Content warning: sexual imagery (not graphic)

October 2018
Bochum, Germany

What the hell is wrong with me? 

Ever since I got that invitation from Ian and combed through his social media, I haven't stopped thinking about him. The past has come rushing back in a flipping torrent. All my repressed feelings. My longing. It's like Ian has cast a spell on me from afar.

For some reason, it's triggered my latent desire.

Ugh! I keep reading the same sentence in this lousy master's thesis, but I don't absorb it. Much less correct the linguistic errors. This is nuts! My mind keeps drifting toward memories of Ian. His brilliant mind--equal parts of fire and ice. Two separate compartments in his psyche, both equally captivating for different reasons.

Beneath Ian's cold exterior, you'd never dream a fiery dragon slumbers underneath. But it's there. Waiting to be set free.

His touch, firm yet tender.

His mind, decisive yet flexible.

His soul, passionate yet kind.

Tell me what you need, little raven.

Stop it! Focus!

Cradling my forehead in my palm, I can't think. I push myself away from my desk with an incredulous scoff.

Un-freaking-real. All it took was one invite and you lose it?

No! Get it together.

From the depths of my mind comes Ian's voice, Show me how it feels.

Now my own imagination has decided to conspire against me. Great! Guess it's time to scratch this itch so that I can focus on my work again like a normal person.

Thank God I'm working from home.

With an impatient huff, I flop on the bed and yank down my tights and my underwear with one swift motion and toss them aside.

Slipping into the deepest recesses of my mind, I reawaken a part of me that has slumbered for so long.  Though I try to focus on the raw sensation, my body can't relax.

Because Ian haunts me still.

He's the last person in the world I should imagine holding me, but I can't stop the kaleidoscope of memories all blending into one senseless dream. Burning gazes. Electrified touches. Tender kisses. That fiery passion he used to share only with me. 

"My muse, are you absolutely certain?" Ian asks, tucking a stray lock behind my ear. "I love you just as you are. Nothing has to change."

"I want you, Ian." Running my hands over his chest, I feel his wiry muscles tensing underneath his white Oxford shirt. "Body, mind, heart, and soul."

As soon as I say those words, his eyes darken. But Ian doesn't touch me. He simply holds my gaze as tingles race across my skin and down my spine.

"You know I respect your faith, right? Don't do anything you'll regret."

"I won't."

"Lie down on the bed," he demands in a gravelly voice. "Since we can't touch, show me the depth of your passion."

Sprawled perpendicular on the bed by my feet, Ian observes me. Nearly naked. Mesmerized. His focus, intense. As if he's committing every last detail to memory. His hands run up my limbs, rough with want until he cradles my hips and plants a gentle kiss on my stomach. With soft, tender touches, he traces my sides, light as a feather's kiss.

With a passionate kiss upon my lips, Ian sets my soul aflame.

"Touch yourself," he whispers, "the way you wish I could touch you."

"Yes, Ian...please!"

Our hearts beat as one. 

"That's it, little raven," he says, so passionate he's almost fierce, his deep voice sending tingles down my spine. "Make me burn for you even more."

My skin flushes crimson as my back arches off the bed. Slowly, I give in to the current sweeping me away from my crumbling faith and toward him.

Until I finally tip myself over the edge.

So intense it's almost painful. 

When I lean my head back against the pillow, satisfied at last, Ian traces my skin as though he's memorizing every hill and valley on my body. Every touch makes me tremble.

Kneeling between my legs, Ian plants three lingering open-mouthed kisses up my inner thigh. "You are my Thalia. My Melpomene. My Calliope."

His touch is like liquid fire.

I rake my fingers through his hair, longer now than it was in college. "You are my Morpheus. My Ikelos. My Phantasos."

"The gods of dream." Ian hovers mere inches above my lips. "Kiss me."

Standing behind me in the shower, Ian cups my hips. His head dips down as he traces his nose along my shoulder. Nuzzles the crook of my neck until I tilt my head to the side with a soft exhale.

I turn to face him, water trickling down his chest. His intense gaze rakes over mine. His eyes, dark with lust.

Trailing up the column of my throat with the tip of his nose, he cradles my neck with one hand while he holds my waist with the other. Exhales seductively against my sensitive skin. Whispers in my ear, melting me with his deep baritone.

"Tell me what you need, little raven."

Our passion erupts into fire and flame as we tumble onto the bed. Flesh grinding against flesh. Each kiss betrays the slight saltiness of his skin. While his lips nuzzle my neck, I snake my arms up his back.

Cling to his shoulders.

"That's it," he whispers. "Don't let go."

Even in the depths of his passion, Ian stays in complete control. Only a few shallow breaths betray the hidden need within him, though he drives into me with passionate thrusts. Smashing through every barrier until our souls bleed into one another like running colors upon a canvas. 

"Come back to me," he insists in a gravelly tone. "Say you'll be mine."

At that, my jaw drops open and I don't even try to suppress the cry that slips past my lips. A thousand pinpoints of starlight cloud the darkness behind my eyelids. My own waves crash against the shore, each one as strong as the last. It won't stop. Until my hand is exhausted, almost cramping, and my nerves are too sensitive to continue.

Holy hell!

What would happen if Ian actually touched me?

Though I usually rise and go about my day, I relish the intensity and imagine how Ian might hold me if he lay beside me now. My insides quiver and shake. My heart thuds with power even while it slows.

After my shower and a bowl of blueberries, I return to my laptop and spend the whole morning editing a master's thesis about tensile strength. Woot! If it's a subject I enjoy, I read to absorb it as well as correct it. For snooze fests like this one, however, I ignore the bigger picture and do line edits and proofreading only.

It isn't easy to concentrate on this one.

Before I know it, my thoughts drift to Ian again.

Once again I find his invitation in my inbox, a digital link for the Science and Sensibility conference at Holy Cross. My eyes scour his words for some hidden meaning I might have missed. Because Ian often speaks in metaphors and riddles.

That's how foolish I am.

My heart thuds against my ribs. Only a couple more weeks.

That's when I get a notification from my messenger app.

You've been pinged
by Ian Caruso.

Almost like he knows what I've done. When I close my eyes, I imagine Ian doing much more than pinging me. No, I imagine him holding me. Kissing me. Loving me. Like he used to do.

My heart all aflutter, I click the little 'ping' button beside Ian's name. He doesn't respond right away. But it takes all of twenty minutes before another notification comes my way. Curious, I reply after waiting about five minutes to see what happens. And he responds in kind.

A wry chuckle slips past my lips. Not a coincidence...

Because Ian's a brilliant scientist but not great at superficial forms of interaction like flirting, I can almost see him peering at the screen. Analyzing my behavioral patterns for social cues. He's opted for the safe route of mirroring. I'm cool with that.

The quicker I respond, the quicker he does. When I slow down, so does he. With each alteration of the pattern, Ian matches it precisely like a digital dance. A telltale rush spreads throughout my body with each new ping he sends me. It races from my heart straight to my core.

Tingles trail along my skin when flashbacks of our little stories flit through my mind. Tell me what you need, little raven.

I'll show you what I need.

We continue back and forth, faster and faster, for about five minutes. It escalates until we click as soon as we get a reply. Until another notification appears in my messaging app. A text this time. From the man himself.

___

Ian: Perhaps we should talk with actual words.
___

My heart thuds against my ribs while my palms turn icy cold even though they're sweating. What should I say? What should I do? Foremost in my mind is the question of ethics and morality.

I'm not free yet. It's still five months before my separation year is complete and I can file for divorce. My feelings for him are real, but I can't act on them for a while yet. 

Perhaps I should distance myself until I've taken the time to sort myself out. Yet the idea of talking to Ian feels so right, like standing before a warm hearth after a long walk in the cold.

Me: I don't know.

Me: I quite liked it when you used a robot. 😉

No, no, no! What are you doing? You can't be that forward!

Abort! Abort!

Yet I can't seem to stop myself from typing utter nonsense.

Me: You know, at the Museum of Science?

Ian: You remember?

Me: Of course I do.

Me: It's the most romantic thing anyone has ever done.

Ian: Some marriage you must have had.

Me: Besides your sketchbook.

Me: I'm serious. 😕

Ian: Forgive me.

Ian: It was a joke in poor tsate.

Ian: *taste

Ian: Sometimes I don't know the right thing to say.

Ian: Which is why I let robots do the talking.

Me: It's okay.

Me: Same here. Not with robots, but...

It takes a long time before either of us has the courage to continue. A cold chasm builds inside my chest until he writes again.

Ian: You heard right, you know.

Ian: The robot meant it.

Ian: I meant it.

Me: So did I...

Ian: So you still have the sketchbook?

Ian: The one that chronicles our relationship?

Me: Yes...and can I confess something?

Ian: Anything you wish.

Me: Since I decided to be on my own...

Me: I read it every day.

Ian: You do?

Me: Yes, it reminds me of you.

Me: Of us...

Me: Do you still draw?

Ian: I draw more of late.

Me: Good. You're so talented.

Me: It would be a shame if you stopped.

Ian: The muse has returned.

Ian: I feel inspired again.

Wait! Does Ian mean inspiration in general, or does he mean me? 

Face it, you want to be his muse again. But that doesn't mean you are.

Breathless moments slip into more anxious silence until he writes again.

Ian: I hope you received my invitation?

Me: Yes, thank you.

Me: October 26th. I'll be there. 🙂

Ian: Perhaps...

It takes him a long time to continue either because he gets distracted in real life or because he's working up the courage to say something.

Ian: Perhaps we could discuss the other lectures.

Ian: Or what you think of my ideas.

Ian: Or any other impressions you might have had.

Oh, God! He's asking me out!

Me: I'd like that very much. 🙂

Ian: Excellent. I look forward to seeing you.

Me: So do I. 🙂

Me: Look forward to seeing you, I mean.

Ian: Take care.

Me: You too.

My heart thuds against my ribs as though it's trying to break free from its cage. Divorce seems so far away. It isn't right to date Ian until I'm truly free, so I need to keep things platonic for now.

That shouldn't be too much of a problem. After all, it's practically a professional appointment. Or an academic one at least.

What could possibly go wrong?

___

Word count: 1,965
Total word count: 15,458/40,000