Misch glanced around, worried at her bottom lip. By the end of this little affair, she wouldn't have a lip left. She'd taken a seat on the closed toilet and she began to squirm. Rubbed her thighs together. Sought friction.
You first.
Please, I'm not a sucker.
She took a deep breath. She wasn't about to flash her vag, that just wasn't attractive, in any sort of lighting. But her breasts were a different story. She kinda liked her boobs, thought they were pretty okay. Tal spent a lot of time on her breasts, so he must have liked them, as well.
She ran her hand across her chest and dipped into her bra. Her nipples were still sensitive from his ridiculously attentive mouth, and when she touched the tip, she found it was already peaked. She pinched herself and hissed, relishing the feel.
Maybe this isn't such a bad idea.
While her breathing picked up, she worked the top half of her dress down. She cupped her right breast with left hand, trapping the nipple between two fingers, and then she took the picture. She didn't even look at it, didn't want to psych herself out, and just sent it to him.
It only took a minute for him to respond.
Fuck, you look good. Are you wet?
Yes.
Show me.
You owe me a picture.
A moment later, and she got one. It was of his crotch. He was still wearing his pants, but they were completely undone, and his hand was down the front, only visible from the wrist up. She panted as she stared at the picture, and then she noticed the caption - “I'll show you mine, if you show me yours.”
Mischa had never had phone sex. Had never sexted. Had never done anything like that – usually that kind of stuff made her uncomfortable. But with Tal, it didn't. It almost felt necessary. Something she had to do.
She stood up and faced the mirror. She worked the skirt of her dress up and held the material at her sides, pinning it with her elbows. Then she cupped her crotch, immediately sliding the tip of her middle finger inside her opening. Even she had to admit, it was a pretty sexy picture. Erotic – she was clearly touching herself. Not crude – nothing naughty was actually visible. She took a picture of her reflection and sent it to him.
Goddamn you're amazing.
Then she got a picture in return. Tal wasn't as shy as she was; it was a full on shot of his erect penis. But there was something different, and it took her a second to figure out what was going on.
He's got my panties wrapped around the base of his cock.
It wasn't easy to keep quiet, and texting dirty words and dirtier pictures with one hand proved difficult, but she managed to come in minutes. She whispered his name to the walls, wanted the foundation to feel what he did to her, even when he wasn't in the room.
That was amazing.
You're amazing.
You make me this way.
Don't go to Positano.
Misch was actually washing her hands when the last text rolled in, and she stared at her phone like it was some sort of poisonous insect.
What do you mean?
Don't go. Stay here. Stay with me.
I can't.
Why?
Because. My job.
Fuck your job. Stay with me.
I can't.
Why!?
I'm married.
Stay with me.
Why was he doing this to her!? And of all the ways to say that kind of shit, he chose to do it via texting!?
She didn't answer. She went back out, finished having lunch with everyone. Then she threw herself into work, didn't even look at her phone. It was six o'clock before she knew it, and she was the last one left in the office. She locked up and walked back to her hotel, dragging her feet.
Tal was waiting in her room.
“I was beginning to wonder if you'd avoid me all night,” he said as soon as she walked in the door. She glanced at him, then took in the rest of the room. He'd had dinner ordered up for her – gnocchi in a garlic herb sauce, and a small bottle of pinot grigio. Her favorites.
She felt like she was going to be sick.
“No, I came here as soon as I got done,” she assured him.
“Are you okay?”
“Sure.”
“Misch.”
“Tal.”
“Cut the shit.”
One of the things she loved about him, he always “cut the shit”. There was no beating around the bush with Tal, no avoiding the topic or dancing around it. If she was in a bad mood, he demanded to know why. If she was being a bitch, he told her to cut it the fuck out. And whatever she said back, even if it was “go fuck yourself”, he just rolled with it.
One of the things you love about him. One of the things he loves about you. How many “things” does it take before it becomes the whole thing?
“I have to go, Tal,” she said, toeing off her shoes before crawling onto the bed.
“Tell me why,” he demanded. She turned towards him, then laid down and curled into the fetal position.
“Because I have a job and I have to go where it tells me to. Because I'm married, whether we like it or not, and I owe it to that marriage, to that man, to tell him what's going on,” she answered.
“Fine, that's all fine. But then come back. Let's finish this,” he urged. She shook her head.
“I can't. We're going to Turkey after this, to open a new office, remember? I have to go.”
“Why? You don't even like your fucking job,” he reminded her.
“But I made a commitment, I -,”
“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up,” Tal suddenly snapped, and she was shocked.