I think about Aidan Foley's eyes all the way home.

The way he'd looked at me made me feel something married women weren't supposed to feel about men who weren't their husbands. His eyes seemed to have burned themselves into my brain. Like when you see a bright image and close your eyes immediately and still see it even when they're closed.

Whether I allowed that to happen or whether I had no choice in the matter I don't know. But he intrigued me.

I'm certain it's not the 'tortured' artist thing. I hope it isn't. Because how bloody clichéd would that be? No, it wasn't that. I'd interviewed the tortured artist type before, for the magazine; the occasional singer/songwriter or actor, and they'd never affected me in the slightest. No, there was something else about Aidan Foley. 

A quiet thoughtfulness. 

A depth.

He looked at me like he could see me. Really see me. See who I was now. And he wasn't disgusted or repelled by what he saw.

How I can even be thinking these things considering I spoke to the guy for all of five minutes, and insulted him for the majority of that time, I don't know. Christ, his impression of me must be far removed from what mine is of him.

Oh to go back. Though I'd more than likely make the same ignorant mistake again. How the hell was I supposed to know who he was?

"El?" Oliver says.

"Sorry, what?" I ask, distracted, turning to face him. In the dark light of the taxi, Oliver looks devilishly handsome. The dark copper of his hair, his jaw darkening with the hint of stubble I rather preferred on him, the roguish glint in his eyes. Very different from the immaculately put together banker I saw every morning.

"I was asking if tonight was as bad as you thought? As dreadful as you imagined? I do know how much you hate that kind of thing."

"Then why do you make me go?" I ask. "If you know I hate them?"

His brow furrows. "Because you're my wife, El, and I'm sick of making fucking excuses for why you're never with me." His tone is cold and I regret immediately asking the question.

He's right.

It's been almost 3 months since we moved out here and tonight was only my second evening out in a social capacity. He must have asked me to a dozen events, some with Jordan and Nicole, some with his boss, some corporate work events he was expected to attend, and a dozen times I'd refused. He'd been mainly patient. He'd allowed me to hide and grieve.

I lean forward, placing my hand on his thigh and touch my lips to his. As we kiss, he puts his hand over mine and pulls them both up between his thighs, squeezing my hand over him gently. Through his expensive trousers, I feel him harden under my touch.

"I know," I whisper. "I'm sorry. I'm trying — I'll try harder."

He says nothing in response, just moves his mouth onto mine again, stroking my tongue with his as he moves to hold my face in his hands. He tilts his hips up into his growing erection and I feel his breathing quicken as he groans softly against my mouth.

As he does this Aidan Foley floats unbidden into my mind and I can't help but wonder what it would feel like to kiss him in the back of a taxi. Hands and mouths touching, passion building, need growing. A soft moan escapes my mouth at the thought and my thighs clench and tingle of their own accord.

Our backseat embrace is halted when the taxi comes to a stop in front of our elegant brownstone building. Oliver pays the driver as I step out and walk toward the door.

Trey, one of the four alternate doormen is on duty tonight and he smiles and opens the door for me as I approach. He's tall and broad and reminds me of a large bear. He's probably my favourite of our doormen if I had to choose. He has a deep rumbling voice with a southern accent I could listen to for hours.

"Good evening, Mrs Alford," he says with a warm smile.

"Hello Trey, Oliver is just coming — he's paying the driver," I reply with what I hope is a warm tone. A non-snooty tone. It unnerves me that we live in a building which has doormen. It feels unwholesome. Like having a servant. Or like going to pee in those places which have toilet attendants. I hate those places. I don't want to be made to feel guilty for the privilege of using soap.

Trey nods and tips his hat to me, and I make my way past him to the two lifts. Pressing the call button, I glance upwards to the old fashioned counter and watch it begin to descend from the 8th floor. The arm making its way slowly across the half-circle.

A moment later Oliver appears at my side and slips his arms around me to pull him into his body. As he leans in to kiss the top of my head I gaze at our reflection in the brass doors. We look good together, he and I. Oliver is tall with a good physique - one he works hard at each morning in the building gym - with dark copper hair that goes a little lighter in the sun. I'm a few inches shorter, pale and slender with long strawberry blonde hair. A nice compliment to him. I always like us in photos together.

Yes, from the outside, we make an attractive couple.

When the lift opens with a 'ding' I get in first and stand at the back as Oliver pushes the button for 10 and comes to stand by my side, sliding his arm around my waist to pull me into him. I lean my head on his shoulder and close my eyes, enjoying the feel of his hand stroking the small of my back.

I'm exhausted. I'm always bloody exhausted. After it happened I'd spent about two months sleeping. Mainly because I was tired, but also because sleeping was the only thing that made me forget, the only thing that stopped the guilt that was smothering me. No that wasn't right. It didn't stop it smothering me. It merely hushed it for a few hours.

"Tonight wasn't that bad," I murmur sleepily. Oliver kisses the top of my head again.

We exit the lift and walk in silence to the door of the place we now called 'home', though as he unlocks the door and holds it open for me I know as I always know that this place, this cold duplex on the upper east side of Manhattan will never feel like a home.

I leave Oliver to lock the door and walk down the long hallway to our bedroom, the motion sensor lights illuminating the large room with views out over the park.

The view from the balcony was one of the things I did like about this place. That and the dressing room come walk-in wardrobe. A ridiculous luxury that I'd actually rolled my eyes at the first time I saw it.

But I missed our house at home. Our Garden. I resented that at this very moment it was being occupied by complete strangers, that they called it 'home'. I missed London. I missed black cabs. I missed Hyde Park. I missed the rain. I missed the coffee shops and book shops of Hampstead. I missed the park. Central Park wasn't Hyde Park. New York wasn't London. This wasn't home.

This was a hotel. A large expensive suite in a magnificent five-star hotel. I doubted I'd ever stop thinking that. That our stay here was only temporary. Maybe because I'd never decorated it and it was just here in all its glory when we arrived that cold Friday evening in February. When Oliver was offered the job, the apartment came with it. It felt more like a condition of employment than a home.

I didn't belong here, I knew that much.

I'm taking off my earrings when Oliver appears behind me. He's removed his jacket and is leaning against the doorway casually as he undoes his tie, watching me hungrily in the mirror of my dressing table.

"You looked very beautiful tonight, wife," he says smiling.

I slide my pearl drop earrings back in the top drawer of my porcelain jewellery box. A second-anniversary gift from Oliver.

"Past tense?" I smile.

He grins and shakes his head, moving toward me. "Always."

"Good save... Thank you, husband. You looked very handsome."

He drapes his red tie over the chair and comes to stand behind me placing his hands on my shoulders. Squeezing them softly, he massages them a moment before bending his head to touch his lips to my neck. He kisses a hot trail across my shoulder as he slides his hands softly down my arms and lower, across my stomach and down. As he meets my eye in the mirror he begins to slowly slide my dress up my thighs.

"I need you tonight, El baby..." He whispers in my ear. "I need this.'

I close my eyes and let out a slow breath I didn't know I was holding as he places another kiss to the side of my neck, higher, behind my ear. My nipples harden in response.

Sex. Sex with Oliver had been rare since... Our sex life these days was a rarity. A problem since before we'd had a very active one. Things were different now though. We were different. At least I certainly was.

I felt guilty about neglecting him, of course, I did. I thought about it a lot. I felt guilty about it often. But I felt guilty about lots of things. He didn't understand that part. The guilt. He just thought I was grieving. Like him. But there was more. Oliver didn't know the half of it. But then, Oliver didn't really know me.

Thankfully, he hadn't pushed our having sex. He told me he understood. But I knew men worked differently. Sex and emotion could be separated by men. Oliver could make love to me and not think about anything else except making love to me. And god how I wished I could do that. How I wished I could separate sex and Oliver from every other emotion I had gnawing at me inside.

I turn around to face him and take his face in both my hands.

"I need it too," I whisper. What I really mean is that I will give him what he needs. Tonight I'd be his wife.

He moves quick and lifts me up onto the dressing table which thankfully doesn't wobble under my weight, though I hear a few bottles topple as I knock against them.

Oliver's hands slide under my dress and he hooks his fingers into my knickers and pulls them quickly down my legs. Sliding me forward to the edge of the table, he kisses me hard, ferocious almost, biting at my lips through rough heavy breaths.

So I guess we weren't doing foreplay tonight. Maybe that was a good thing. I begin to unbutton his shirt and kiss my way down his stubbled jaw to his neck as he slides two fingers deep inside me, making me gasp loud. My body resists him at first, dry and dormant for so long, but soon I feel the heat of his fingers spread, softening, demanding.

"Fuck, I've missed you so much, you have no idea..." he breathes. "I need you... I need my wife..." he fumbles with the zip at the back of my dress, pulling it down enough so he can expose my shoulders and breasts to him. He lowers his head and takes my nipple in his mouth, sucking it hard and desperately, before biting it softly. I push his shirt off his shoulders and drag my hands down his hard body to the buckle of his belt, fumbling clumsily.

At this point, Oliver loses patience. He removes his mouth from my breast and pulls his fingers from inside me to unbuckle and unzip his own trousers. As his trousers drop to his ankles, he pushes down his boxers to free himself, stroking his hand over the head of his generously sized cock for a moment. He's hard. Needy. Another pang of guilt hits me. Yes, I'd definitely neglected him. My husband. I'd been a terrible wife.

I'd reasoned that it was understandable given what we'd gone through but still, husbands had needs. Wives were supposed to meet them. That's how it worked. He provided for me, loved me, needed me. I owed him the same. Suddenly with an urgency of my own, I pull him towards me and kiss him hard. Then I take him in my hand, stroking him softly from root to tip until he's panting hard with need against my throat.

"I need you,' I moan. "I need you inside me right now." This time I mean it.

The soft pool of heat that had started earlier in the pit of my belly suddenly begins to gain strength and I part my legs for him. He groans and moves forward, wrapping his arm around the base of my spine to pull me closer. I wrap my arms up around his neck as he enters me with one forceful thrust. Because I'm not ready for him, and because of his size, the shock and roughness of it makes me gasp.

"El, fuck..." he moans as he pulls out before ramming himself in again. He grabs one of my breasts with his hand and brings the other to his mouth as he begins to thrust in long hard strokes, groaning loudly as he does. His cock hits deep on each inward thrust, just on the cusp of painful, and soon my body begins to heat and soften, moistening and moulding around him. "I missed you so much... I love you... God... I love you," he moans as he licks and suckles my breast. I drop my head back and arch my hips up to meet him on each movement, wrapping my legs tight around his waist.

I think too much as Oliver fucks me. Like I always do of late. Except this time, my thoughts aren't depressing, or morose. This time my thoughts are exclusively of large, blue/grey eyes. They're also of a neat pink mouth that right now I want to feel on the most tender intimate parts of me as long graceful fingers move across my skin. I feel my orgasm rise at the same time as Oliver's. He grips my hair and pulls my head back hard to bite on my bottom lip. My hips buckle and my insides clench as a delicious warmth erupts inside me at the same time Oliver orgasms with all the force of a man possessed. Or a man denied.

He pours himself into me, hot powerful spurts that seem endless. His orgasm goes on and on as he grips onto me whispering how much he loves me, how perfect I am, and how much he'd missed me. How much he needed me. That he was sorry. I keep my eyes closed and tell him I love him too, as I grab onto his strong powerful shoulders while my climax subsides.

I wonder then how Aidan Foley would feel inside me, and what kind of lover he'd be. Whether he'd be quick and rough, or slow and smooth. Or both. My insides clench once more and I moan softly against Oliver's hair. Surprisingly, I feel no guilt about these thoughts. Perhaps there was no room left for any more guilt.

When Oliver finally withdraws from me, his semen seeps out with him, dampening the inside of my thighs and my dressing table. He stands and smiles, his eyes glazed and sparkling from latent arousal. His hair is ruffled and his mouth swollen as he stares at me with desire breathing shallow breaths. I do the same as I stare back at him feeling malleable and warm.

My husband is an attractive man. A very attractive man. I'm still attracted to him. I saw the way other women looked at him and it made me proud. Proud that he was mine. That he wanted me. That he loved me. So why did I feel so empty when he filled me now? Was it because I was empty now? Why had it taken thinking about another man to climax tonight? But then, Oliver hadn't made me orgasm for almost 9 months. I knew there was nothing coincidental about that timeframe.

"I missed you." He says as he steps out of his trousers. I smile at him as I slide down off the dressing table, and step forward to kiss him.

"Me too," I say pulling back, adjusting my dress.

"I love you," He smiles.

"Me too," I say softly.

I'm grateful when Oliver leaves me to shower alone, lifting his discarded clothes from the floor and exiting the room. I make the water as hot as I can take, and I stand under the powerful spray and give myself over fully to illicit thoughts about Aidan Foley. They're unstoppable. And I let them pour over me. I think about his mouth, and those eyes and the way he looked at me with them. I think about the sound of his voice and the contrast of the hair on his face against the smoothness of his skin.

I realise then why I can't stop thinking about him. The realisation is like a slap in the face - it wakes me up. I can't stop thinking about him because he's the only thing that's made me feel even remotely alive since it happened. The heat coursing through my body since I left the gallery was his doing. The excitement fluttering and buzzing under my skin is his fault too. Even my lingering embarrassment at what happened earlier had chased away some of the dark thoughts and feeling taking up space inside me. Which meant one thing.

I have to see him again.

Even if it was just to figure out why he'd had such an effect on me. Even if it was for him to tell me what a stuck up ignorant bitch I was for insulting something he had put his heart and soul into.

The idea is bright and blinding as it bursts into life in my mind. Yes, that would absolutely work. As the plan takes shape, the warm tingling starts building again in my stomach. Aidan bloody Foley. What is it about you? Right then I decide to make it my mission to find out.