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  His fingers slide to my waist. I can smell the cologne that I love on him, the stuff I know he wore just for me. His hired help will see and I try to pull away but he pulls me closer with a sexy uh uh under his breath. I'm like a conditioned dog. The sexy sweep of his voice, the feel of his muscles tightening against me, and the dark, enchanting scent of him all light me up inside. He knows just how to get me. The fire ignites between my legs as he ducks his head down to whisper in my ear.

  "That's not really the way you want it, is it? Poor, Lyddle?"

  "Don't call me that. You know I hate it," I say, but my argument is weak. He knows he's got me. I don't have a penny to my name and couldn't survive without the money he gives me. I've been pretending to be his and Claudia's designer for so long now, it almost feels real and thank God, the paycheck is. But, at the bottom of it all is my marriage. I loved Des from the moment I met him and as sick as it is, I still do. He continues, with a grin.

  "You want me to want you...that's really why you wear it and why you come running whenever I call, isn't it? Say it is, Lydia. Please. I need you to want me too. I'm always good to you, aren't I?" This is how Des always crushes me--when he brings out the old Des, the one I fell in love with, the one who was always vulnerable and real and loyal. When he talks like this, it seems like the Desmond that I knew and loved is as trapped inside this situation as I am.

  His face is so close, his breath is ruffling loose strands of hair that slipped from one of my dreads. "I want you. I know you come to get the money, but tell me it's not the only reason. Say you come because you want to come for me. You'll come upstairs...won't you, Lyddle?"

  "Back up before the help sees us," I warn him.

  It's sick how we keep doing this. It's a stupid game, but when he's standing this close, his manhood pressed against me, he is my addiction. He has been, since I was fourteen years old and he was nineteen. He taught me how to love him; he was my first. We were married on my sixteenth birthday, with my mom's consent. Des promised her he'd always take care of me.

  Married for only six years, and here we are, walking up to the front of a mansion where he lives with his other wife. I blew off high school to marry him. We moved across state. Even though we had nothing, I thought we were happy until he left me two years ago to get the lifestyle he said he deserved.

  He married the newly-widowed, wealthy-as-hell Claudia. She hyphenated their marriage, but never made him sign a prenup. No kids and no family to speak of, I guess Claudia was happy to have him. Mrs. Claudia Silver-Strong is now his illegal, second wife, although she has no idea that I'm still his first.

  In a really twisted way, Des was good to his word to my mother, if only financially. He has kept me on his hook by refusing to get a divorce. He says filing papers would mess up things with Claudia and, as much as I hate myself for it, we both depend on her for our living. Des tells me he loves me and screws me in secret like a mistress, but he also gives me more money than I could ever hope to make on my own, even if I was stripping. He went from being my husband, to being my job, and I resent the hell out of him for it.

  The worst of it all is that I still love him. My husband still turns me on, and really deep down, buried under all the deception and lies, I still feel like things could be different if I could just teach him how to love me back. Some days, when he calls me to his office and makes love to me tenderly in the sunshine that falls across his desk, I think that I've succeeded--that there is still hope for us to be what we once were.

  I know. I can't help it.

  I'm a head case.

  The shame I feel every time I leave Claudia's estate with her husband's smell rubbed all over me, doesn't matter in this moment and he knows it. He's got me. Again.

  He repeats in a soft plead, "You need me, don't you, Lyddle?"

  I take a deep breath.

  "I'm still your husband," he says.

  "You should tell her that. And you should sign the divorce papers." My voice is pitiful, a whine at best. I'm drowning in him again. I've lost every friend I've had because they see me go through this rotating door with Des, thinking only that he's a married man and I'm his mistress, and over time, they get tired of my complaining. They grow disgusted when I won't end my misery and I can't say that I blame them.

  But standing here with him, I can only think of my husband and how I want him to be what he promised he would on the day we were married. I try to swallow, but his scent and his fingers, pressing against my waist, shut down my most important sense--my common sense. It's just me and Des again, standing on the rolling grounds of this palatial estate. And all I can think of is having my husband, this horrible addiction of a man, moving between my legs, loving me instead of his other wife.

  "You know I'll tell Claudia the second that the time is right," he says. It breaks my heart to hear him lie. The right time hasn't happened in the last two years.

  "If you give me a divorce, you'll never have to tell her anything," I say. He steps away. I sway toward him and have to catch myself.

  "And how would you live, then, Lyddle? You think I'd let you go homeless? Become a whore?"

  "I'm a whore already."

  Des's eyes go to granite and then, he takes the crook of my elbow in his steely grip. He turns me toward the front of the house and raises a finger, drawing a sharp slash across the roof line, as if he's explaining something to me.

  He's going to fuck me and this is part of the game. It's how he'll lead me upstairs to his home office to finalize details. We'll make a big show and he'll have shutters or gutters or shingles installed by some side contractors next week to make this 'meeting' legit, in case the help really is watching. It's been years and no one's ever spilled the beans yet, but even if the employees see us so close to one another, I doubt they would tell Claudia and if they did, I doubt that she'd believe them.

  She believes I'm their talented designer. That's how I got tangled up in this mess in the beginning and how I'm entrenched now. Claudia loves what I don't really do with the place, because Des says he loves it. She's at ease with me because I ignore Des when she's around, and I've really sold her on how faithful I am to my own husband and our marriage. She just hasn't figured out that we're married to the same skunk.

  Des's finger stops at the corner window of the roof. He turns back to me, his gaze so intense that the burn races through me like a forest fire.

  "Let's go to my office," he says with a disapproving frown. He leans in close, his lips near my ear and his warm breath tingling against my skin. "I'm going to spank you for what you said to me and then I'm going to tie you to the feet of my desk and my couch in that room today, Lyddle. I'm going to stretch you wide open on the floor. And then, I'm going to screw you so hard, you're going to remember that you don't speak to me like that ever again. I'm not signing any fucking papers. You will never sell your body to any man. You're damn right that I'm your husband and you better get it straight that you will always belong to me. And if I hear one peep out of you, during anything I do to you today, I'll send you home so red, you won't be able to sit your ass down in the cab. Do you understand me?"

  His eyes flash as he moves away from me. He's getting off on it even more than I am. Our sick little game Tasers the hot, aching button between my legs. Des moves his face back an inch, so his eyes are riveted on mine and it steals any sarcastic response I could give him. All I want is my husband, the disease of him, thrust into my body. His arms around me as he fills me up and makes me feel whole again. I want him more than I want my pride.

  "Follow me," he growls. He turns away sharply and walks up the steps to the ornate front doors of the house.

  I follow the spider, right to the center of his web.

  <<<<>>>>

  The cab ride home is the same as always. The scraps of my panties are at the bottom of my portfolio case. My make-up has been carefully re-applied, although there is a layer of sweat and bruising just beneath it, and there is a nice roll of cash stashed in my empty travel mug.


  I try to fill myself back up again, staring out the window while I tell myself that, I can make this mug-money stretch until I find a job somewhere. I can file the papers myself. I don't ever have to go see Des again. But I already know it's a lie, because I want it to be one.

  I have fantasies of never going back, of never feeling like this again, but then he calls. Sometimes I go because I could use the money. Sometimes it's because I remember who we were and what we had. Sometimes, like today, I really think I'm going to go and finish it for good. But every single time, the outcome is just an echo of all the times before it. I cave. And just like every other cab ride home, I swear I won't do it again.

  I pay the cabbie before sliding on my sunglasses and stiffly exiting the cab. My rear is on fire as I drag my portfolio from the back seat. I doubt it would be any easier to walk in ballet flats, but walking in stilettos is absolute hell.

  When I step through the front doors of the lobby, I stifle a groan. Less from my sore rear end and more because Aidan is standing only feet away, with his back to me, checking his mailbox. I am not prepared for a conversation right now. I need to get a few drinks in me first.

  I have to slide by him without being noticed, which is impossible. He's between me and the elevator. He turns as the outside door wafts shut behind me.

  "Hi," he says over one shoulder with a smile. He slips the key from his mailbox lock.

  "Hi," I say. I try to glide as smoothly as I can to the elevator doors, but I feel his eyes following me, assessing my movement. Dignity and grace are nearly impossible to accomplish with an aching ass.

  "Can I help you carry up your case?" he asks, and before I can pass on his offer, his warm hand encases mine. He takes the portfolio from me. I only hope to God it doesn't drop open and spill my ravaged panties. I force my gaze off of the guilty portfolio and focus instead on the doors sliding open and stepping inside. I try not to wince as Aidan presses the button for our floor. The lift jerks upward and I try to hide my wince. Aidan takes it all in. I can almost see him debating whether or not to ask what's going on with me. I keep my eyes averted, so as to discourage any questioning, and we ride up in silence.

  When the doors open, I pause, hoping Aidan will step out first, but he picks a lousy day to be a gentleman. He extends an arm for me to go first and I focus on keeping my stride steady. This is the way it is sometimes, but usually it's no big deal because no one is around to notice.

  We make it all the way to my door, before he asks, "Are you alright, Lydia?"

  I flash him a smile. I don't wait for a response as I fish my keys out of my bag and open my apartment door.

  "Perfect." I say, taking the portfolio from him. I am careful not to touch his skin. "Thanks for the help."

  "No problem. I'll bring your wrench back later, if that's okay?"

  "Sure," I flash him another smile, probably too stiff this time, because I can't go beating the drums right now. Not the way my body is aching.

  Aidan cocks his head and returns a questioning smile as I close the door on him. I don't want to be rude, but I need a very hot bath and a very tall drink, to soothe my pride.

  <<<<>>>>

  It's like there is a green light hanging over my apartment door, because the moment I'm out of the tub, still feeling tenderized but relaxed, Aidan is at my door again. I answer, wrapped in my robe and he holds up the wrench, his eyes sweeping over me.

  "Yours," he says, but I don't take it.

  "It's not mine, actually. Someone just left it here. You can keep it, if you like."

  "I've got one of my own, someplace. In one of my moving boxes." He holds out the wrench again, but it's greasy. I swing open the door instead.

  "If you can put it beneath the sink, then maybe I'll remember it's there the next time a neighbor asks for one."

  Aidan steps into the room. I feel his body, even though it doesn't touch mine, as he passes by me.

  "No problem," he says as he walks into the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he asks, "So, does it happen often?"

  His tone is curious, almost concerned, and it throws me off.

  "Does what happen?" I ask. Aidan slides the wrench into the cupboard. I notice him noticing the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter, and it's twin from this morning, in the trash. He turns back to me. Checking me out doesn't make me feel vulnerable, but knowing that he just eyed the evidence of my binge, does. He smirks.

  "Do neighbors often come looking for tools?" he says.

  "Not often. But Mrs. Lowt, from 2C across the hall? She comes looking for men, so you should know, you're not safe on this floor." I cross the room and, as nonchalantly as I can, put the whiskey bottle back up in the cupboard and smash the other down into the trash can so the lid will close on it.

  "Mrs. Lowt...you mean the lady across the hall, with the glasses," Aidan says. He watches me move. "I've met her. She's already acquainted herself with my left thigh." I feel his gaze, like static, prickling over my body. "Does your, uh...work...call you out a lot on the weekend?"

  "Sometimes."

  "I don't think you mentioned what it is you do?"

  "Design. Art and design," I say. "Home decor."

  "Hmm. Interior or exterior?"

  "Both." His eyebrows hike a little.

  "Both," he repeats, dipping his chin as he says it. Then, "Does it always make you move like that?"

  The first thing that flares up in my head is to tell him to mind his own business, but the softness of his tone--the concern is soothing and it makes putty out of my defenses.

  "Sometimes," I say. And then, to stop the interrogation, I add, "Only when I stop at the gym after."

  That does it. His brow is restored, and I'm pretty sure I'm off the hook, until he says, "You work out in a suit?"

  Caught. No gym bag.

  I smile and say, "I keep my things in a locker there."

  Aidan's smile flickers.

  "Well, I should get going," he says. I don't stop him as he walks to the door. The one solid pleasure of this afternoon is in taking in every step and every inch of him from behind. He's got an easy stride, so different from Desmond's swagger. Aidan's jeans are faded and soft-looking, just like his shirt. It was probably a bright, crimson color once. Now, it's faded to a soft red. While Aidan's clothing tells me that he's easy-going and hands-on, his rear end says that Mrs. Lowt is going to be after him more often than he thinks.

  He pauses near the door. Since my eyes aren't where they're supposed to be, I almost flatten my face against his chest. He smiles as I take a step back.

  "If you ever need anything, Lydia," he says, stepping into the hall, "I'm right next door. You're always welcome to come by."

  The tacky comebacks pop into my head. You're good with your hands...wanna check out my plumbing? I want to check out your tool belt. Maybe you could drill a hole for me. I have some holes that need filling...but I'm not that kind of a comeback girl. And besides, he's a neighbor. And my ass is still throbbing. If I caved, there would be no explaining the welts on my rear end.

  "Thanks," I say, leaning on the door. His eyes slip down the front of me, as Mrs. Lowt's door opens. She steps into the hall, glimpsing me before she refocuses on Aidan. She doesn't take her eyes off him as she says, "Lydia, your chest is showing."

  I reach down and sure enough, my robe is open, exposing half of my left breast. I pull my robe shut and wiggle a bad boy finger at Aidan. He grins, but tears his eyes away as Mrs. Lowt advances on him.

  "And how are you, Mr. Badeau?" she murmurs, with a sly grin. She pours herself into his personal space, her pink scalp glaring through the rows of her curlers. Paired with her magnifying-glass eyewear, she looks a little terrifying as she flutters her lashes and licks her lips. "It's always nice seeing my neighbors."

  I almost giggle as he squirms a step backward. It's either that, or she'll fall on him. "Thank you, Mrs. Lowt. And how are you today?"

  "Better, now," she purrs. She closes the gap again. Aidan leans back as she
leans in. I just stay rooted in my doorway, enjoying the show. I'm not going to save him from her today. He deserves it, since he got an eyeful of my chest without mentioning it.

  "I'm glad you're doing well," Aidan says, with another desperate glance in my direction. I smile at him. Mrs. Lowt leans closer.

  "I could be better," she reaches for his lower thigh.

  "Oh!" Aidan yelps as she pinches him. I hide my laugh behind my hand as Aidan scoots away. Mrs. Lowt turns her attention back to me.

  "You shouldn't run around half dressed, Lydia," she scolds. "Not with men like this--virile men, full of needs--running around our hallways..."

  I think Aidan's going to scream. Mrs. Lowt takes another step toward him and he trips backward, until he reaches his door.

  "Well, have a good day, Mrs. Lowt. And have fun, Aidan." He shoots me a horrified glance as I close my door on them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  FLINGS ARE GOOD FOR THE SKIN

  This one is wild and I name him George, even though his real name is Tony or something like that. He's a tattoo artist, and the first time he drove me home and came up for a drink, he pulled out his kit to prove it. I thought he meant it as foreplay when he said he'd like to tattoo me at the bar, but when I agreed, he popped out his gun--his actual tattoo gun.

  "What do you want?" he asked. He didn't bother putting on gloves.

  "How about coloring in the lotus on my arm? You do color?"

  "Yeah, but don't you want something original?"

  "That will make it original."

  I got us drinks, but even after I'd emptied my glass and started on his, George was still all business on my arm. I squinted down at his work. "Oh wait...you're making it pink?"

  "Yeah. You're a girl, I thought you'd like it, baby."

  "I am pink," I said with a smile around the glass I'd poured for him, "but I like red."

  George smirked, but didn't stop working away on my arm. "Did you know, pink is actually a much stronger color?"