Nordic Heat: A Helsinki Encounter

Tarja

Tarja stood by the window of her Keilaniemi flat, watching the pale glow of the midnight sun spill across Espoo's skyline, painting her angular glass structures in the soft, ethereal light. At forty-two, she was more comfortable in her own skin than ever, a confidence forged not by youth, but by the honed precision of her craft. Her buildings, quiet rebellions of glass and steel against the city's older, heavier forms, stood testament to her belief in clarity and uncompromising vision. Finnish flags dotted the cityscape below, fluttering in anticipation of tomorrow's general election. April 2011, Finland on the cusp of change, and so, she realised with a dry, private chuckle, was she.

She sipped the last of her cold champagne, the fizz a familiar comfort, a small luxury she'd allowed herself after landing the Oslo project. British champagne, British man. Her tastes were becoming predictable in her forties, a pattern she didn't bother to fight.

When did desire change? Tarja wondered, watching the distant lights of the archipelago. It didn't fade, that was bollocks they told women over forty to keep them in their place. It just got sharper. Less apologetic. More about what she actually wanted, not what she should want. The careful performance of youth was exhausting, she realised, and she was done with it. Like a poorly designed façade, it eventually cracks.

She checked her iPhone again. Nothing from James yet. Their online exchanges had been explicit from the start -- no pretending, no shame. She'd watched him stroke himself while she spread her legs for the camera. They'd told each other exactly what they wanted, in crude detail that would make most people blush. She'd described how she liked to be fucked, positions she'd never shared with anyone else. He'd confessed fantasies his wife would have been horrified by. Sometimes the dirtiest things were the most honest.

There was something liberating about being filthy with a stranger, saying the words most people kept locked inside, words that hummed with a forbidden thrill. Tarja had never been good at hiding desire. Finnish directness, perhaps, or simply a structural integrity that demanded honesty. When James had first suggested video chat, she'd simply said 'Yes, but I want to see everything.' And she had. The screen had been a thin veil, easily pierced.

She glanced at her watch and swore, a soft, guttural 'Perkele.' James was late. His 'just a moment' would stretch into a typical English half-hour, she knew it. The predictability was almost endearing, almost irritating. He was a man of comfortable habits, she already knew that much. Habits she was here to shake.

Her phone buzzed with his message: 'On my way. Got cornered by some boring tech bloke. Election talk everywhere. Fancy a sauna first? Proper knackered after that flight.'

Tarja smiled despite herself, a weary chuckle escaping. 'I wait at Laguuni,' she typed back. 'No more delays or I leave. And I shall say this only once.' The Monty Python reference was deliberate. She appreciated a man who understood a classic British absurdity.

She took her time getting ready, selecting a charcoal pencil skirt and silk blouse for later, business-like but with an edge. From her drawer came her favourite sheer black hold-up stockings, their silicone bands gripping her full thighs. The nylon slid up her legs with a satisfying whisper, a subtle rustle of promise.

At forty-two, she knew her market value had shifted. Still desirable, but differently. Men her age chased thirty-year-olds while complaining about shallow youth. She'd stopped caring. The good ones -- the ones worth shagging -- didn't mind a few lines, a softer belly, a woman who knew exactly what she wanted. And tonight, she intended to show him.

'What am I doing?' she muttered, smoothing the stockings up her legs. Seven years younger, married, British. This was supposed to be just online chat. Now he was here, in her city during election week, and she was dressing like this was more than just coffee. It was ludicrous. But a good design often started with a ludicrous idea, something that pushed boundaries.

Maybe that was exactly what she needed in 2011 -- something raw, vibrantly tactile. Sex wasn't just about bodies; it was about being seen. Not the professional woman, not the polite architect, but the person who could say 'I want you to shag me like this' without flinching. Sometimes the most human connection was in our darkest, most animal desires. The parts we usually hide. The parts James had already seen, and perhaps, yearned for himself.

The floating sauna at Laguuni was adorned with small blue and white flags for the election. The air inside was already thick with dry heat and the clean, bracing scent of pine and birch. The silence was absolute, save for the soft crackle of the stove. Here, stripped of pretenses, people revealed their true structures.

When James finally arrived, he looked flustered, his hair slightly damp, clinging to his forehead. He held his towel clutched to his midriff, knuckles white. The contrast to the confident, bare man she'd seen on screen was stark, almost comical. 'You're late,' Tarja said flatly, her Finnish accent barely softening her English, the words cutting through the humid air.

'God, I'm truly sorry,' he said, his posh British accent bouncing off the wooden walls, sounding almost painfully out of place here. James, thirty-five, still had that boyish quality, though his eyes held a visible weariness. He ran a hand through his already dishevelled hair. 'Those chaps wouldn't stop rabbiting on about the bloody election and coalition possibilities. Thought I'd never escape.'

She watched his grip on the towel. 'In Finland, we are comfortable in sauna. No need for this...' she gestured, her hand sweeping dismissively. 'Very British awkwardness.'

'Right. Well.' His cheeks flushed, a deeper red against his pale skin. 'We Brits are a bit weird about nakedness, aren't we? Not exactly Finnish sauna culture back in Cambridge. Not a lot of honesty in a semi-detached, three-bed, two-bath, I suppose.' He finished with a dry, self-deprecating laugh.

'No shoes, no jewellery, no pretending in sauna,' Tarja said, picking up the ladle and pouring water over the hot stones. The hiss and billow of steam filled the small space, momentarily obscuring them, blurring the edges of their awkwardness. 'Here, people say truth. Or they shut up.'

'Truth?' James settled beside her, still carefully keeping his towel in place, his shoulders hunched, his gaze darting around the small, wooden room. 'That sounds terrifying.'

'So tell me truth. Why you really come to Finland?' Her blue eyes met his directly, unwavering, like a cold, clear lake.

He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit. 'Well, the official reason is this Airbus contract...'

'I asked real reason,' she interrupted, the steam still clinging to the air around them.

James was quiet for a long moment, the only sound the soft crackle of the stones and the distant lapping of water against the floating platform. He shifted uncomfortably, then finally met her gaze, a new, raw vulnerability in his eyes. He took a deep, shaky breath. 'I wanted to see if what we have online is real,' he admitted, his voice low, almost a whisper. 'If you're the same in person. If there's something actually here or if I've just been...'

'Escaping your marriage by wanking with Finnish woman on camera?' Tarja finished for him, her voice perfectly even, the words hanging in the humid air like a new layer of steam.

'Ha!' He exhaled, a wry, almost relieved smile. 'Straight to the jugular, aren't you?' His gaze didn't waver. 'Yes. That. Precisely that.'

'I watched lot of BBC growing up,' she explained with a small smile. 'Learned English from Monty Python and Fawlty Towers. Perhaps not best teachers for polite conversation, but excellent for cutting through British nonsense.'

James laughed, genuinely this time, the sound echoing lightly in the small space. 'No wonder you quoted 'I shall say this only once' in your text. I thought that was a coincidence.'

'Nobody expects the Finnish inquisition,' she replied, deadpan, a faint smirk playing on her lips.

Steam curled around them, creating momentary privacy. Outside, campaign posters for the True Finns party competed with the Social Democrats along the waterfront, their slogans promising 'change' or 'stability'.

'Finnish people don't waste time,' she continued, adjusting her towel slightly, a deliberate movement that subtly drew his eye. 'Life is short, summer shorter. So, we find out if this is real or not. But first, properly experience Finnish sauna.' She gave him an impatient glance, her eyes indicating his still-clutched towel. 'Then we talk.'

The early evening air carried the crisp scent of birch and sea salt as they walked along Espoo's waterfront. Election banners fluttered in the breeze, their bold colours stark against the Nordic sky. James had finally shed his towel and, with it, some of his initial British reserve. He still fidgeted, but his self-consciousness seemed to have lessened, replaced by a raw curiosity. Tarja found herself relaxing, the tension dissolving into a comfortable rhythm between them. He seemed to genuinely enjoy her directness now, even crave it.

'Almost a fortnight left,' James said, breaking a comfortable silence, his voice flat. 'Then back to rainy Cambridge, the semi-detached, school runs, and pretending I care about the neighbours' garden competition.'

'And wife,' Tarja added bluntly, her gaze fixed on the distant archipelago, a string of tiny islands against the fading light. 'Don't forget that part. Sarah.'

'Right. Yes.' His face clouded. The name was a sigh, a weight he carried visibly on his shoulders. 'Sarah.'

'You are not happy. But you do not leave.' It wasn't a question, but an observation, as clear and unyielding as one of her building's steel beams.

'It's complicated.' He kicked a small stone, sending it skittering across the pavement.

'No. Is simple. You stay or go. Rest is just...' she waved her hand dismissively, 'English excuses. Very typical. Like a building with too many unnecessary support columns, afraid to stand on its own.'

They passed a small, spirited demonstration, supporters of different parties engaged in passionate debate. A country at a crossroads, just as James seemed to be questioning the very foundations of his life. Tarja could hear fragments of their shouts: "New direction!" "Old values!"

'When I turned forty,' Tarja said suddenly, her gaze still fixed on the distant archipelago, 'I went to Tähtitorninmäki hill with my friend Liisa. We drank an entire bottle of champagne. She asked what I learned. I told her: life too short for bad sex and bad champagne. And for pretending you are someone else.'

James laughed, surprised. 'That's... actually profound.'

'You are thirty-five now. What have you learned?'

He considered this, running a hand through his still-damp hair, the evening chill raising goosebumps on his arms. 'That I'm terrified of waking up at fifty still wondering if this is all there is.' He looked at her, his expression raw, exposed. 'Everything feels... decided for me. Safe. Boring. Like a pre-fabricated life, no customisation.' He swallowed hard. 'I keep asking myself: is this the blueprint? Is this my final design?'

Tarja nodded, her expression softening almost imperceptibly. 'This why you like me? Because I tell truth?'

'Partly,' he admitted, eyes dropping to her legs, following the smooth line of her stocking disappearing beneath her skirt. A flicker of raw hunger. 'And because you're brilliant. And because when you talk about architecture, your whole face lights up. And because you don't need me, not really. I'm just... an option for you.' He swallowed, a relief in the admission, as if saying it out loud lessened his own shame. 'You're not a project to be solved, you're... a force.'

'Good answer,' she said, a small smile, a glint in her blue eyes. 'Now come. I make you proper Finnish coffee. Then perhaps we test if reality better than video chat.' She gave him a knowing look, her blue eyes sparkling, hinting at the depths they'd explored online. 'You bring that blue shirt I like? The one you wore when you showed me how you...' She trailed off, leaving the memory hanging warm and heavy in the crisp air.

He blushed furiously, a deep flush spreading up his neck. 'It's in my hotel room.'

'Pity. I liked watching you in that shirt. And then out of it.' Her smile widened, a playful challenge.

Tarja's flat building stood as a testament to contemporary Nordic design, her own creation: clean lines, expansive glass, a sense of open possibility. Inside, election coverage played quietly on the television as she measured coffee beans, the rich, dark aroma filling the sleek, minimalist space. James wandered around, studying her awards and architectural models, tracing the lines of her designs, a quiet awe in his movements.

She switched off the telly as a pundit began analysing the rise of nationalism. The sudden silence in the flat was charged, filled with unspoken possibility. The outside world faded, replaced by the immediate, electric presence of each other.

'It's strange, yes?' she said, handing him a mug of perfectly brewed, strong coffee, its warmth seeping into his hands. 'After all those nights talking, seeing things... Now here in same room.'

'Strange doesn't begin to cover it,' James agreed, accepting the cup. He took a sip, savouring the rich, dark flavour. 'I kept thinking you couldn't possibly be as direct in person as you are online. That it was a performance for the camera.'

'And?'

'You're even more so.' He smiled, a genuine softening of his features. 'It's refreshing, actually. A bit terrifying. Like stepping into a structure with no hidden walls.'

'One benefit of being forty-two. No time for games.' She sat across from him, her skirt riding up slightly, showing the top of her stocking. She made no move to adjust it, confident in her space, in her body. 'Do you know what else I learned at forty?'

'What?'

'That I love British things. Your accent. Your humour. Your champagne. Even your ridiculous politeness.' She leaned forward slightly, her gaze locking with his, a direct, undeniable current passing between them. 'Perhaps also British men. Or at least one. Especially the ones who like to call me their 'big sister' in chat, eh?'

James's eyes widened, a hint of something feral in their depths, mixed with a deep blush that spread across his face. 'I'm terrified and intrigued,' he admitted, his voice rough.

'Good.' She sipped her coffee, watching him over the rim of the mug. 'This visit, James from Cambridge. Let's not waste time pretending this is something it's not.'

'And what is it, exactly?' he asked, his voice a little rougher now, betraying the rising tension.

'Two adults enjoying connection. No promises. No fairy tales. Just now.' Her voice softened slightly, making the declaration feel more profound, more authentic. 'Sometimes 'now' is enough. When you return to Sarah, this stays here. But while you are here...' She set down her cup deliberately, the click echoing in the quiet room. 'I want to know if you taste same as I imagined when I watched you on screen.'

The coffee sat forgotten as Tarja stood, crossing the small space between them with a predator's grace. James watched her approach, eyes fixed on the dark seams of her stockings, then the subtle swell of her stomach beneath her silk blouse. His breath hitched.

'I... um...' he started stammering, suddenly lost for words.

'Stop talking,' Tarja told him, her voice a low command. She put her hands on his shoulders, staring down at him like she was examining the foundations on a build site, her gaze assessing, demanding. 'Finnish way better. We don't waste words when actions work.'

She kissed him then, a direct, open press of her mouth against his, a taste of coffee and raw desire. It took him a second to respond, then his hands were on her waist, sliding down to her hips, pulling her closer, fingers fumbling slightly against the fabric of her skirt, desperate.

'God, I've thought about this for months,' he said between kisses, his accent thickening, breath hot against her skin. 'Every time we chatted, I kept wondering...'

'Less talk. More do.' Tarja grabbed his hand, guided it right onto her thigh where stocking met skin, just below the silicone band. 'You stare at my legs all night. Now touch.'

His fingers traced the silicone band of her stocking, then moved higher, finding the absence of knickers beneath her skirt. The whisper of fabric against his fingertips was electric, a promise of hidden depths.

'Blimey,' he whispered, eyes widening, a mixture of shock and fervent desire. His fingers were a little clumsy at first, but quickly grew bolder, tracing the delicate, smooth skin of her inner thigh.

'After those video chats, you think I need more foreplay?' she asked matter-of-factly, a slight lift to one brow. 'I've been thinking about this since last time you showed me what you do with your right hand.'

She unbuttoned her blouse efficiently, the silk parting to reveal a black lace bra that struggled to contain her full breasts, their soft weight pushing against the delicate fabric. She was not rail-thin; her belly had a slight roundness, and her thighs were solid, strong, like good, honest architecture. 'You English think too damn much. Always worrying what comes next. Finnish way better. Feel now, think later.'

'Christ, you're gorgeous,' he said, his voice raw, staring unabashedly at her curves, a hunger in his eyes she felt deep in her bones.

'I know,' she said simply, a hint of satisfaction in her tone. 'Now, important question. What does Sarah not do for you that makes you want to be naughty for your big sister?'

The directness of her question startled him, but a flicker of understanding crossed his face, a memory of their online play. 'I... what?'

'You have affair because something is missing. Tell me what. I will give you that.'

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. 'She's... conventional. Everything's so proper. Her idea of adventure is a new brand of teabags. Never wants to try anything...' He fumbled for words, cheeks burning. 'I wanted to go backpacking in Thailand once, years ago. She said, "But darling, what on earth will the neighbours think of the gaps in the hedge?"' He laughed, a short, bitter sound.

'Anything like what?' Tarja pressed, her hand now resting on his belt buckle, her touch firm and uncompromising.

'Anything... outside the bedroom. Anything where she's not in control. Anything where I might see how much she wants it. It's all so... careful. We just... lie there. And she complains if I'm not quick.' He paused, his gaze fixed on her. 'I just want to be seen. To be wanted, not just... tolerated.'

Tarja nodded, understanding. 'You want woman who is not afraid of own desire. Who takes pleasure without shame.' She straddled him then, skirt riding up, her weight solid and real against him, her thighs pressing against his, anchoring him. 'Bedroom or here?'

'Here,' he said, surprising himself with the sudden, fierce clarity. 'I've been proper all my life. This feels... right. Completely wrong and right.'

Tarja nodded. 'Good. Now you will learn Finnish way of honesty.'

The pale light streamed through her windows as they undressed, casting long, soft shadows. James was fitter than she'd expected, rowing muscles showing beneath his business clothes. Tarja remained in her sheer black hold-up stockings, their silicone bands stark against her pale skin. He watched her, a clear desire in his eyes, but she saw something else too, a flicker of something she might be able to exploit, a raw need that he hadn't fully articulated.

'You want control?' Tarja asked bluntly, standing there in just her stockings, her posture confident, challenging. 'Or I lead?'

'I... Christ, no one's ever asked me that. Not in... years.' His voice was a husky whisper, laced with disbelief, almost a plea.

'Sarah does not ask this?'

He shook his head, his gaze locked on her, a faint tremor running through him. 'We don't really... it's been ages. Not since the first year. We just... do it. Quick, quiet. It's all very... predictable. Like an obligation. Like doing the dishes after dinner, just another chore.'

'I lead first,' Tarja decided, a predatory gleam in her eyes, pushing him gently onto the sofa, its plush cushions giving way. 'You try later.'

'British things,' she murmured, a sly smile playing on her lips. She reached into a sleek side table drawer, retrieving a chilled bottle of British champagne, its label glinting in the soft light. 'And tonight, we celebrate the moment.' With a soft thwip, she popped the cork, the celebratory sound echoing in the quiet room. This was an affair, an uncertain encounter, and she believed in seizing every precious second, every fleeting pleasure.

She poured a small amount into a glass, the bubbles fizzing delicately, then surprised him by drizzling some across his chest. The cool liquid stung slightly before she bent, her tongue tracing the line of his sternum, the sharp sweetness mingling with the salt of his skin. 'I told you,' she murmured against his damp warmth, 'I love proper English boys who want to be naughty.' She looked up, her eyes glinting, challenging. 'Like you. So buttoned up. So desperate to break free.'

A small silver bullet vibrator followed from the drawer, its polished metal glinting, catching the light from the window. James gasped, a small, involuntary sound, his eyes widening.

'Is this too much?' she asked, showing him the device, her voice steady. 'In Finland, we don't play pretend games. You showed me yours on camera. Now I show you mine. No secrets.'

'No,' he said, his voice rough with desire, eyes burning with a hunger that matched hers. 'It's not too much. Please.' The word came out as a breathless plea, stripped of all politeness.

She nodded. 'Safe word is 'election.' Say if you need to stop.'

What followed surprised them both. James took control, revealing skills she'd only glimpsed hints of during their online sessions. He guided her onto the sofa, showing exactly how he'd imagined touching her all those nights, his hands sure and knowing, his movements deliberate.

'Like this?' he asked, his fingers exploring her with precision, finding that spot inside that made her gasp, a shiver running through her. He was watching her face, absorbed, his gaze possessive.

'Yes,' she managed, breathlessly. 'How did you...'

'I pay attention,' he said, his gaze fixed on her face, watching every flicker of sensation as he curled his fingers in a 'come hither' motion that sent waves of pleasure through her, deep and insistent. 'Even online. I noticed what made you react. What you hid from your husband. What you never get with... with Sarah.'

He reached for the silver bullet, switched it on, the low hum almost imperceptible at first, then growing into a resonant thrum. 'May I?' he asked, his voice low and commanding, eyes demanding her consent.

She nodded, unable to form words, her body already tightening as he positioned it exactly where she needed it. The cool metal against her most sensitive spot made her whole body tense, a delicious ache building. As the sensation built, he did something that shocked her. He removed one of her stockings with surprising deftness, peeling the delicate fabric down her leg, revealing her bare skin. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he lifted it, bringing the sheer nylon to her mouth.

'Too much?' he asked, the silk held between his fingers. His eyes were wide, almost pleading for her acceptance, a glint of playful dominance mixed with an eagerness to see her surrender, to strip away her usual words and witness raw sensation in her gaze.

She shook her head, unable to speak, understanding his intent. The silk against her lips felt decadent, a soft, sensual gag, silencing her usual directness. She tasted nylon, a hint of her own skin, and the faint, musky scent of their escalating desire. It was oddly intimate, a small, private surrender, an agreement to another layer of honesty. In this silence, she gave herself over to the pure, unadulterated sensation, her eyes locked on his, gleaming with pleasure and a hint of defiance as she felt his power and her own deepening desire. This wasn't what she'd planned, but something far more interesting, more primal, more real.

With the vibrator humming and his fingers working inside, Tarja felt herself building toward something intense, a desperate pleasure tightening. The slight restriction of her breathing through the stocking added an edge she hadn't anticipated enjoying, making each breath more vital, sharper. James watched her face, his own desire a visible current in his eyes, a mirroring of her own hunger.

'You're even more beautiful than on screen,' he murmured, his accent thickening, words barely escaping his throat. 'Look at you. So wet. My delicious older sister. Such a naughty girl for me.'

His words pushed her over the edge, her body arching against his hand as pleasure washed through her, overwhelming. As she came, a guttural sound tore from her throat, raw and uninhibited, he removed the stocking, wanting to hear her, wanting to hear that primal truth.

She came harder than she had in years, lost her usual control, her face showing everything, vulnerable and utterly pleasured. Her soft stomach tightened, her muscles clenching in exquisite release. When she recovered enough to speak, breath still ragged, she fixed him with an intense stare.

'Now,' she said, her voice husky, heavy with aftermath, a low, throaty purr. 'My turn. And I want you tied. No more pretending you're not desperate for it, little brother.'

What followed was an exchange of power, of boundaries tested, a reciprocal honesty. Tarja found a silk scarf from her bedroom, its cool fabric a stark contrast to their heated skin. With quick, precise movements, she secured his wrists above his head to the railing of her bed, tight enough to hold him, but not to hurt. He watched her, eyes wide, a tremor running through him, a new kind of fear and excitement mingling in his gaze. She took another stocking, thicker than the one she'd worn, and wrapped it around his mouth, binding him tightly. His eyes, though, were gleaming, a fierce, untamed light, accepting the shift in control. His hips bucked slightly, a desperate, unconscious reaction.

'You look like a proper naughty boy, all tied up,' she murmured, her voice a low purr as she straddled him, her full hips taking him in completely. Her weight was solid, real, pressing him into the mattress, anchoring him to her. 'Just for your big sister. Just for me.'

She controlled the pace, a primal rhythm, watching his face contort with pleasure as she moved, his muffled grunts and gasps echoing in the quiet room. A tiny bead of sweat on his forehead. Her pale skin, with its few faint stretch marks and the softness of her belly, against his tanned body looked like art in the pale light, a masterpiece of honest form.

'Fuck, Tarja,' he groaned, muffled against the stocking, his voice a frantic rasp. His hands, though tied, curled into fists, seeking purchase. 'You feel amazing.'

'So do you,' she said, dropping her head to kiss him, tasting her own sweat and the last of the champagne as they moved together, a seamless, urgent whole. 'Exactly how I imagined. No predictable tonight, eh, little brother? Not like... home.'

They found a rhythm that worked for both, their bodies speaking a language more honest than words, every thrust a confession. When they finally came together, it was with a knowledge of each other's bodies that belied their first physical encounter, a true meeting of long-held desires, wild and uninhibited.

'That was...' James started afterwards, breathing hard, his chest heaving, as she untied him, then removed the stocking from his mouth. His jaw was a little stiff, but his eyes were bright, almost glazed. He pushed himself up on an elbow, looking at her, then the rumpled sheets, a faint smile playing on his lips.

'Good,' Tarja finished for him, her voice calm, almost detached, yet tinged with satisfaction. She reached for the champagne, poured them each a glass, the faint fizz a counterpoint to their ragged breaths. 'Now we drink.' She took a long sip. 'Then we dress for breakfast. No need for more. For now.'

James laughed, a breathless, incredulous sound. 'You're incredible, you know that? Nothing like... anything. She'd never... I mean.' He trailed off, shaking his head slightly, as if clearing a fog, a silent acknowledgement of the chasm between this and his life.

'Yes,' Tarja said with a small smile, taking a slow sip of the cold champagne. 'But nice to hear. Even for Finnish woman.'

She rose from the bed, walked to her dressing gown and slipped it on, her movements unhurried, comfortable in her own skin, then poured more champagne. No awkwardness, no need to define what happened. Just a shared, intense experience, a structure built on raw honesty.

Later, they ate breakfast in her kitchen, like civilised adults, neither making promises nor pretending this was some grand romance. It was just a shared moment of simple human connection, the morning light sharp and clean.

Through the window, Finnish flags fluttered as citizens headed to polling stations. A country deciding its future while two people enjoyed their present. The first day of the fortnight had set a new foundation.

Almost two weeks stretched ahead. Enough time to explore each other without destroying their separate lives. For now, that was enough. Maybe the only honest thing either had felt in years.

'A fortnight,' Tarja said, sipping coffee, watching him in the pale light, a quiet understanding passing between them. 'Let's make it count.'

By the third day, the air was thick with the hum of election analysis, debates filling the evening news, predicting a tight race for the True Finns. Tarja found herself tracking the political shifts almost as closely as she tracked James's messages. Their pattern was established: James was staying at Hotel Torni in central Helsinki, the famous tower hotel with its iconic views. The commute between his hotel and her flat in Espoo ate into their time, especially with his demanding work schedule. Airbus had him in meetings until late most days, making the logistics frustratingly challenging, like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole.

'Would be easier if you just stayed here,' Tarja had suggested after their second night, a hint of practical desire in her tone. The clean lines of her flat seemed to mock the inefficiency of their arrangement.

'Can't,' James replied, running a hand through his perpetually slightly-dishevelled hair. 'Company's paying for the hotel. Would look dodgy if I didn't use it. Plus all my stuff is there. And it's only a fortnight, after all.' He didn't meet her eyes, and Tarja sensed the layers of British propriety at play.

So they worked around it. Some nights Tarja would drive into Helsinki after work. Other nights, when James could escape early enough, he'd make the trek to Espoo, tired but eager. The time was a finite resource, measured in hours, not days.

'Sorry about all this,' James texted on his second cancelled night, the message arriving close to midnight. 'Bloody client wants everything yesterday. Another emergency meeting. Swear they do it on purpose.'

'Is fine,' Tarja replied, the words clipped. 'Work is work. I have deadline too. This new building will not design itself.' A quiet hum of disappointment resonated within her. The limited time was slipping away, like sand through her fingers. She missed the raw intimacy, the feeling of being truly seen. She spent the evening sketching, her lines sharper, more aggressive than usual.

When they did meet, the stolen hours felt more intense, urgent, like a compressed, high-pressure system. James, eager to please, had actively sought out things he thought she'd like. He brought her a small, elegant silver flask he'd found in a local shop, its cool metal surprisingly sensual against his skin as he presented it. Tarja, in turn, showed him how to use the vibrator in ways that made her come so hard she bit his shoulder, her nails digging into his back, leaving faint, temporary indentations. His 'predictable' life with Sarah seemed a distant memory, a beige backdrop to this vibrant, insistent reality.

They never talked about Sarah, or what would happen when his visit ended. The present moment was enough. Had to be. A silent agreement hung between them, a fragile cantilevered moment, designed to hold only the now. The unspoken rules kept them safe, maintaining the delicate structure they had built.

On their fifth day, as the election results were still being painstakingly tallied across the country, showing a surprising surge for the True Finns, James had finally escaped a client dinner. Tarja met him at Hotel Torni. The iconic tower overlooked Helsinki, its observation deck and bar famous. She'd been there countless times but never like this, waiting in the lobby with a hunger that had nothing to do with the restaurant. He arrived looking more tired than usual, but his eyes lit up when he saw her.

'I wanted to show you the view,' James said, his voice a little strained, as they entered the lift. He was still in his suit, a little rumpled, the tie slightly askew. He fumbled for the button to the top floor.

As soon as they were alone, the silence thick with unspoken desire, Tarja pushed him against the mirrored wall of the lift. 'Fuck the view,' she said, her voice low and husky, her hand sliding down to his belt, her fingers tracing the warm metal. 'There are other views I prefer.'

'Here?' he asked, eyes widening, a mixture of shock and thrilling disbelief. His suit trousers felt warm beneath her touch. The mirrored walls reflected their urgent, barely contained desire, amplifying it.

'Here,' she confirmed, pressing the button for the top floor herself, extending their journey, buying them precious moments. 'Time is short, James. We've wasted too many moments already. Like an inefficient design, we must maximise our space.'

The lift was small, mirrored on three sides, reflecting their urgent bodies. As she hiked up her skirt, the soft swish of fabric, and straddled him, his body a warm, solid wall against hers, her black stockinged thighs framed her as she sank down onto him. Her hand, firm and possessive, covered his mouth to stifle his groans, the muffled sounds a wild melody against her palm.

'Quiet,' she whispered, her breath warm against his ear, mingling with the scent of his skin and faint, expensive cologne. 'Unless you want to explain to hotel security why the foundations are shaking.'

They shagged frantically, racing against the ascending numbers on the display, the rhythmic hum of the lift a counterpoint to their movements. When the lift dinged for the top floor, its polite chime a jarring intrusion, they were still joined, Tarja's face buried against his neck to muffle her own sounds, her teeth gently scraping his skin.

'Shit,' James laughed breathlessly as they hurriedly adjusted their clothes, buttons fumbled, hair dishevelled. The doors opened to reveal an empty corridor, mercifully. He smoothed his suit jacket, looking utterly dishevelled and thrilled, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

'That,' Tarja said, smoothing down her skirt, her gaze direct and unapologetic, 'is how adults make use of limited time. No wasted space.'

Later, they actually did look at the view from the observation deck, the pale April light making Helsinki look unreal, like a carefully rendered architectural model. But all James could think about was the lift, and the raw, uninhibited way Tarja had taken exactly what she wanted. It made the thought of Sarah's careful, polite touches feel even more distant, almost alien.

'Tell me about turning forty,' he asked as they stood looking out over the city, the cool breeze a welcome contrast to their recent heat.

Tarja considered this. 'Was... good. Like taking off too-tight shoes, the relief sharp and sudden.' She glanced at him, a small, knowing smile. 'Before forty, I tried to be what others wanted. After, I decided to be just me. No more trying to fit into someone else's blueprint.'

'And who's that?'

She smiled, a glint in her blue eyes. 'Woman who likes good champagne, good sex, and good buildings. And to be honest about all three.'

He laughed, a genuine chuckle, the sound looser than before. 'Priorities.'

'When Mikko left, he said shit about my body, my age. For months I believed him.' She looked out over the city, her voice flat, almost devoid of emotion, yet he sensed the old wound. 'Then I realised, I'm not done yet. Not being twenty-five doesn't make me invisible. It makes me real.'

'You're the least invisible person I've ever met,' James said, his voice quiet but sincere, his hand finding hers and squeezing it gently, a touch that lingered with surprising tenderness.

That night, after a second round in his hotel room, the sheets tangled around them, the scent of sex and their mingled sweat heavy in the air, James admitted, 'I think I've been sleepwalking through my life. Cambridge, marriage, career... all just things that happened to me, things I slid into without really choosing. It's all so... beige. Like a house built by committee, designed to offend no one.' He paused, staring at the ceiling. 'Sarah... she's a wonderful person, truly. A brilliant mother. So organised, so practical. She'd never forget a birthday, or a dry-cleaning pick-up. She built a comfortable life for us.' He sighed, a deep, weary sound. 'But sometimes, I look at our life and think, Is this all there is? I slide into bed next to her and feel... nothing. Just the weight of obligation. And sometimes,' he admitted, his voice barely a whisper, 'I hate myself for feeling nothing, because she deserves better.'

Tarja looked at him, her gaze unwavering, not judgment, but clarity. 'So make a choice now. For you. And for her.'

'It's not that simple, Tarja. There are consequences. A house, a mortgage, schools, routine... a whole life built around a predictable structure.'

'It is that simple. Maybe not easy, but simple.' Her directness cut through his prevarication, like a laser through glass. 'A good architect knows when a structure is unsound. You cannot keep patching over cracks.'

On the tenth night, the final election results had been declared, a new coalition government already forming, promising a different kind of future for Finland. James felt a strange parallel to his own life settling into an uncomfortable, undeniable truth. After a particularly rough shag that left marks on both of them -- a deep love bite on her collarbone, red welts on his back -- James traced her skin with calloused fingers. He lingered there, a quiet tension in the air. The faint, sweet taste of champagne still on her lips.

'I'm going to miss this,' he said quietly, his voice heavy with regret, the words sounding almost painful.

Tarja considered her words carefully, a faint pang echoing in her own chest. She could feel the ghost of Mikko's dismissive words, telling her she was 'too cold,' 'too hard.' Is this enough for me? a tiny voice whispered, a thought she immediately stifled. It has to be. 'We had our time,' she finally said, her voice steady, betraying none of the quiet ache that settled within her. 'Is enough. Like a well-designed building, its purpose is served.'

But lying awake later, watching him sleep, the rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of him on the sheets, she wondered if it was. That quiet ache was more persistent tonight, a small, persistent tremor in her otherwise solid foundation. She knew the terms, she had set them. But knowing them and feeling them were two different structures.

On the twelfth day, their last full day together, Tarja took him to Tähtitorninmäki hill, the spot where she'd celebrated turning forty. They sat on the cool grass, the sea breeze ruffling their hair, carrying the faint, clean scent of the Baltic Sea. They passed a bottle of champagne between them, the taste familiar and bittersweet. The city sprawled below, indifferent to their small drama, already moving on to its new political chapter.

'Soon, Finland will have its new government,' Tarja said, watching the distant city lights begin to twinkle, a mosaic of light against the darkening sky. 'But sun will still rise, buildings will still need architects.' Her life, at least, would continue, solid and predictable, built on known parameters.

James nodded, understanding the permanence of her life, the temporary nature of his visit. He sighed, a profound exhalation that seemed to carry the weight of his unmade decisions.

'I don't know what to do,' he admitted, his voice raw, his gaze lost somewhere over the darkening city, as if seeking answers in the distant horizon. 'About any of it. My life back home feels... hollow. Like a play I'm supposed to perform, and I've forgotten my lines.'

'Not asking you to do anything,' she replied, taking a swig directly from the bottle, the cool liquid a sharp counterpoint to his turmoil. 'Just be honest. With yourself, with her. Like a good foundation, it must be true.'

'And with you?'

'Always with me. I don't accept bollocks. Never.' Her eyes met his, clear and unblinking, demanding the same honesty he claimed to seek.

They shagged that night like it was the last time, because it was. Hard, then soft, then hard again, a desperate communion of bodies, a final, fervent farewell, a last, exquisite stress test of their connection. James used everything he'd learned about her body, every secret spot, every curve, watching her face as she came again and again, tears of pleasure welling in her eyes, blurring the edges of their reality. Tarja took him every way possible, leaving marks she knew he'd have to explain away to Sarah, small, defiant souvenirs of a week outside his 'beige' life. There was a raw, almost painful beauty to it, a final push against the inevitable, a last defiant flourish before the structure had to be dismantled.

In the quiet after, lying in her bed, the sheets tangled around them, he asked the question they'd been avoiding, its presence looming like a final, unaddressed architectural flaw.

'What happens tomorrow?'

Tarja turned to face him, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble beneath her fingers. 'Tomorrow you go back to Cambridge. To Sarah. To your life. I stay here.'

'And us?'

'There is no us, James. Was never meant to be. This was a temporary installation.' She touched his face, her fingers light, almost a caress. 'We had our days. We made them count. We built something true, for now.' It was a statement, not a regret, delivered with the clean precision of a seasoned architect.

In the morning, she drove him to the airport. Their goodbye was brief. No dramatic promises, no tears, just the efficiency of two adults who understood the terms of their agreement. A last, firm kiss, the taste of coffee and morning lingering on his lips. His hesitation was palpable for a moment, a longing in his eyes, but then it was gone, subsumed by the familiar pull of his established life.

'Thank you,' he said, his voice a little hoarse, his gaze sweeping over her, a complex mix of gratitude and lingering desire.

'For what?'

'For being you. For... this.' His gaze swept over her, a complex mix of gratitude and lingering desire. 'For showing me there are other ways to build a life.'

She watched him walk through security, a lone figure disappearing into the crowd, not looking back. A faint, almost imperceptible pang went through her, like a distant echo, but she pushed it down, reinforced her internal walls. Then she got in her car and drove back to Espoo. Life continued. Finland had a new government. She had a deadline to meet.

And somewhere in her drawer, tucked away beneath silk and lace, was a single sheer black hold-up stocking, the silicone band still faintly sticky. It was a silent testament to a precious time that had counted for something, a temporary, beautiful structure built on honesty. It was enough. Maybe the only honest thing either had felt in years. And sometimes, she found, that was perfectly, messily human.

Epilogue: Six Months Later

**Cambridge**

James stared at the rain streaking down the kitchen window, blurring the precise lines of Sarah's prize-winning petunias in the garden. Six months. Six months since Helsinki. The beige was still there, but now he saw its true hue, its lack of vibrancy, with a brutal clarity he hadn't possessed before. He still went to work, still did the school run, still tried to feign interest in the neighbours' trivialities.

But something had shifted. He'd started taking long walks, sometimes for hours, just letting his mind wander. He found himself sketching in a small notebook, not work diagrams, but abstract shapes, flowing lines, ideas for structures that defied convention. He'd also started reading. Not thrillers, but memoirs, books about people who had reinvented their lives.

He still hadn't told Sarah about Tarja. The silence around that secret was a different kind of pressure, a new crack in the foundation he was now acutely aware of. He'd tried, once, to suggest couple's counselling, but she'd dismissed it with a polite, bewildered smile. "Darling, what on earth for? We're perfectly fine." He had caught himself before retorting, "Are we, Sarah? Are we really?"

He looked down at his hand, tracing the faint, faded red welt marks on his back in the mirror that morning. They were gone now, but the sensation, the memory of Tarja's nails, remained. He still had the silver flask, kept it hidden in his desk drawer at work, a small, cold reminder. He found himself thinking, often, of her directness, her uncompromising honesty. He saw now that her question, "Why you really come to Finland?", wasn't a challenge, but an invitation. An invitation to choose.

He hadn't chosen yet, not fully. But he wasn't sleepwalking anymore. He was awake, and the waking was uncomfortable, painful even, but real. He thought of Tarja, in her glass towers, building new structures. He took a deep breath, the stale air of his kitchen suddenly too small. He picked up his phone. He typed a single name into the search bar: "Airbus Singapore office." A new assignment, perhaps? A new horizon, beyond the beige? For now, he thought, the word echoing Tarja's pragmatic acceptance, this is a choice.

**Espoo**

Tarja stood in her office, surveying the holographic projection of her latest project: a new cultural centre for Espoo, a daring design of intersecting glass planes and natural wood, allowing maximum light and transparency. It was a building that breathed, a structure that invited honesty.

She had received a discreet email from Airbus two months ago, a follow-up on the Oslo project, mentioning a new contract in Singapore. James's name had been conspicuously absent from the contact list. She felt a brief, almost imperceptible flicker -- not disappointment, but a quiet acknowledgement of a chapter closed.

Life continued, as she'd known it would. Deadlines pressed, clients demanded, and Finland's new government began its work, slowly, methodically. She found herself applying the same meticulous attention to detail to her designs as she had to their fortnight together. No wasted moments, no unnecessary embellishments, just pure, honest form.

Sometimes, late at night, when the city was quiet and the pale glow of the moon spilled into her flat, she would take out the sheer black hold-up stocking from her drawer. She would run her fingers over the silicone band, remembering the feeling of it against her skin, the subtle scent of nylon, the taste of champagne. She thought of James, his blushing earnestness, his hidden desires.

We built something true, for now, she thought. And that truth, however fleeting, had left its own indelible mark. It had confirmed to her, irrevocably, that she was seen, she was wanted, and that her unique, uncompromising self was not only enough, but vibrant, powerfully so. The quiet hum of self-possession resonated within her, as solid and dependable as the foundations of her own beautiful, honest buildings. The scent of coffee and fresh blueprints filled the air. She smiled.