Читать книгу: «My Innocent Indiscretion»
My Innocent Indiscretion
Eva Cassel
MILLS & BOON
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While vacationing in Europe, Morgan is taken aback by her sudden, intense attraction to a fellow traveler—a younger man who definitely isn’t her husband. Though Chad shares her interest, she can’t bring herself to cheat. Can they find another outlet for their forbidden passion in the uninhibited atmosphere of Amsterdam?
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I was sound asleep when he boarded the train (probably in Brussels) and sat down in the seat opposite me. Technically, I was in his seat; when I’d realized shortly after departing Paris that I was facing the back of the train I’d flung myself to the other side. But he never woke me to make me switch. No, he must have sat there for a good hour, watching me drool and fidget until my tunic dress was bunched around my waist. I finally snapped awake, as exhausted and confused as an alien abductee, when the train veered and my forehead bounced against the window frame.
Frantically adjusting my dress, my eyes burning from jet lag, I finally noticed him. He was reading a magazine, his sun-kissed wavy hair falling into his eyes, his leg extended arrogantly or absentmindedly over the invisible border into the space I had “rented” for four and a half hours.
I shifted in my seat and recrossed my legs to move further away from him, hoping he’d get the hint. He didn’t. In fact, the bastard even stretched out further without looking up, flipping a page of his magazine. After the ten-hour flight from Seattle to Paris, sandwiched between two pungent old men, and the standing-room-only bus ride from Charles DeGaulle airport to Gare de Lyon (during which I decided I’d been insane not just to pay the $300 and fly directly to Amsterdam), I’d had enough of other people’s bodies.
I got up, glaring at him, steadying myself against the window. Sitting down, you didn’t notice how rough the ride was; it was only when you stood and attempted to walk that you felt the four hundred kilometers per hour. It was especially freaky when we passed another train de très grande vitesse (literally translated as “of very great speed”), or when we went through a tunnel-in and out in all of two seconds.
Since he still hadn’t retracted his stretched leg, I had to step over him. I was about as steady as a newly born colt. The train jostled us about like a pair of dice. I screeched inelegantly as I hurtled into his lap. I tried to clutch the back of his seat with my right hand as my left hand landed splayed on his chest, but my hand slipped and his face met my cleavage. Trying to extricate myself without making awkward eye contact, I noticed that his massive paws were gripping my hips. I was mortified.
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” I said, raising my left knee up to step over him into the aisle.
“It’s fine, it was probably my fault,” he said in what sounded like a bastardized Australian accent, trying to move his leg out of the way, which only made it worse. And that’s when our eyes finally met. His were clear blue, his mouth broad, his jaw elegantly curved. With his sun-streaked blond hair and tanned skin he looked like a surfer. And a lot younger than I’d estimated. He was built like a tank, which was probably what had made him seem older when he was looking down at his magazine. He was at an age—around twenty-five I guessed—where he’d filled out to his full density but still had some of the markings of youth: a wrinkle-free brow, an open, frank gaze, and, dare I say it, rosy cheeks (although I thought I also detected a hint of jaded experience in the way his mouth naturally curved up at the corners). He looked healthy as a spinach salad, a kid on summer vacation, perpetually high on the certainty that the world would eventually be his oyster.
Desire shot through my pelvis like a resuscitating jolt to the chest—followed immediately by pounding waves of guilt. Which was ridiculous, I told myself, as I finally burst into the aisle and made my drunken-sailor way towards the washroom, because after seventeen years of marriage Jeff surely found himself attracted to other women too—perhaps even to the occasional student. I’ve caught him, in fact, checking out some nubile, bouncy, blond thing, his head jerked around as though by a marionette string. And he always had that funny look on his face: guilty as sin, but nonetheless defiant and defensive of his God-given right to try to catch a glimpse of G-string. And I rarely minded. It was only natural—as long as that’s where it stopped.
In the cramped train washroom I patted my face with a dampened paper towel, noting the puffy, dark circles around my brown eyes, now streaked with two-day-old mascara. Feeling the matted rat’s nest at the back of my head from lolling it back and forth in my sleep against the synthetic cushion (some of it was sticking straight up from the static electricity), I ran my fingers through my light brown hair and twisted it into a chignon at the nape of my neck. Then I ran my hands over my wrinkled linen tunic dress, pausing as my hands slid over my breasts, seeing his searching blue eyes before me. It took all my self-control not to linger similarly over my clit as I wiped myself after peeing. Suddenly the washroom was a minefield. I exploded out of it as though fleeing my own shadow and headed for the refreshment compartment. Coffee. Surely coffee would make it better…or maybe something a little more stiff.
I ordered an Orangina and made my way back to my seat, my stomach aflutter with expectation. He was dozing, or meditating (he looked like the kind of guy that would have found Buddha by now, if for no other reason than to increase his social capital).
I sat down gingerly (his left leg had migrated under my seat again), and opened my Orangina, taking the opportunity to stare at him. I could tell he wasn’t actually sleeping by the still, controlled way his head rested against the back of his seat. He could open his eyes at any second and catch me raking him over. I took a sip of my drink and momentarily looked out the window. We were passing rolling countryside, the kind that could put you in a coma if you stared too long. I looked back at him, taking another deep, gluttonous swig of my drink. It was pure sugar. More sugar than I’d had in the whole past month, being on a low-glycemic, low-carbohydrate, ass-of-a-sixteen-year-old diet. It was either this, though, or a shot of adrenaline directly into my aorta to wake me up. And oh sweet Mary was it ever good! My first official day on vacation and I was already cheating.
I forced my eyes away from his crotch and busied myself reading his T-shirt instead. It was faded black, worn soft and thin by years of spin cycle, clinging to his defined pecs like a staticky polyester negligee to a pair of fake boobs. An Oxymoron a Day Keeps Reality Away it said just under the collar in white lettering, with a list of sample oxymorons taking up the majority of the T-shirt in small lettering underneath. I squinted, took another sip of my poison, and started reading him like a book: Jumbo Shrimp, Friendly Fire, Genuine Imitation, Freezer Burn, Industrial Park, baked Alaska, Original Copy… Halfway down his T-shirt I burst out laughing. When I looked up he was wide awake and watching me, smiling, which I must have sensed or seen in my peripheral vision.
“Which one made you laugh?” He asked in a familiar, flirtatious tone, as though we’d just met through friends of friends at a party and could skip the preliminaries. “Holy Shit,” I answered, still grinning, wishing I’d decided to wear my wedding ring after all. “That’s one of my favorites,” he said, extending his hand towards me. “Hi, I’m Chad.”
I gripped his hand. I was uncharacteristically shaky and tried to disguise it with a toss of my hair. “Morgan,” I said…
I’d realized I had overpacked when I had negotiated my cumbersome suitcase through the Paris Metro system, full of treacherous turnstiles and neverending staircases. I almost abandoned the fucking thing when the Metro doors closed on it.
When our train finally pulled into the Amsterdam station two hours later I was coveting Chad’s meager belongings, stuffed into a single, ratty backpack that looked light as a feather as he stood up and flung it over his shoulder.
“Do you need some help?” he asked, seeing me trying to pull my beast down from the overhead luggage compartment, where it had been forcibly stuffed by a muscular Good Samaritan. I was in danger of being pinned underneath it if it fell.
“No, no,” I started to say as he moved behind me and grabbed it anyway. We both tugged. The momentum propelled me back against him. I could feel his chest against my back. He felt hard as a brick wall. All I wanted to do was jut my ass out, like a small, furry mammal in heat, and wiggle it against his crotch. I refrained, of course, but just barely.
I knew it was my last chance, that he’d slip into the proverbial sunset in a matter of minutes and I’d never see him again. It was the opportune time to turn around, while caged by those powerful-looking arms, and do something stupid—like kiss him. Just once. Then I’d be an angel for the rest of my married life. But I’ve never been one to do that kind of thing, and people don’t change that suddenly. So I didn’t. As scrumptious as young Chad was, I knew I couldn’t handle the guilt (my mother had wielded guilt as mercilessly as she had the wooden spoon hanging decoratively, menacingly, on the kitchen wall, and I probably came to associate the two as a package deal).
The walk from the platform to the exterior was a blur. Chad insisted on helping me with my luggage. He knew exactly which way to go. I scrambled, completely disoriented, to keep up with him. He’d turn back every few steps with a patient, amused smile, waiting for me to catch up. Having him in front of me also let me feast my lecherous eyes for a few more minutes. His jeans were on the loose side but fitted his ass quite nicely. I instantly, effortlessly, pictured that ass naked: smooth glowing skin, tan lines, maybe two dimples where his lower back curved. Through his T-shirt I could also make out the muscles of his upper back: my favorite part on a man. I watched them ripple whenever he readjusted his backpack or changed which hand was dragging my suitcase filled with iron anvils.
“Are you taking a tram?” He asked as we emerged from the station.
I’d expected the postcard view of slouching, five-storey houses (leaning on one another like arthritic old friends, afraid of slipping into the canals), tulips everywhere, bicycles galore. Instead I was greeted by construction—everything ripped up, diverted by blue, pleated fences, plastered with ripped posters, stacks of bricks and cables, and general pandemonium.
“Uh, no,” I said distractedly, looking around for a taxi stand, “I’m going to take a cab. Do you need a ride?” I heard myself ask rather eagerly; it was the least I could do after he’d helped me with my luggage. Or so I reasoned.
“No, I’m going to walk, my hostel’s not far,” he said.
We stood and stared at one another. He seemed to be waiting for me to say or do something specific and I was probably doing the same. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his mouth, which was twitching in and out of a knowing smile. He knew I wanted him; everybody probably wanted him.
I sighed, longing, regrettably, to stroke his cheek and say something profound and wistful, worthy of my accumulated life experience: My dear boy, the passion we could have shared, but alas…
“Well, thank you,” I murmured awkwardly instead, clutching the handle of my suitcase with both hands.
His smile deepened. He nodded, more as confirmation that he understood that there would be nothing further between us.
As he turned and walked away, glancing back once with a gut-wrenchingly sexy wink, I imagined the adventures he would surely have in this decadent, permissive city. He’d meet some Spanish tourist at his hostel. She’d be dark-haired and olive-skinned and saucy. They’d meet in the ‘café’ downstairs, lounging on smoke-infused cushions as though all time everywhere had slowed to a crawl. She’d comment on his T-shirt. He’d introduce himself. They’d lie back, their heads touching, sharing barely coherent, fragmented stories from their lives. Later that night, after sloppily feeding each other gravy-soaked, hand-cut French fries and some brightly sprinkled stale donuts, they’d stumble up the stairs, tongues plunging hungrily into mouths, fingers undoing buttons, laces and zippers. She’d grab his ass aggressively and press him against her, snarling playfully against his open mouth. He’d smile drowsily, sliding his hands up under her shirt to cup and caress her creamy soft breasts. She’d liberate his cock. He’d flip up her miniskirt and yank down her panties. She’d grab him by the wrist and make him stroke her sopping wet pussy. He’d growl, grab her by the ass, and hoist her up against the wall, wrapping her legs around him, driving his cock inside her. She’d inhale sharply, closing her eyes, and—
“Do you need a cab?”
A car had pulled up in front of me; the driver was leaning over the passenger seat, waving at me through the open window.
“Yes,” I said, glancing at Chad’s retreating form one more time, and climbed into the car.
When I was booking the hotel everyone had told me to stay away from the main tourist drag. “Just trust me on this one,” my friend Rachel had said, circling and then vehemently crossing out a whole section of town. “You’re going in August,” she’d reasoned, “it’s going to be a circus full of drunken, high, frat boys and soccer hooligans.” And perhaps if Laura and I had done the trip when we were eighteen as we had planned then all that testosterone might have been right up our alley—but not at thirty-five years old. So I booked a hotel in the more residential De Pijp neighborhood, near the famous Albert Cuyp market.
On the website the hotel had looked clean and quietly, functionally elegant. Laura had clapped her hands excitedly like a small child when I showed it to her. I realized it had been cunningly misrepresented when I came upon a chicken-scratched piece of paper on the locked front door telling me to check in at a different hotel down the block. I dragged my suitcase down the cobbled sidewalk, dealt with a terse, indifferent teenager clearly running the family business on his school break, dragged my suitcase back to the hotel, hoisted it up two flights of the narrowest stairs I’d ever seen, and finally let myself into the room to discover that it was nothing like the picture on the website. It was cramped, neglected, mismatched and smelled of old, musty wood. Laura would be arriving the next day from London where she was visiting family; I just had to make other arrangements before then, or the trip would be ruined (we didn’t even have separate beds, the way I had ordered, just one double bed with half a foot on either side).
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