away, and held onto her waist as she slowly eased down onto his throbbing cock, a soft moan of longing escaping her throat.

She moved slowly at first, acclimatising to the feel of him buried inside her, but as she relaxed she began to move faster, her hands resting on the ground either side of him. He gripped hard to her waist and moved with her, thrusting in and bottoming out inside her with every stroke. She felt tight, familiar, and perfect and he could hear the sound of every hot, wet plunge of his cock.

They fucked hard and fast like they always did when they were pushed for time. He lost count of the number of times she gasped out his name and he could feel her lithe body trembling even as she rode him. She seemed to forget the need to be quick as she slid off him halfway through and turned her back on him before slotting her snatch neatly back onto his cock to ride him in reverse; the way she liked best.

Her hands pressed against his legs and he reached around to rub her clit as she paused to grind against him in a lingering moment. Then they were fucking again and her body seemed fluid, liquid-like as she moved fast, revelling in the sensations of his cock slamming in and out of her tight hole. He rubbed hard at her clit until her body stiffened, her ass clenched and a prolonged moan of pleasure came out of her mouth. He felt her tighten around him but he wasn’t done yet, and he kept fucking her shuddering body, his fingers digging into her waist and his breath coming out rough and harsh.

Finally, the flush of heat came over him, his balls tightened and he thrust into her unevenly as spunk flooded out of his cock and spurted deep inside her. The momentary relief washed over as the urgency of the moment passed and he took deep even breaths in an attempt to regularise the pace of his thumping heart.

Sara eased gently off him and turned to press a kiss to his mouth, her face seeming almost dreamlike above him. Then she was standing up and rearranging her clothes before she disappeared, and he heard the click of her heels on the stairs, the sound getting more and more distant with every passing second. She was gone and reality was back, and he was sitting there on the cold floor.

He was playing with fire, he knew he was, and not just any fire. Not a candle flame or a campfire but the interminable fire of Hell, the destination to which he was inevitably bound. Because he shouldn’t have been there. He should have stayed away from her because she wasn’t his.

She was married to someone important and handsome. Someone whose arm she held onto and whose hand she held in hers. Someone who wasn’t him. Someone a million times more eligible than him, someone she’d be standing with when he got downstairs. But he could dream. He had to dream because without dreams he was nothing. He dreamt of being the man by her side, the solid pillar supporting her slender feminine figure, the man with all those qualities women yearned for. Strong and protective and empathic.

Dreams. Empty, fleeting wishes that couldn’t ever be granted.

He lay there sweaty and spent, and felt worthless. He was one person in a world of six billion. One unrepentant sinner drowning in clashing waves of guilt, desperation and selfish desire.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © Copyright Emilia Adams 2011-2015. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the author.

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