Stumbling onto the Right Path

Author's Note:

Hello again Romance readers! It's been a minute.

This one might not be for you if you are offended by adultery and/or openly bisexual men. All of the erotic contact is heterosexual, however. Abuse is an undercurrent through this whole tale, and I feel something of an obligation to be up front about that.

I'd like to think I'm developing a reputation for having a soft hand with dark themes, and this story is no different. As always, the core of my story is love, understanding, and acceptance. It's just, the path is dark and full of terrors, sometimes.

Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

--

Thatcher emerged through the haze of the town's most inglorious bar, confident and emotionally distant like a leather-clad train clacking toward an inevitable end.

He knew what he wanted. It wasn't noble. It wasn't admirable. But he didn't bullshit anyone about it. He was determined to be exactly as shallow and hedonistic as he appeared, but he was not playing the same game as the smattering of small-time pickup artists scattered around the establishment.

His general affect was world-weary, which bled into the neighborhood of haunted when he was a few drinks deep. He wasn't confident, exactly. More that he knew what he wanted and wasn't ashamed of it. It didn't hurt that he had a sharp jaw, soulful eyes, and an effortlessly muscular upper body that he often flaunted with tank tops or tight polos. He had an unpretentious and unflappable air of humor about him that was immediately endearing.

He strolled up to the bar and the surly bartender greeted him with the closest thing he seemed to have to a smile.

"What'll it be, Thatch?" the bartender asked.

"Rye whiskey, rocks," he answered, nodding at the older man.

The bartender nodded in acknowledgment and set to work pouring the drink.

Thatcher had noticed the brunette in the black dress on the far side of the bar before he even ordered, but he made an effort to avoid looking at her once he was in her eyeline, more out of an effort to avoid getting his hopes up so early than anything else. At first glance, she was exactly what he was searching for. Before he laid eyes on her, he really wasn't feeling a strong preference for the gender of the person that would end up warming his bed that night, but seeing her had awakened in him a distinct craving for the feminine.

He felt her eyes on him before he chanced a glance in her direction. He only intended a casual scan of the bar as his drink was being prepared, but when his eyes met hers, they stuck there, transfixed.

Her eyes were blue. Deep blue like a spring in the desert. Her face was not just pretty but striking. He quickly found his initial assessment of her from behind to be an underestimation. Moreover, she did not shy away from his gaze. She was gazing at him intently, taking her own measure of him. He recognized a kindred spirit in those eyes, her gaze both penetrating and unapologetic about their desire. And her desire was evident, somewhere between that dress, her makeup, and the way she was gazing at him.

The bartender set the drink down in front of him a little too hard, drawing Thatcher's attention away from the woman for a moment. The old man shook his head knowingly at him, chucking to himself as he turned away to make the rounds with the half dozen patrons to Thatcher's left.

When he looked back, the woman seemed to have thought better of staring, and had turned to face the bar, nursing a martini. She was sliding the pad of her middle finger slowly around the brim of the glass, her long nails shining some shade of red in the dim, neon-tinged light.

He scooped his whiskey off the bar and walked over to her. She pretended not to notice, and he took his time closing the distance, taking a full measure of her. She couldn't have been more than 5' 2", and if she weighed more than 100 pounds, he would have been shocked. Her long copper hair had hazelnut accents streaking through it, cascading down her shoulders and ending under her shoulder blades.

He sat down next to her as if it were the only spot left in the place, set his drink on the bar, and removed his leather hat with a heavy sigh, tossing it down. He glanced at her without turning his head and followed her eyeline to a rather gauche Dos Equis neon sign that hung to her left.

"Big fan of mediocre Mexican beer?" he asked casually, as if they were old friends, aping her feigned interest in the sign.

She looked at him, seemingly bewildered by the question. He kept his eyes on the sign but cracked half a smile. When she remained silent for several beats, he turned toward her, gave her a roguish smile, and offered his hand to her.

"I'm Thatcher, but most people call me Thatch."

She let him hang for a couple of seconds before shaking his hand and nodding, "Marie."

She had the air of a woman with something to say, but somewhere between ordering his drink and sitting down next to her, anxiety seemed to have bloomed in her features.

"Forgive me for saying so, Marie, but you strike me as a sort of woman who doesn't do this very often," he peeled his eyes off of her and began to sip on his drink with some intensity.

With this she finally cracked a smile. "Yeah? What gave me away?" She asked.

"The incongruence between your choice of attire and your general air of anxiety," he observed, taking another sip of his drink.

"Ah, well, Thatch..." she turned her body toward him several degrees. He set his drink down and faced her in turn, "you strike me as the kind of man who does this a little too much."

He chuckled warmly. "Guilty as charged."

Her eyes drifted over him again, and as they did, she went from jovial to anxious.

"I... don't know if I can do this," she sighed, seemingly to herself. Her eyes dropped to the mostly-untouched martini in front of her and her finger returned to tracing circles around the brim.

"Alright. I'm not here to talk you into anything, Marie." His tone was gentle, like coaxing a skittish cat out of its hiding place, "Look me in the eyes and answer me two questions. After that, I'll leave you to your martini."

He paused, and when she didn't immediately respond, he added, "unless you ask me to stay."

She looked into his eyes, a battle apparent within her. She nodded.

"When you look at me, what do you see?"

She blinked a couple of times, appearing to consider how honest she should be. His unpretentious aura inspired an unfiltered answer.

"An admittedly pretty hot man trying to pick me up."

He nodded, "And why did you come to a shitty bar tonight dressed like that, a full face of makeup, your hair done, and wearing a very enticing perfume?"

For a moment she had the air of a teenager that had been discovered by her parents in a moment she thought she had been very clever. It passed very quickly, and she seemed to settle into herself in a way he had not yet seen.

"To get picked up by a hot guy."

He shot her a blithe smile. "I like you, Marie. I admire your honesty," he finished the last of his drink and set the glass on the bar with finality, "Alright, as promised, I will leave you alone. A couple things you should be aware of before making your decision to ask me to stay or not."

He winked at her, "My bonifies, so to speak, when it comes to being a hot guy picking you up. I'm very attracted to you, for the record. I'm a much more generous lover than most of the other lunks in here, and as far as hookups go, I'm as no strings attached as it gets."

She squinted at him, smiling but not sure whether to believe him, "How do you know that? About the other guys, I mean?"

"Because I've picked most of them up at some point," he sighed, trying to cover his apprehension at so casually revealing himself. "The bi ones anyway. And I'm sure I don't have to explain to you how hopeless straight guys are, lover-wise," he shot her a conspiratorial smile.

"Oh... you're... bi?" she stammered. She seemed more surprised than anything else, but still he drew in a deep breath and tried to let it out without audibly sighing.

"I'm bi." He confirmed, half prepared to walk away.

Silence hung pregnant between them for long enough that Thatcher was steeling himself to walk away from the silent rejection. He felt her hand on his upper arm, and he turned to face her.

"Sorry. I suck at this and I'm really nervous." She was blushing hard, but her eyes had a resolve they hadn't before. "I want you to stay. I want..." she huffed out a nervous sigh, "... you."

He took her left hand in his and squeezed it gently to reassure her. Then he slowly turned her hand up to face him and looked down at her wedding ring.

He lifted his gaze to her eyes, his face serious. "Listen, you're a grown up and I'm a himbo, I don't judge some casual infidelity, but I've had a couple too many run-ins with violently jealous husbands to take you to bed no questions asked. However much you want to talk about it or not is up to you, but I need you to tell me, and I need you to be honest with me, is this a 'fuck a stranger to make my husband jealous'-type situation?"

He knew it ran the risk of being too harsh and direct, but he wasn't lying about the violently jealous husbands. As hot as Marie was, she wasn't worth his life. And being a little shocking was the best way to provoke an honest answer to such a sensitive question.

As he expected, the first few seconds of her reaction were indignation at the suggestion. He half-expected her to yank her hand free and slap him across the face.

The storm passed quickly, and her anger melted into a much deeper sadness than he expected. She was lonely. Desperately lonely. He saw some of his own demons in her eyes in the seconds before she responded and he knew before she even spoke that this was something she wanted for her, not as a means to an end.

"No, it's not like that," she started, genuine pain in her voice, "my husband... we haven't had sex in over a year, and we've grown so distant. It's a hard enough situation without my libido driving me crazy besides. I just can't deal with feeling so lonely and... unfulfilled."

He squeezed her hand again and turned her ring away from view.

"I appreciate your honesty, Marie. Like I said, how much you want to talk about your situation is up to you--I'm not going to pry. And I'm sorry for being so direct, it's just, I wasn't kidding about the jealous husband thing." He gave her a conciliatory smile.

"Well," she started, the anxiety gone from her features and a playful smile taking up residence on her lips, "you coaxed a moment of vulnerability out of me, and I think it's only fair you make it even. You know why I'm here, talking to you. So tell me, Thatch, why are you here, trying to pick me up?"

He did sigh this time, and squinted at her for a moment while he weighed the risk of reciprocating her vulnerability. He generally avoided this sort of thing in favor of more playful or teasing banter, but the conversation with Marie had already taken several turns that were outside his normal, and he found that he was enjoying the novelty, even if it was emotionally risky.

"My uhm," he started, turning his gaze to the dregs of his whiskey, "my life kinda fell apart a year or so ago, and I'm not sure it can be put back together. So I cope with it by hiding inside the oblivion of casual, indulgent sex with beautiful people."

When he lifted his eyes to hers, he found her own loneliness had resurged at the admission of his. She seemed mildly stunned that he had actually told her the truth.

When she remained silent a few beats too long, he cleared his throat, took the slack out of his hunching back and took a deep breath.

"Perhaps it's best we agree that we are both weary travelers, lost on our paths through the woods of life, seeking comfort in each other and in humanity's oldest pastime."

"I'll drink to that," she gave him a distant smile and picked up her martini. He picked up his glass and raised it to her. He sipped on the dregs of his liquor, but she took a deep and long draft from her mostly untouched cocktail.

When she had downed most of the drink in one go, she set the glass down harshly and scrunched her face up with immediate regret.

He laughed quietly at her as she recovered from the overly ambitious toast. When she had mostly recovered, she laughed at herself along with him.

He waited a beat after they had both stopped laughing and asked, "So are you ready to go to my place, or would you prefer to continue to chew the scenery for a while in this lovely establishment?"

She returned her attention to the martini, downed the dregs of the drink, picked up the olive, popped it into her mouth, and began to slide off the barstool, motioning toward the door with her chin.

He chuckled to himself, picked up his hat, stood up, and took several long strides toward the door to catch up to her.

"So do you want to follow me, or...?" he began as she opened the door and strode out into the cool midnight air. Then he remembered how quickly she just drank that martini, how small she was, and how light of a drinker she seemed to be. He observed her gait as she walked into the parking lot and found that she was swaying a little too much to be able to pass herself off as sober.

"Actually, Marie, why don't you ride with me?" he suggested casually, hoping she wouldn't make a thing of it.

"Why?" she asked, confusion in her voice. She turned around a little too quickly and almost lost her balance. He stepped into her and placed both his hands on her shoulders to steady her.

"Because you don't look like you're used to shotgunning martinis." He smiled at her, removing his hands.

She looked up at him as if the act of removing his hands was offensive. He replaced his hands, around her waist this time, lacing his fingers together in the small of her back. She leaned into him, the warmth of her body and the smell of her perfume acting on him instantly, quickening his breath and sending his mind racing with everything he wanted to do with her.

Both of their attention was diverted to the sound of a car door slamming close by and far too loud to be anything but an implicit threat. It took a moment for Thatch to place where it came from, and by the time he spotted the man approaching them, he was only 20 yards from them.

He felt Marie recognize the man. She went from relaxed and content to absolutely terrified in the space of a heartbeat. She stood up rod straight and backed away from the man, trying to place Thatcher between her and the man without appearing to do so. He instinctively reacted to her body language and stepped between her and the approaching man, making an effort to keep his hands at his sides. He could now see the other man's face in the dim light of the parking lot, twisted with rage and ready to inflict violence.

"Frank, what are you doing here?" Marie asked from behind him, her voice shaking in terror.

The other man, Frank apparently, stopped a couple of paces from Thatcher. Frank's head was shaved neatly and he had the air of ex-military. Thatcher probably had 6 inches on Frank, but he had the build of a boxer--thick neck, crooked nose, and arms and legs that rippled with taut muscle under his dirty tank top and gym shorts.

"I'm looking to see what my fucking whore of a wife is up to at midnight on a Thursday, Marie," Frank spat. The stockier man had not yet made eye contact with Thatcher. He seemed to be trying to burn holes in Thatch's torso with a baleful glare in the direction of Marie.

Of his wife.

What had he been saying about violently jealous husbands? Still, the way Marie reacted to him; it wasn't just a fear of being caught. He'd seen that before, and her reaction was far more visceral. It was the reaction of someone well-accustomed to violence being done to them.

Thatcher had a pretty good idea how this was going to play out. He wished they were closer to the door so they could make a break for the inside of the bar where an increased measure of safety could be found in the bouncer and the more public setting. But it was out of the question to turn his back to Frank at this point, and he had the sense that beginning to back up would snap the already tenuous calm.

No, he was going to have to take a couple of shots from Frank. He just hoped he could get away without having to visit the hospital tonight.

"Listen, Frank, is it?" Thatcher said, finally drawing Franks eyes up to his.

Frank sneered at Thatcher and spat, "Shut the fuck up, asshole, I will deal with you in a minute. I'm talking to my wife right now. Get out of my fucking way!"

Thatcher squared his feet, widening his stance a bit, but very consciously held his hands at his sides. His message was clear, and he could see Frank's rage bloom into something even uglier when he realized Thatcher wasn't going to be bullied.

"Right, Frank. Listen, you aren't talking to your wife, you're yelling at her and demeaning her, and judging by your body language, you're looking for a fight. If you want to hit someone right now, it's going to be me, not her. But it would be better for all of us if we could take this down around ten notches and resolve our conflict here with words and not hands."

"Who the fuck do you think you are, talking to me like that?!" Frank shouted.

"Thatch, please..." Marie almost whimpered behind him.

Thatcher saw in Franks eyes the moment he lost control of his rage, and Thatcher was ready for it.

Frank threw a wild haymaker toward Thatch's jaw. Thatch brought his arm up to deflect the blow and dodged out of the path of the swing. It still caught him hard in the shoulder, sending his hat flying off to the ground. Thatcher had already balled up his other hand and loosed a massive blow directly into Frank's sternum.

It was a hit designed to knock the wind out of his opponent, and it did exactly that, sending Frank stumbling backward in shock when he found no air in his lungs and his ability to breathe frustrated.

Thatcher paced urgently backward from Frank, keeping his eyes fixed on the stocky ball of rage.

"Marie, run back into the bar," he said, his voice controlled. When he didn't hear her footfalls after a couple of seconds he shouted, "Now!"

He heard her take off running behind him as Frank stood up to his full height, his breath sucking in hard and fast. Thatcher saw the blind rage in Frank's eyes and knew this was not over. He backed up toward the door, slow methodical steps like a gazelle caught in the glare of a lion.

Frank charged at Thatcher, releasing his rage into an inhuman sound that was painful even to hear.

Thatcher heard the door slam amidst the haphazard footfalls of Frank charging toward him. He waited until Frank was only two paces away before he made his move. He spun around with the grace of a running back, sidestepping most of Frank's momentum as he sailed past, and as the smaller man tried to halt and turn around, Thatcher brought a devastating blow down on Frank's lower back.

Frank screamed in rage and pain as he collapsed onto the ground, clutching the spot where Thatcher struck his back even as he scrambled to get up to his feet.

Thatcher took off in a dead run to the door, fully committing to the action without checking over his shoulder. If Frank was quicker than he seemed, it wouldn't have done him much good to slam into the door, and the damage was already done.

Thankfully, Thatcher made it to the door, ripped it open, and ran inside.

It took him a few heartbeats to locate the bouncer, Don, who was already talking to Marie around 15 yards away, next to the bar. Marie was pointing toward him as he heard the door tear open behind him. Thatcher had hoped to make it deeper into the bar before Frank caught up to him, but the sound told him that hope was in vain.

Don would bounce Frank, the worst was over, but he was about to take the couple of hits he had been counting on earlier.

Thatcher spun around but Frank was already on top of him. Frank sucker punched his ear as he turned and Thatcher barely caught himself from crumpling on the floor. His vision swam as if the bar were suddenly submerged.

'Fuck. Not good. Come on Don...' he thought to himself, trying to force his eyes to focus on the stocky ball of rage in front of him.

Thatcher registered Frank's fist sailing toward his jaw, but not in time to do anything about it. The blow connected, and the next thing he knew, he was on the floor, looking up at Frank throwing hands at Don. Don dropped Frank with a merciless blow to the sternum, grabbed Frank by his arms, and drug him through the door and outside like an irate sack of potatoes.

Marie was next to him. She was saying something, but his ears weren't quite working. Definitely a concussion. He moved his jaw around to see if it was broken, and didn't find anything but a growing soreness.

"Are you OK?" Marie almost screamed at him, her terror giving way to concern.

"Never better," Thatcher sat up and tried to get to his feet. His inner ear was not on board with this, and he tumbled over again with a grunt.

"Jesus, Thatch, stay down, please," she pleaded with him, placing one of her small hands on his chest and pushing against his attempts to get off the floor again.

He relaxed into her touch and looked up at her for a moment. She had been crying enough to have already streaked her makeup pretty badly. She still seemed afraid, but more afraid for his well-being than for her own safety. That felt like a victory.

When she was satisfied that he had given up on standing for the moment, she took her hand off his chest and brushed her hair out of her face. She let out an incredible sigh and gazed down at him, a haunted expression on her face.

"I'm so..." she sighed again, "... sorry."

The infinite well of shame that accompanied that last word moved something in him that the violence could not. He saw something in her that he would never wish on anyone, not even a piece of shit like Frank. Something that you can really only recognize if you've seen it in yourself first.

"What do you have to be sorry for?" he heard the words slur a little as they came out of his mouth. Maybe the concussion was worse than he thought.

She squinted at him as if the blow to his head had induced amnesia.

He sat up, this time content to sit on the floor, swaying slightly as his inner ear reeled from the assault. She braced his shoulders, hoping to dissuade him from standing, but he just looked up at her patiently.

"You alright, Thatch?"

He found Don standing over him, looking mildly concerned. The bouncer had Thatcher's hat clutched in one hand, and he tossed the well-worn leather onto Thatch's head.

"What's another head injury among friends, eh Don?" He tried to smile at the bouncer, but it turned into a grimace. He righted the hat, deepening the grimace as the band dug into what would soon be bruises above his left ear.

"Right," the man said, clearly unconvinced, "so what the fuck was that about?"

Thatch looked at Marie and found a horrified expression on her face.

"Domestic dispute," Thatcher told the bouncer.

"No shit," Don huffed an exhausted sigh, "Well, you want me to call an ambulance?"

"No."

"Yes."

Marie and Thatcher spoke over each other at exactly the same time. Marie shot Thatcher an incredulous expression. Don cast his gaze between each of them, but it came to rest on Thatch, waiting for confirmation.

"No." He repeated.

"Alright, well, we need to get you off the floor, Thatch. Let me help you into Ronaldo's office, he's got a couch in there you can use to get your shit together."

The huge man pulled Thatcher off the floor and Thatcher draped an arm around the bouncer's shoulder. He was glad for the support, because every step felt like a fall in progress, and his head was spinning like he just got off the tilt-a-whirl. They walked to the back of the bar and through the door to the manager's office. Don plopped Thatcher down on the worn green leather couch against the far wall.

"Ronaldo here tonight?" Thatch asked.

"Nah, don't worry about it. Take whatever time you need. And let me know if you want me to call a cab. Or you change your mind about the ambulance." He shot Marie a pointed look and then walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.

Thatch looked at her and offered a weak smile. She huffed out another huge sigh and fell down next to him on the couch.

"Thatcher, I really think you should go to the hospital and let them check you out," she said. "I've..." she shot him a furtive glance, "I'm worried about you. The way you're talking, how dizzy you are. You're not ok."

"You're right," he admitted, "alright, I'll make you a deal. Sit with me here for 15 minutes, see if I get better. If not, you can tell Don to call the ambulance."

She nodded, glancing at her phone to check the time. She did a double take at the screen, sneered at it, and jammed it into her purse.

They sat in silence for a few awkward moments. His mind wandered over how strange the night had gone. If the whole Frank episode hadn't happened, they'd probably be in his bed by now, probably with a lot fewer clothes on. A blissful smile crept onto his face at the thought.

"Thatcher, I... I don't know what to say. I'm sorry? Thank you? What the fuck is wrong with you?" Her voice was shaking, the tears on the verge of returning.

He placed a hand on her thigh and drew her eyes into his.

"We'd be here all night if I tried to answer the last one," he smiled.

She let out a pained laugh, despite herself.

"Let me ask you a question, about the whole 'I'm sorry' thing. Did my brains get scrambled there? Was it you that was hitting me? Because I seem to recall your husband doing that."

"No but I... It's... I'm..." she stammered, her eyes dropped to the floor. "It's my fault."

"No. It is not." He said each word carefully. Quietly. Powerfully. Her eyes lifted to meet his. She was confused. "You aren't responsible for his bullshit. Ever."

"Oh... kay..." she said slowly, clearly unsure how to square his words with her reality.

"As for the last thing: you're welcome," he closed his eyes and began to sway a little, following the invisible gyration of his inner ear, "It's nice to get the shit kicked out of me and not even deserve it for once."

"Nice?" Marie's voice quirked up toward incredulity.

"Well, don't get me wrong," he opened his eyes and realized he had been swaying. He took a moment to steady himself, inched his body a bit closer to hers and lowered his voice, "I would have preferred the version of tonight that had us naked in my bed by now."

She stared at him for a long time, conflicted and debating how to respond. Soon, her eyes gained the haunted look he recognized all too well.

After a moment of heavy silence, she sighed and began to speak, her eyes fixed in the middle distance, "I think maybe I lied to you earlier. About making my husband jealous. Maybe not lied exactly, but it wasn't the whole truth. I could give a shit about him being jealous. But I thought maybe, if I slept with someone else, maybe he would hate me enough to..."

Her voice broke, and a sheet of silent tears streamed down her face. Her body began to convulse in sobs, but she did not make a sound.

Thatcher slid his arm around her and very gently placed his hand between her shoulders. Her reaction was like a house of cards losing its last support. She collapsed into his chest and began to sob openly into his shirt.

He held her lightly as she cried, and as he did, he felt dangerous words welling up in him. He willed them down, alarmed that he was even tempted to speak them. He felt the threat of a panic attack nipping at the edges of his chest, and carefully controlled his breathing, hoping it did not turn into more than a threat.

Marie noticed the carefully controlled deep breaths and sat up to check on him. Her makeup was now thoroughly ruined, and he lost control of his deep breathing. He always did have a thing for pretty faces with ruined makeup.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He closed his eyes and searched for the words that would satisfy her curiosity but make it clear he couldn't talk about it right now. Maybe ever.

"I... think I understand what you're feeling. But I don't think a panic attack is going to help. So it's probably best we take this opportunity for a hard change of subject."

He opened his eyes to find her nodding in the affirmative with a lot more enthusiasm than he would have guessed.

"How are you feeling?" she asked. She leaned in closer and traced her fingers along his hairline in a gesture he could only interpret as affection. He felt familiar sparks of arousal taking root across his body.

"Keep touching me like that and I'll be all better soon," he closed his eyes and savored the electricity in her fingers.

"I'm serious..." she said, but her tone did not sound remotely serious. It sounded as if she was enjoying the effect her fingers were having on him as much as he was.

"Better..." he paused to groan softly as her fingernail grazed his good ear, "... the dizziness is gone."

His breathing was heavy now. He felt addicted to her touch. If she stopped, he would surely go into miserable withdrawal. He willed her to keep going, as if it were the only thing in the world that mattered.

He opened his eyes to find an sly grin on her face. He realized he had been unconsciously leaning into her touch, like a puppy nuzzling for attention. He found he was at peace with this indignity, especially with the way she was grinning at him. Like having him wrapped around her fingers was a drink of cool water to her soul.

She threaded her fingers through the hair behind his ear, and he tilted his head forward to give her better access. He could no longer see her lips, but he felt the grin widen as she spread her fingers across the back of his head, digging her nails gently into his skin.

"Enjoying the view?" She said, her tone playful.

A pleased groan was the only answer he could manage. His eyes were a few inches from her cleavage, and he simply could not distinguish whether the teasing head massage or the magnificent view was more distracting. Only that Marie had come to dominate every iota of his attention. Even her smell had colonized his mind, as close as he was to her. Her perfume was complex and vaguely floral, but a hint of the vodka she had imbibed clung to her, warring with the faint scent of her sweat to create her wholly unique odor.

He groaned loudly in disappointment when she withdrew her hand and rose to her feet. He glanced up to find her walking toward the door, and sighed in relief at being spared the indignity of her watching his puppy-like disappointment at the loss of her touch.

He heard the metallic click of the deadbolt sliding into place, and as if on cue, a song began to echo through the bones of the old bar, blaring on the jukebox just outside the door. It was a 12-bar blues number that was familiar to Thatcher, but he couldn't name it.

Marie didn't turn around but began to sway her hips in time with the bass drum, subtly at first, but after a few bars to warm up, her whole body was following her hips as she swayed back and forth with the music. She began to run her hands up her body, her fingers sliding her skirt up her thighs an inch at a time.

She bent over dramatically, still facing away from him, her hands nearly touching the floor, her skirt riding up enough to show him a hint of her white panties. Her hands slid up her thighs as she stood up, pulling her skirt up over her ass before twirling around to face him.

She did a runway strut toward him, twirling to face the door when she reached him. She slowly lowered her ass down into his lap.

His rough fingertips danced across the perfect skin of her cream-colored ass, prompting goosebumps to rise up to meet him. He groaned with need when her crotch made contact with the bulge in his pants and she began to grind herself against his erection.

His fingers found the zipper of her dress, seemingly of their own volition. After unzipping her, his hands traced her figure until they grasped her hips, deepening the teasing contact she was making with his raging hard-on.

She leaned into the guidance of his hands for a while, grinding on him until she simply could not stand the teasing pressure of his cock anymore. She stood up and turned to face him. She brushed the shoulders of her dress off, locking eyes with him as she slowly removed the garment. She watched him take her body in like she was his first meal following a week of fasting. Her lips pulled into a coy smile as she slowly pulled off his hat and tossed it carefully onto Ronaldo's desk.

She seemed to come alive under the weight of his desire. There was a light in her eyes that hadn't been there before. He had the sense that he was seeing the truest version of her for the first time. The least guarded, in any case.

He saw her knees begin to bend and found that his hands were already on her hips, holding her in place with his firm grip. Surprise flashed across her face for the first time, but it shifted quickly into a need so deep he could feel her trembling against his fingers. He shook his head slowly, a roguish grin extending deep into his eyes.

Her gaze was locked onto his eyes, transfixed as his fingers slid her panties down her thighs and onto the floor. Her breasts rose dramatically with her breath as his promising gaze filled her with anticipation that was nearly unbearable.

He didn't make her wait. He lifted her on top of him, guiding her legs astride his hips with a synchronized movement in his knees. He didn't even pause to leer at her sex, pressing his large head between her thighs and immediately lavishing attention onto her labia with his long, soft tongue.

She yelped in surprise and had to brace herself against the wall behind him to stop from collapsing into him. The surprise mutated quickly into undignified, animal need, the only outlet for which she could find was to grind her pelvis into his jaw with all her strength. He responded in kind, returning her pressure with his muscular neck. By the time he had latched onto her clit, she had lost the capacity to speak, and her mouth erupted with a long series of incoherent moans, mutters, and sub-lingual encouragements.

He released her hips, earning a disappointed grunt from the enraptured woman above him. He attempted to assuage her by increasing the suction on her clit as he hurriedly removed his pants and underwear with a series of decisive, urgent movements.

She realized what he was doing in the same moment he released her clit from his lips. Her debilitating lust galvanized into immediate action. She reached under her hips to grasp the shaft of his impossibly hard cock and brought her hips down onto him, empaling herself greedily.

They growled nearly in unison at the culmination of their union. There was no thought or intention that went into what unfolded--only the animal drive for intimacy and pleasure and release. Her forearms draped over his shoulders, pressing her breasts against his face. His iron grip augmented the strength of her core as they lifted her body in unison and slammed her down into him, filling the room with vulgar, wet slapping when the sound was not drowned out by their feral vocalizations. He growled into her cleavage and she muttered incoherently into the top of his head.

She came first, losing control of her body as she screamed into the wall without an ounce of self-consciousness. He pumped her hips into him even as she lost her strength, but quickly followed her off the cliff to release. When his orgasm began, he gave her a final, brutal thrust and held her hips against him like she was a part of his own body. His roar was just as loud but several octaves deeper and muffled by the soft flesh of her breasts.

They relaxed by degrees in the aftermath, panting against each other and still a long way off from words. After a moment, she lowered herself on his body, slumping into a ball on top of him, resting her head on his broad shoulder. His hands slid from her hips to her shoulders, changing the character of the position from carnal to affectionate.

After a long, silent stillness, Thatcher came to notice that the ear opposite Marie felt wet. When he raised his fingers to touch it, pain suddenly rushed in to meet him and he groaned.

Marie lifted her head and looked over at his hand.

"Oh, fuck..." tension shot through her and she sat up more fully, looking from his fingers to his ear with deep concern, "... did I do that?"

He chuckled at her, smirking at the blood on his fingers.

"I didn't even feel it until I moved my hand. I have no idea what happened, but I didn't feel it start to bleed," he gazed at the blood on his fingers, straining to remember.

"I don't think I was bleeding when we came in here, was I?" He looked at her, his memory hazy from the intensity of their interlude.

"No," she said, her face darkening with concern, "I definitely would have noticed blood coming out of your ear."

She looked into his eyes, horror beginning to edge out the concern.

"Hey," he reached up to cup her cheek with his clean hand, "I don't know what happened, but I didn't even feel it. That was probably the best sex I've ever had. Not even a tiny bit of regret. I'm sure my ear got more fucked up than we realized and it just got jostled loose in that carnal melee."

She laughed, the tension easing out of her body. "Yeah, that was..." she trailed off, glancing down over their half-dressed bodies, still united even as their mingled fluids turned his lap into a sticky mess.

"Yeah," he nodded in agreement, "I'm not sure there's words."

She looked into his eyes, her gaze sliding from joy to affection and finally into something much deeper and more complicated. Her eyes returned to the blood now streaming down his neck and soaking into his shirt.

"You need stitches, baby," she said flatly, not even realizing the threshold she had crossed with the last two syllables.

He studied her face carefully, the word setting off a cascade of complex emotions that took a moment to resolve. There was a large part of him that screamed in rebellion at this level of attachment. But the more courageous part felt it was simply a reflection of a reality he was only just catching up with.

The whole thing, from playful banter over casual adultery, to getting assaulted by an angry rival, to making love to her like an animal--it felt like he had finally stumbled upon the correct path after a year of aimless, painful wandering. His feet were already planted on the path, and he found that he was not alone in the woods anymore. The way forward was dark and full of terrors, but it felt euphorically forward in a way he hadn't realized he had been craving somewhere in the pit of his soul.

He gazed into her eyes, nodding slow but with conviction.

"Okay, baby. Will you drive me to the hospital, please?"