The next morning, Tom awoke in Celia’s bed. He moved an arm around her waist, trying to pull her towards his chest, but her side was cold and empty. He sat upright, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light from the wide-open windows.
“Good morning,” he whispered when he saw her sitting at her dressing table. She said nothing.
“Come back to bed. What’s the rush?”
“I’ve got things to do.”
“Celia, it’s Saturday. Relax.”
“I would love to, but I’ve got things to do,” she repeated, her tone annoyed and her expression to match. “Can you get dressed and head out? My friend will be here soon.”
“Whatever you want, Gorgeous,” he said while lying back in bed.
“Seriously, Tom. I need you to go.”
He groaned into the pillow like a child being dragged to school. “What’s with the hostility?”
“I just need you to leave because I have things to do, as I said.”
“Come on, Celia, just admit you want me here as much as I want to stay.” His words were harsh rather than passionate, as if they were an accusation. “You don’t need to be worried about your friend seeing me. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
“I just don’t, Tom. Now get dressed.”
“Celia, this is not a joke anymore. You can be honest.”
“I am being honest,” she sighed with frustration. “I don’t love you or want you here any longer than needed.”
“So you admit you need me.” He grinned smugly.
Celia watched him in the mirror as he got up to pour himself a drink, tapping his fingertips rhythmically on the mahogany table before announcing, “I know you. Better than anyone. Better than you. And I love you.”
A pause came as he replied to himself in his head, “Yes, Celia. I love you. No matter what you think, I do. All I’m asking is for you to think this through. Think about what you feel in my arms, what you catch yourself unable to hide from me, what you feel in that bed.”
His voice softened as he knelt down beside her, pressing his lips to her thigh as his fingers stroked her ankle. “And then tell me you do not love me.”
Celia placed her finger beneath his chin and lifted his face to look up at her, her expression cold now. “I do not,” she whispered before getting up and walking out of the room, leaving Tom there, knelt on the floor.
He watched her leave without looking back at him as he pressed his ear to his shoulder in torment and let his forehead fall onto the now-empty seat in front of him. His hands groped around the floor for his glass, but it took a few tries before he managed to graze it. The glass spun in place for a fraction of a second before knocking against the dark oak floorboards, spilling a drop of liquor over the rim. Tom watched patiently as it slid down towards the floor, but it stopped halfway, caught in the detailing of the glass. He let out a disheartened sigh, slumping back against the stool leg with his chin digging firmly into his chest.
“You know, Tom, your ego really is something.” Celia’s voice came back before she even walked around the corner and through the door. She was wearing a black lace robe that trailed behind her on the floor.
“How can you tell me that I love you?”
“Because you do.”
“But I don’t,” she frowned, sitting at the end of their bed with one leg resting upon the other.
“But you do.” Tom shrugged.
The way she carried herself. Her aura. It was, at first glance, purely seductive but in Tom’s eyes, it was beauty, confidence, and delicacy.
“Celia, just answer these three questions for me.” She didn’t say anything, but her head nodded ever so slightly.
“Can you think of any thoughts you wouldn’t say aloud to me?”
“No.”
“And do you like it when I touch you?” His breath was warm against her neck as he pressed his lips to her. “Like this?”
“Yes.”
Celia could feel the grin spread across his lips while he kissed her collarbone. “And can you seriously imagine a happy life for yourself without me in it?”
She said nothing, but her eyes spoke more words than she could provide.
“But you still don’t think you’re in love with me?” His eyes met hers, waiting patiently for an answer.
“That’s one too many questions, Tom,” she whispered, moving her thigh up the inside of his leg. “And anyway, that proves nothing. That’s not at all what love is.”
“Tell me, then, what is it?” Tom’s hands rested under his head as he lay back.
“I have no idea, Tom. I’ve yet to feel it,” her voice laced with cruel intent, whether she meant it to or not.
“Don’t be vicious, Celia.”
“If you don’t like it anymore, Tom, go back to your wife.”