The extremity of the New York weather never fails to irritate me. When it was hot it was sweltering and unbearable, when it was cold it was virtually uninhabitable, and apparently, when it rained it was as though we should have been building a bloody arc. It had come from nowhere. One minute it was sunny and comfortable, the next it was monsoon season in New York City.

Aidan pulls me up from the grass and lifts his blue jacket from the ground and wraps it hastily around my shoulders.

"It's not gonna do much but it's better than nothing," he mumbles as I stick my arms into the long sleeves of his jacket.

"You're wearing a T-shirt," I point out. "I have my cardigan, you should take the jacket."

He furrows his brow as he fiddles with the zip, looking up to give me a look which tells me not to be so ridiculous before pulling it all the way up. The scent of him coming from the soft, lightweight jacket is dangerously intoxicating. So is the proximity of his face to mine right now.

He moves to untuck my hair from inside the collar and then hooks his backpack onto his back and looks up at the sky. I'm not entirely sure what he's looking for? It's been raining solidly for the last few minutes.

"Yeah, it's not stopping anytime soon. We should go back," he says as he brings his eyes back to me.

"To your place?"

He nods. "It's only five blocks. How fast can you run?"

"Depends who's chasing me,"

He smiles. "Ok, I'll chase you, run."

"You know, running in the rain, gets you no less wet than walking in it. Yes, you get where you're going faster but the amount of rain hitting you is just the same."

He pretends to look shocked, then confused, before shaking his head in pretend awe. "You mean my whole fucking life I've been running in the rain like a total plonker for no reason?" Sarcastic bugger.

"Hate to break it to you," I smile, moving towards the path which I hope leads us out of the park. It's partially covered by high-reaching trees so the amount of rain battering down on us is less once we're on it.

"It's not too bad," he remarks. "I like the rain. It's purifying in a strange sort of way."

I turn to look at him. "I've actually always thought that myself. Everything looks cleaner after it's been raining." His hair is wet, making it curl slightly at the ends, and the soft light blue fabric of his t-shirt is dampened with rain making it hug his muscled looking shoulders and chest. His body was far better maintained than I'd ever noticed before.

When he turns to smile at me — that perfect white-toothed grin that I hadn't stopped thinking about the entire weekend — I feel something warm settle over my chest.

This weekend I'd found that thinking about Aidan's smile relaxed me in a way I couldn't quite understand. His voice and his eyes and his smile seemed to have their own set of healing qualities. It was bizarre. Even walking with him through a leafy park in relative silence as the rain fell above us was calming and strangely hypnotic.

When we reach the gate of the park the intensity of the rain is much heavier due to the lack of tree coverage. The people, who when we entered were squeezed into every available section of grass and scattered around the fountain, have long since dispersed.

"Fuck this, we need to run," he says turning to me.

"I'm really not a runner."

He grins and reaches out his hand, "Then hold onto me and I'll pull you along."

My heart flutters in my chest. Hold his hand? Why did the idea of holding his hand make my insides heat up?

Of course, I know why.

I look down at his right hand, his beautiful, large, veined right hand. It wasn't adultery to hold another man's hand, was it? Yet something about it felt inappropriate.

Then I start to fear that because I've been staring at it too long he might be about to pull it away so I quickly place mine in his. When I look up at him his expression is soft but intense. He always looked so intense, like he was having thoughts so deep that I wouldn't even be able to begin to comprehend them. Who knows, maybe I wouldn't.

"Ready?" He asks.

I smile and nod, "Let's run pointlessly in the rain."

He smirks and sets off, pulling me hard along. Thankfully, the streets are less busy now as we run back towards his place. Which is good, because since the rain is battering my face I need to look down instead of where I'm going.

I have to hope that he'll ensure I don't run into any living person, lamppost or yellow taxi again. How embarrassing had that been? I'd been so lost in the fact that I was walking the streets of New York with Aidan Foley that I hadn't even looked where I was going. I'd stepped out into the road without as much as a customary glance to either side. He'd had to rescue me like I was some wayward toddler.

Yet, he hadn't blamed me at all. He hadn't yelled at me for my stupidity or my lack of concentration. Or given me that look that Oliver often gave me whenever I made a blunder of epic proportion. By contrast, Aidan had not blamed me whatsoever for almost getting us both run over. He'd roared at the careless taxi driver instead. Who really I should have gone over to thank.

He'd caused Aidan to hold me so tight to his chest that I thought I was going to pass out. I'd felt his body heat, his muscular build and smelled his clean male scent in a way that I'd never have gotten the opportunity to, had it not been for that taxi-driver.

I consider all of this as Aidan continues to pull me along in great large strides. So he was a runner. It explained his lean build. As I struggle to keep up, I glance up to see him barely out of breath despite having to pull his weight as well as mine along. He feels my eyes on him and turns his head.

"Two more blocks," he informs me. "Do you need to stop for a minute?"

I'm not fit by any stretch, but I could make it two more blocks. As he smiles at me I begin to feel self-conscious, I must look bloody awful. My hair - which I'd actually spent time on this morning - is plastered to my head, my mascara no doubt bleeding pitifully at the edges. It was waterproof, but the little play I'd witnessed from my spot on the hill, and this downpour was pushing its limits.

I shake my head. "No, just keep going," I tell him and he yanks me into him as we continue to pound along the New York pavement, dodging rain immune people and food vendors.

We slow down to a fast walk about a half-block from Aidan's loft. I'm desperate to wipe my face and squeeze the rain out of my hair, but for that, I'd need to let go of his hand. Which I'm not quite ready to do yet. Though since we aren't running anymore, the two of us holding hands as we walk along most definitely looks inappropriate.

As gently as possible, I slide my hand out of his and wipe it across my face and under my eyes. He doesn't look at me after I release his hand, nor does he acknowledge that I've done it, he just slides it into his pocket and retrieves his keys.

As we mount the steps up to his building I grab the ends of my hair and twist out the litre of rain it's currently carrying.

Inside, we take the lift in veritable silence, and I watch somewhat in awe as he bends over and pulls up the door to let me inside and out again with barely a fraction of effort. I know from personal experience how solid and weighty that thing is.

His loft is warm and dry and I watch as he dumps his rucksack on the large dining table before unzipping it to retrieve his camera. He checks it over for signs of water damage before making a relieved noise. Unzipping his jacket, I shrug out of it as gracefully as possible.

It's done somewhat of a job, I'd certainly be a lot wetter if he hadn't given it to me, but my top and cropped trousers are still very wet.

"I'll get you a towel and a change of clothes," he says as he reaches out to take the blue jacket from me. "I'll stick your stuff on one of the vents to dry."

My chest starts to flutter. "A change of clothes?" Christ, he means his clothes. He's going to give me his clothes to wear.

"Yes," he nods, indicating my top and trousers which are soaked. "You're going to catch a cold if you don't get out of those, and I don't want you ill again."

I frown in confusion. What's he talking about 'again'? When was I ill? Oh... I clear my throat and nod. "Sorry, yes you're right. That would be great, thank you."

He smiles and takes the jacket from me and wanders into the bedroom while I stand dripping on the floor near the kitchen. A few minutes later he appears from behind me carrying a grey striped towel and a bundle under his arm.

"I've left a towel and some options for you on the bed," he gestures his head toward his bedroom. "I'll use the bathroom to change. Just pull the doors closed behind you and slide the curtain over."

Wet, his hair curls deliciously and I'm distracted by a few thick drops of rain clutching at several of the dark brown curls on top. His throat and neck are also wet and heaving slightly from exertion. It's distracting.

Swallowing, I move off in the direction of his bedroom which is located on a raised platform between the living area and kitchen. Glass-panelled walls line two sides but thick white curtains hang on the inside for privacy.

Pulling the two glass doors closed behind me, I slide the curtains along the rail to hide the loft from view and then turn slow to gaze around his bedroom. The bed is low and made of a deep dark-coloured wood and is neatly made. The stark white sheets and pillows stand out against the red brick of the wall behind it. It's an odd construction, like a generously sized box stuffed inside the much larger loft. It has a low ceiling, lower than the rest of the loft, and as I cross over to the bed I realise why. Directly above the bed is a large skylight. There is a roller blind fitted inside the window which at the moment is rolled back to expose a rain-battered grey sky. What an amazing view he would have from his bed at night.

On the opposite wall is a door leading into an ensuite bathroom, a row of dark wood wardrobes fitted along the wall to the left of it.

I take a deep breath as I gaze down at the pile of clothes he's left for me on the bed. A bottle-green coloured shirt, a white t-shirt with thin black stripes, and as I lift the 'bottoms' he's left to get a closer look at them, my chest flutters once more. Not bottoms at all. Boxers. White Calvin Klein boxer shorts. He's worn these. He's had them against his... for god sake how can I wear these? Is this some kind of a joke?  I look down at my white cropped trousers. They're utterly saturated and have started heating up against my skin. I will likely catch a cold if I kept these on.

I've little choice. Really, Ellie? 

I peel off my top first and lay it out on the floor. Then I slowly strip out of my trousers, sliding them down my legs and off. Standing in just my underwear, I use the towel to dry my sodden legs and feet, under my arms, neck and upper body, before rubbing the towel furiously over my head.

Then I glance down at Aidan's clothes again.

I bite hard on my lip as I lift the pair of Calvin Kleins. And then, glancing behind me to ensure that I'm properly alone - I do something I will have to take some time to understand later - I lift them to my nose and breathe in deep. I'm not sure what scent I was expecting quite honestly, but what floods up my nose is the overwhelming scent of clean cotton underpinned by the faint trace of man. They're obviously clean but they still carry a portion of his scent on them. A scent that is different from Oliver's in almost every way. I pull them on slowly, congratulating myself on having the foresight to have waxed my legs on Saturday. They're too big of course, but the elasticated waistband keeps them tight around my hips. For a brief moment, I try to imagine what they would look like on him. They'd be tighter, hugging his front and back nicely.

Jesus Christ, I have to stop this.

I groan my frustration at myself as I try and decide between the shirt and T-shirt he's left out for me. For no other reason than I like the shirt and imagine it looking nice on him, I choose that.

Again, it's too big but I roll up the sleeves and button most of the buttons before going to the ensuite to check out my ensemble. I look dreadful. Mascara smudges under my eyes, hair knotted and angry at the weather. Shame, I had made it look pretty today too.

Once I don't look quite so much like a burst ball I walk back into the bedroom, gather my wet clothes from the floor, and duck behind the curtain and out of Aidan's bedroom.

He's at the dining table absorbed in whatever is on his laptop screen. He's changed out of his wet clothes too. Now in a plain white t-shirt, and different jeans, his hair looks dry now; the curls flattened out as he slouches back comfortably in the wooden dining chair and fiddles with his Macbook. He looks up as I approach and smiles, before sliding the chair back to stand. Casting a slow look down over my body and down - for some reason I curl my toes inward as his eyes reach my feet - his eyes look heavy and warm as they reach mine again. I try to ignore the hammering in my chest while his tongue slips out of his mouth and grazes his bottom lip absently. 

"You should just keep those," he remarks.  "They look much better on you."  He comes around the dining table and stops close to me, so close that I can see the faint traces of wetness from his tongue on his bottom lip. "Give me those and I'll dry them for you."

"Thank you," I manage, as I hand the pile of damp clothes to him.

"I was just looking at some of the pictures from today, they're good. Sorry to disappoint you," he smirks, gesturing for me to go to the computer.

I cross to the large wooden dining table and sit down on the seat he just vacated, which is still warm from him, and look at the screen. Oh my god. He's right. They are good. I look... unburdened, happy even. How the hell did he manage that? I look unrecognisable but familiar.  I know this woman - I just hadn't seen her in a while.  She's the woman I used to see in photos. As I click through the images, Aidan reappears and goes into the kitchen and begins filling the kettle.

"They're really good Aidan," I tell him.

"Told you you weren't a terrible model."

I smile.  "I think maybe you're just a good photographer."  Exceptional in fact. Even the ones by the hanging tree he said he didn't like looked magical and dream-like in quality.

"Nah, a photographer is only as good as his subject," he tells me. "That, the lighting and the camera he's using."

His back is turned so he doesn't see me roll my eyes. How is it he's gotten to this point in his life and achieved this kind of success in his work yet still doesn't believe how good he is? I continue flicking through the pictures of me as seen through Aidan's lens. They're truly remarkable. I never expected them to be as good as this. Not because of him, but because of me. When he appears at my side he sets a polka-dot mug down on the dining table by my hand. 

"It's a hot whiskey," He tells me.  "It's honey and lemon and whiskey. My Aunt Roisin swears by it to stop the flu."

"I've never been much of a fan of whiskey," I say as I lift the cup to my nose. Yet as I tell him this, the scent hits my nose and is sweet and mouth-wateringly delicious. I decide that I probably don't know enough about whiskey to decide whether I'm a fan of it or not.

"Well, try it at least try. If anything it'll warm you up from the inside in one sip." He lifts his cup to his mouth and blows softly on it before taking a sip.

It turns out he's right. It does make me feel warm instantly. In fact, it's distinctly yummy. I can taste the whiskey but it's masked behind the sweetness of the honey and the hot bitterness of the lemon. I nod my approval and he smiles happily and takes a seat beside me at the table. He slides the computer closer to him and takes over the controls as I sip at my hot whiskey.

"I love this set," he says before angling the screen back to me. I almost gasp out loud. I look beautiful. This isn't vanity or arrogance speaking, because it's all down to the way he's captured me. It's him. He did that to me. I know I'm an attractive woman; I've seen my reflection a million times, and people have told me so before. Oliver told me all the time. But I had never looked as beautiful as I look in the images I'm staring at right now. These images Aidan has taken of me.

"I look like a different person," I say with a shake of my head.

"No, you don't," he replies. When I look round at him he's frowning, confused. "This is exactly what you look like. This is how I see you."

My cheeks feel hot but I'm not sure if it's from the whiskey or him. I swallow and turn back to look at the screen. "They're wonderful." I don't want to say beautiful in case he thinks I'm vain. I lift the hot whiskey to my mouth and drink again.

"So it looks like I was right.," he says quietly.

I turn to him. "About what?"

"That you're a perfectly passable subject." His eyes light up with a soft humour as he runs a hand through his perfectly drying hair. He stands and I watch him cross the loft towards a low unit in the living room which holds his record player. Under it, a long shelf holds what appears to be lots of vinyl records. He kneels and runs his hand along them looking for something, before selecting one which he removes deftly from the sleeve and lowers gently onto the turntable. Standing from the table, I lift my mug and follow him into the lounge and take a seat on the grey sofa facing the large window as the music begins to fill the room. Gentle and female and kind of lamenting. It's very pretty.

"That's a lot of records," I state pointlessly. "They're yours?"

He nods. "My entire hand luggage was vinyl. Pat brought some for me too. Some I bought here. Everything else, even my photos, went in the hold."

"So I'm to take it you really love music?" I smile.

"About as much as you love books."

I'd brought two books with me to New York.

"Well, I'm a writer so I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't like books..." I mutter, feeling like a fraud. 

"I used to photograph bands for a few different magazines back at home," he explains. "That meant going to hundreds of gigs. I'd have been in fucking hell if I didn't like music."

"Oh, you were a photojournalist?" I take another sip of the cooling sweet whiskey.

"For a few years, yes. Freelance." He moves to sit down beside me on the sofa, crossing one barefoot across the other and running a hand across his mouth and beard. "What I dreamed of doing though was being in a band." He looks up at me, to check my reaction I think. When I nod and widen my eyes with interest he goes on. "I just couldn't seem to learn an instrument with any great skill. And my singing voice is sort of painful." He laughs, soft. I smile, refusing to believe that those hands or that voice can't do either. "So I went to lots of shows, took lots of pictures, and fell in love with the talent of others instead." He lifts the cup to his mouth to drink deeply. For some reason, the way he just said 'fell in love' makes a warm ripple run over my entire body. He doesn't seem to notice. "I mean I'd always loved music. It was the only thing that could take me out of wherever I was at that moment and transport me somewhere else. And fuck knows I needed that... until I found this, anyway." He looks at me then, his gaze soft and intense. His art. His art transports him somewhere else.

"I know what you mean," I nod. "Writing does the same for me. To be able to leave one place behind and go to another is a very powerful thing. We're lucky to have that ability." I take another large mouthful of his aunt's flu remedy unnerved by the intensity in his eyes. He's staring at me in that way he does, with those incredible eyes of his that seem able to see deep inside me, as though my soul is peeled open like a ripe fruit. It makes my toes want to curl. I don't think I've ever been looked at like that. I look away from him and tuck a portion of matted hair behind my ear. It must look bloody awful.

"I never actually thought about it like that," replies Aidan after a moment. "That I was lucky to have it," he lifts his cup to his mouth, "But you're right."

I smile and glance away from his eyes again. "I don't suppose you have a brush or a comb?" I ask, looking at him as I run a hand over my matted locks. "This will likely be my permanent look if I don't at least try and deal with it right now."

He laughs softly and knocks back the rest of the contents of his cup. "I do have a comb. Hang on I'll get it." He stands and disappears out of the lounge towards his bedroom.

Curious, I get up from the sofa and cross to where the record player is and lower myself to have a browse at his records. There's a lot. He'd carried them all in his hand luggage. Forfeiting everything else you might need on a long haul flight from London to New York. That was commitment. I'd brought my Macbook, medication, make-up bag, and a change of clothes in case any of the four suitcases I'd checked in had gone missing. I'm not sure I'm as committed to anything as much as Aidan is committed to his record collection.

As I flick through the records I notice some names I recognise, The Beatles, Nirvana, Pink Floyd, The Clash, Fleetwood Mac, David Bowie, Al Green. As well as some more modern bands like The White Stripes, Blur, Oasis, The Chemical Brothers. The rest I've never heard of. From nowhere an image of lying here on the sheepskin rug in front of Aidan's record player drinking beer or hot whiskey while he plays every single one of these for me seeps in front of my mind. It would take days. Weeks maybe. I sigh with longing.

"Here," he says, startling me. When I stand and turn around I find him holding out a small black comb to me. "It only just about manages to keep mine in check so I don't know how much luck you'll have with it."

I gulp down the last of my hot whiskey and place the cup down on the coffee table before taking the comb from him. "Ugh. Thank you. Anything has to be better than how it looks right now."

"It looks totally fine," he glances at my hair. Fine? Typical man.  Except, he wasn't typical was he? Nothing about Aidan Foley was particularly typical. I lift the comb to my hair and start from the bottom.

"You want another one of these?" He asks lifting my cup from the table. "Went down okay in the end, huh?"

"It did actually. But I don't know if I should have another."

"For me, that always means you definitely should." His eyes twinkle with an unused smile.

I narrow my eyes. "Are you trying to get me drunk?"

He grins. "I'm willing to bet you've never been drunk in your life, Eloise. Not properly anyway."

I giggle. "You never saw me at university."

"A few ciders on Friday night on an empty stomach don't count," he chuckles. "Yeah, I can't see you raging drunk at all."

"Well get me a few more of these and you'll have a fair idea."

"Best leave that for a special occasion then... Let me know if you change your mind," he says, moving off the kitchen to rinse out our mugs. I take a seat back on the sofa.

"It was far nicer than I expected it would be," I call after him. "I may even drink it again. Thank your aunt for me - I think she did stave off a touch of flu."

"Next time I speak to her I will," he shouts back.

The comb is small and sturdy but still gets tangled on every single brush through. I stifle every moan and groan as I attempt to pull it through my mangled hair. The rain is its worst bloody enemy. Fairly straight but with a few kinks here and there, it needs brushing frequently. This morning's products and this afternoon's downpour hadn't done it any favours. Its current length isn't helping either.

Aidan appears a moment later and sits back down next to me on the couch, munching away on something. When I look around he holds out his hand and offers me a bright red cherry tomato. I smile and shake my head as I continue to pull his comb through my hair. He keeps his eyes trained on me, his expression relaxed yet curious as he watches me deal with my hair.

"So if today was photography day, what is tomorrow?" I ask him.

He shrugs. "Don't know yet."

"Do you have any idea what you're going to do with it.  I mean what it's going to look like when it's finished?"

"Not a clue," he laughs. "You never gave me any specific criteria so I'll see what happens. Normally something shows itself. I just do what feels right with it."

How vague?

"I'm so excited to see it. I know whatever you do will be perfect," I tell him.

"Well, I hope your husband likes it." His voice has a strange edge to it. Defiant almost.

"Owww, Fuuuck," I groan as the comb pulls painfully at the roots. As I try and pull it from my hair, I realise I can't. It's completely stuck about halfway down, tangled tight in my damp angry hair.

"Here, let me help you," Aidan says sliding across the sofa toward me.

"It's fine, I can get it," I say as I yank hard at the comb. It quickly becomes clear I'm mistaken. I can't get it at all. With a huffy sigh, I release my grip on the comb and he reaches out to take it from me.  Aidan begins by holding the comb still and pulling softly at my hair in a few different angles, before sliding a little closer and leaning in a little further. He's mere inches away now. I can smell him. Warm and male, like the scent from the boxer shorts I'm currently wearing except stronger. I can also feel the heat of his breath on the side of my neck and if I turned my head my mouth would be so very close to his, dangerously close.

I swallow and try and focus on something else, anything else... the music, the singer singing this beautiful sad song to us in her yearningly passionate voice, the solid coffee table, the shelf below on which I can see a book. It's too far under for me to see the name or the cover, but for someone who doesn't read as much as he should it makes me curious. He continues pulling at my hair and I continue gritting my teeth to keep from advertising how painful it is. On the upside, it's less painful than it was when I was doing it myself.

"If you just sort of bunch the hair here and pull at the comb it'll be easier," I say, turning to face him.

Mistake.

Bad, stupid, ill-informed mistake.

He's too close now. I can see the individual hairs on his beard and how each one seems to be a slightly different shade from the one next to it. Like someone has sculpted them. They're unnaturally perfect. His skin is too. Flawless and smooth like no one's I'd ever seen before. Like always though, it's his eyes which have the most devastating effect on me. They're large and wide and emit so much intensity that it's impossible to hold them very long. I drop my eyes back to his mouth, to his shapely pink lips which this close aren't quite as flawless as the rest of his face. The bottom one is slightly chapped like he's used to biting on it in moments of stress or tension. To be honest, though, this only makes me want to kiss him even more. I want to lick and suck on the raw flesh of his perfectly chapped lip until it's soothed and healed.

Suddenly, his hand and the comb in my hair comes loose from my hair and drops by his side.

"There you go," he says very softly, staring hard at my mouth. The outside of his thigh is pressed hard against mine, his breathing quick and laboured. While I continue to stare at him, I consider the options: I can stand up from this comfortable grey sofa and ask him to get me my clothes, or I can do what I've wanted to do since the moment I set eyes on him and kiss him.

I'm not delusional. I know the consequences that come with each of these two actions. It's just that I can't decide which would be worse. Which I would regret most fervently. Then, all of a sudden I do. I do know which I'd regret more.

Before another thought moves through my head I move my head toward him and kiss him. As I press my lips against his he opens his mouth and slides his tongue inside me, stroking mine hungrily as he deepens the kiss. Oh my god... I move my whole body towards him and close my eyes and breathe him in, savouring the taste and scent of him in a state of utter abandonment. He moans against my mouth and moves his body into me, his hands coming up to hold my head, one hand on my cheek as the other slides around my neck. 

For moments, maybe hours, maybe even days, I lose myself in Aidan's mouth, in the soft feel of his skin against mine, in the heat of his breath against mine, in the taste of his tongue against mine. It's infused with honey and lemon and the faint nip of whiskey and I know then it will change the way I think about the drink for the rest of my life. With my eyes closed and his mouth on mine, I feel like the last person on earth. Or the second last. No one else and nothing else matters except him and me.

Until suddenly, it does.

The ring on my left hand seems to vibrate and heat, and as he moans again and moves to push me back into the sofa I know I need to stop. I twist my head and push at him, separating our mouths. Then I bring my hand to my lips as though it on its own is to blame for what just happened.

He stares back at me, his lips red and wet and tempting, his eyes glittering and wide, his breathing fast and hard. He's so beautiful it's almost painful to look at. It's not an excuse for what I just did, but it feels like it.

"I... I shouldn't have..." I shake my head. "Christ, I shouldn't have done that.I'm sorry." I stand up from the sofa, immediately feeling more in control as I move out of his body space. As I brush my hand through my hair and shake my head, Aidan simply stares up at me, the side of his mouth twitching playfully.  When his tongue pops out to graze the taste of me from his lips a deep rumble moves over the tops of my thighs.  I swallow and look away from him.

"I should go." I close my eyes and nod. "Yes, I need to go."

"Why?" he asks.

I frown. "Why? what?"

"Why do you have to go?" he narrows his eyes, spreading his legs slightly. He looks smug and pleased with himself.

"You know exactly why I have to go."

He shrugs. "I don't think I do. Tell me, Eloise."

"Stop it, Aidan. I need my clothes, can you get me my clothes, please?"

He doesn't move. Not an inch. He just sits there with his legs open invitingly, nibbling on his lip while staring at me heatedly. "They won't be dry yet," he says. "You're not putting them back on wet."

I feel my face contort. "I'm not a bloody child. I don't care if they're wet or not. Get me my clothes, Aidan. I need to leave."

He sighs and runs a hand over his mouth. Then sits forward, elbows resting on his thighs. "Why do you need to leave. Eloise? Because you kissed me? Or in case you do it again?"

I narrow my eyes on him. Oh, he has no right to sit there and look so bloody innocent. None. Or maybe he does. He hadn't done anything wrong, he isn't married. I'm married. I kissed him. I want to kiss him again. I need to leave.

"My clothes. Now," I demand.

With another sigh, he stands up. But instead of going to get my clothes he takes a step towards me, licking his lips as he does. Lips I now know are soft and warm, demanding and hungry. My thighs clench anew.

"So you made an error of judgement," he says, quiet.  "No need to overreact. You made a tiny little mistake. Let's put it down to the whiskey?"

I stare at him a long time. Memorising every moment of the kiss as I do.

Finally, I let out a breath and shake my head.

"No. It wasn't," I admit. "It wasn't a mistake. I wanted it. I've wanted it for days. I've thought about it for days. About you, for days." I can't seem to stop talking. The words, admissions, keep coming. I don't feel guilty or embarrassed about them either, just relief. "I actually can't remember the last time I wanted something quite so bad as what I just took from you on that couch." I glance down at where my imprint is pressed against the sofa cushions. "That's why you need to get me my clothes and why I need to leave here, Aidan."

He plays over my words for a long moment. "Then I disagree," he says, finally.  "That's why you should stay."

"I'm married."

"Oh, I'm well aware of that, Eloise," he bristles.

"Aidan, I will leave here in these clothes if I have to and I'll resent you for allowing that to happen and for making me look like a bloody fool on the streets of New York."

His nostrils flare and his mouth hardens as he takes a step toward me, his expression heated and inflamed. I'm certain he's going to kiss me. I can actually feel and taste his mouth on mine before he even does it. I long for it.

But then... he doesn't.

I let out a breath as he moves past me, relief and disappointment expelling from my body. I don't watch where he goes. I just stand there, staring straight ahead as I play the entire day's events over in my head. It had been perfect. All of it. Every second up until two minutes ago had been perfect.

Had it all merely been hurtling towards this moment? What I'd told him was the truth. I had wanted to kiss him for days. I'd wanted more than that. I still did.

And what's more, deep down I probably knew what was going to happen the moment I asked Nicole's gallery assistant to get me his phone number.

I realise something then. It's sobering. I don't feel guilty about kissing him. I know I should and I know what I did is wrong but it's purely for that reason that I need to go. But no, I don't feel guilty about kissing him. I feel guilty about lots of things. I was used to feeling guilty. I know what guilt feels like and what I was feeling right now was not guilt.

"Told you, they're still wet," he grumbles as he reappears from my left.

"I'll live," I say taking the damp clothes from him.

"No, you'll get ill.

"Your concern is noted," I mutter as I walk back toward his bedroom again.

With the door closed, I hastily unbutton his shirt and fold it neatly on the bed. Then I slip out of his boxer shorts and lie them on top. Standing there in just my underwear I consider what I'd do if he came into the bedroom right now and came to me. If he wrapped his arms around me and told me that he wasn't going to let me leave and that he wanted me too. I imagine him kissing my neck and the top of my spine as his hands explored my body.  I imagine him fucking me on his bed as the rain continued to pound on the glass above us. I consider how guilty I'd feel after letting him.

Again I come up short.

He doesn't come into the bedroom. I stand there half-naked for what feels like hours, but he doesn't come.

Finally, I pull on my wet disgusting clothes and exit his bedroom. He's leaning back against the sink biting his index finger as I come down the steps. Leaning up off it, he fixes me with a hard stare.

"I don't think I should come back here," I say before he has a chance to speak.

"What are you on about?" He looks bewildered.

"I just... don't think it's a good idea. This, me, here with you."

"Oh, is that right?" He snaps. "Just be honest with yourself, Eloise, for fuck sake."

"This is me being honest, Aidan. It's not a good idea. You know that too, I'm just the only one saying it out loud."

"I know nothing of the fucking sort," he looks incredulous, angry. "I want you here. You want to be here. You're saying this because you feel guilty and confused about what happened. Let's forget it, yeah? No harm no foul." His face is flushed with anger and unsurprisingly it looks more than good on him.

I take my time before speaking, and when I do, it's in a clear calm voice. Unlike his. 

"You don't know how I feel about anything Aidan. You don't know me at all. You've spent a few hours in my company, so please don't kid yourself that this means that you know me." I cross the loft toward the door and lift my leather bag from the kitchen counter. I take a deep breath and turn back to face him. "I'd still like the piece - I had the funds transferred to you this morning. I just won't model for it any longer, I'm sorry. Could you please call me when it's finished?"

He stares at me a long time, too long, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he does. What on earth is he thinking when he looks at me like that? At the moment it's undisguised rage and a strange sort of panic. But what's beneath that? My need to know is almost desperate.

"Fine," he says finally. "I'll have Pat contact you when it's finished. There's a jacket by the door you can take. It's still raining out there." His tone is so bereft of any feeling it makes my insides ache. He turns from me and walks across the loft toward the stairs leading to his studio. "Close the door on your way out," he shouts as he goes.

I stare after him somewhat speechless, the feeling of loss surprising and inexplicable.

I tell the taxi driver to stop a block from the apartment and get out, pulling the hood of his jacket up over my head. I hadn't wanted to take it but the rain was still battering so loudly I knew I'd just look like a stubborn fool if I didn't, and I didn't want him to think that about me.

As I walk I play over the lack of feeling in his voice when he told me to close the door on my way out, but the memory of the kiss is far louder.  It ripples across my lips and through my body like an aftershock. I have no idea how I feel. I try and find a colour to help me but I seem to have forgotten which colours exist. My feelings for Aidan Foley can't be described in colours it seems. It would all be a lot clearer tomorrow. Experience told me that. Things clarified and made sense over time.

The door to the salon is glass with a gold swirling logo on it. I'd been meaning to book an appointment since I got here, and it had been far too long since someone professional had looked at my hair. The young woman behind the counter smiles at me as I come in. Despite it being on the upper east side, she has a friendly smile, not a snooty one like most of the people working on the places on this block. It's busy, but I spot a few spare seats.

"I don't have an appointment sorry," I explain.

"Oh, then you're in luck, we just had a space open up." She glances at my mop of hair and I'm grateful to her for not laughing as she does. A quick look in my compact in the taxi told me it looked horrendous. She takes Aidan's green waterproof jacket and sits me down in one of the chrome and black chairs and wraps the ridiculous cape around my shoulders. The stylist, an attractive red-haired woman, appears behind me a few moments later and smiles a friendly smile at me in the mirror. She sifts through the damp tendrils, nodding a few times before looking at me again.

"So, what are we having done then?"

"I'd like it cut, please. Short," I tell her. "I've had quite enough of it today."