Leaving One, Loving None

Sarah's lips were soft, but the kiss hit sharp—like ice behind heat, like the first sip of whiskey when you haven't eaten all day. Still, Hank kissed her back. He gripped her waist, her warm skin beneath the fabric of her blouse, and pulled her closer, letting himself sink into the moment. The past, the future, Hank wanted it all far from his mind. What he wanted was what was happening, consequences be damned.

Her breath washed across his cheek. She let out in a low, practiced sigh and tilted her head just enough to let her long, dark hair fall like a curtain. Eyes half-lidded, Sarah stared at him as if they had been lovers for ages, not acting on impulse, not hiding in each other to mask some deficit. For so long Hank had denied his feelings about his assistant, pretended that she was just a coworker, ignored her obvious beauty, dismissed her flirtations. But with the rejection of his wife still a fresh, open wound, he could no longer deny himself.

Need twisted deep in his gut.

It was obvious to Hank that Sarah was no novice. She knew how to make a man feel wanted. She knew how to make Hank feel wanted. Her hands slid over his chest like she was mapping him, a curious exploration, wandering a neighbourhood she had often driven by but never explored. Her green eyes didn't blink, didn’t look away. He tried to read them, tried to see something deeper, but all he saw was what she wanted to show him. Something just beneath the surface, something guarded and unreadable, flickered there and vanished.

Oh yes, she was good at this.

Her place smelled like jasmine and wine, the kind of scent that got into your brain, made you forget what day it was. Soft lights cast warm shadows across the living room. Some moody, wordless synth track buzzed low from a speaker on the shelf. It was a good setup. Perfect for forgetting, perfect for what he needed.

Better than the couch in his office.

Better than thinking about Donna.

He missed her.

He missed everything. Her smile, her wit, her sharp intelligence, her drive. The smell of her shampoo in the hallway. The way her presence steadied him, even when she was mad. Even when she made that sharp, disappointed sound with her mouth—half sigh, half snort—he missed that now. Hank put on a good show, the self-built man, strong, tough, in charge. He knew, though, that Donna was what drove him to be excellent. Without her...

But she'd kicked him out.

"Pack your things and leave."

"You disgust me."

"I don't want you here."

Each word a knife to his heart. He could still feel himself bleeding out, the rejection so visceral, so complete. His Donna, his love, didn't want him.

All because of Sarah.

One moment. One quick kiss on the neck. He had let her get too close in a moment that they both felt ****, and now he was paying the price.

A surge of anger appeared at the injustice. Donna had been cold to him all week! Refusing to tell him what was wrong, denying him physical affection, treating him like last week's dirty laundry. Was it his fault that he was tempted by this young, beautiful, demonstrative woman?

Yes. It was. His anger flew away, untethered from his character. Hank could act like it was Donna's fault, but he knew the truth. He was no spring chicken. If he had been wise, he would have been able to avoid the entire situation. Instead, he'd allowed himself to fall into it willingly. And when it was too late, when he'd tried to seek forgiveness for his transgression, he should have anticipated the reaction that he received.

And yet, even after all that, here he was. In Sarah's apartment. In Sarah's arms. Soon to be, he acknowledged, in Sarah's bed.

Trying not to think about how far and how fast he'd fallen.

Sarah kissed him again—harder this time. Her tongue slid past his lips, tasting him like she was sampling something expensive. He kissed her back, matching her pace. Hands on her hips. On her back. On her curves. He didn't hold back. Why hold back? His marriage, he was pretty sure, was over. The way Donna had looked at him, the way she'd talked to him, there was no love there. And Sarah, kissing him, moaning his name when she came up for air, could almost make him feel like someone did love him.

Almost.

She grabbed his belt, tugged gently. Her mouth moved to his jaw, his neck. Her nails dug lightly into his sides.

It felt good.

But there was something missing.

Hank pulled back an inch and again studied her face. Her long lashes. That perfect mouth. Those bright, studious green eyes.

They sparkled when she looked at him.

But they didn't look at him. Not really. What was that he was seeing? Amusement? Calculation? Like she was watching a scene unfold, and he was just playing the part she'd already written for him.

"You're quiet," she said, voice playful. "Having second thoughts?"

"No," he muttered, brushing her hair back from her face. "Just thinking."

She smirked. "Don't hurt yourself."

He gave a dry chuckle, but it felt ****. Empty. He kissed her again to shut out the noise in his head. She melted into him, like always.

And yet.

Again, an image of home flickered to mind. His wife. His son. Joey. Donna had been oddly protective of the boy that week. It had annoyed Hank to no end, but now that the bomb had dropped, he was relieved. If Donna were tuned into Joey's feelings, perhaps she could help ease the impact of Hank leaving. Donna had never been the most affectionate mother to their son, but maybe now she would find a way to get closer to him, to give him the love and attention he needed to start blossoming.

Hank, himself, had never really connected to the boy. Joey was an enigma to Hank. Small, skinny, no drive. He couldn't have fallen farther from the tree. And yet Joey was his son. His only son. And he hoped the best for him. He wanted a bright future for him.

And he hoped that he wouldn't be too disappointed in his father.

Sarah was pulling his shirt up over his head, running her hands across his chest like he was something worth unwrapping. Her lips were back on his, fast and hungry.

He gave in to it again. Let her make him forget. Let her body convince him.

But deep down, he knew the truth: This wasn’t love. It was perfume and pretending. Wine breath and practiced gasps.

It wasn't even comfort. Not really.

But it was what he had, and so it would have to be enough.