Page 73 of Honey Cut
“I thought you were inside,” Isolde says. “Where are you?”
“Currently? Stockholm. Soon, Malmö.”
“Why?”
A shrug. It looks cold and dangerous on him despite the ejaculate drying on his shoulder. “Why else? Lyonesse business. A club member wanted me to come collect her membership dues in person, and while I’m in Sweden, I thought I’d drop in on an old friend from my operator days.”
“Ah,” Isolde says.
“Maybe I’ll make it down to Belgrade before you’re finished with this bowl of yours.”
“I’d like that. Sir.”
Pleasure moves across his face. “Until tomorrow night then, my wife.” And the call ends.
That night, I hear her nightmares from my room. But I don’t trust myself to go help.
twenty-seven
TRISTAN
The next day,Isolde returns to the museum. I’m not allowed in the archival room, and so I spend four or five hours in the hallway outside, my mind replaying every instant of last night. The crude movements of Mark’s arm, the shine of Isolde’s nipples after she touched them. It’s a good thing I have a long hallway to pace because I’m trying to walk off the world’s most insistent hard-on the entire day.
By the time night comes and we say good night, I’ve already resigned myself to what I’m going to do. After I’ve given her enough time to get upstairs and get on the phone, I creep up to the terrace and find the spot behind the boxwoods again. She’s wearing a long-sleeve top with shorts this time, but Mark has her pull up the top to expose her tits and then pull down her shorts so he can see her pussy while he strokes himself.
I leave another spray of seed on the terrace.
On the third night, Isolde brings a rolled-up towel with her and straddles it on the sofa. Mark croons soft, evil words to her as she fucks it, telling her what a beautiful slut she is, what a perfect whore. She lifts her hand toward the phone as she comes, as if she’s trying to touch him.
I might set the record for the most depressed orgasm ever just then.
I finish coming as she says goodbye to Mark, and then after she hangs up, she adds, “Tristan, I know you’re there.”
I go still. A cowardly part of me wants to hide or even attempt to skulk off the terrace altogether and then deny ever having been there, but despite all the imperfect things that I am, I try not to be a coward. I step out from behind the boxwood.
She’s in the silk robe again tonight, tying it as I reveal myself. It’s the first time while spying on her that I’ve seen more of her face than just the flushed apple of a cheek or the pert tip of her nose. Her eyes are pupil-dark and her lips are pink and her lashes are still caught with glittering tears after Mark made her pinch his initials onto her breasts.
“I know I shouldn’t have watched,” I say. “I’m so sorry, Isolde.”
“Don’t be,” she says quickly. “I liked it. I knew you were there last night too and the night before. But I didn’t want to scare you away.”
She didn’t want to scaremeaway? I’ll never understand her.
“Still, though, it was wrong, and I?—”
“Did you come?” she asks, stepping forward. “When you watched?”
“All three times,” I admit.
We stare at each other, too far apart to touch. The wind has a nip to it.
“You’re shivering,” I tell her. “We should get inside.”
I reach for her elbow, like we’re doing something utterly mundane. Like we’re walking through an airport and not stepping over the wet evidence of orgasm I left on the terrace.
“I really am sorry,” I try again as we go downstairs. “I know—I know you and Mark have rules.”
She bites her lip. “We didn’t break any rules,” she says after a while. “You just watched. That’s not—no one would consider that cheating.”
