Innocent. Yes, we have never been lovers, I have never even touched him nor would I let him get that close. Not once, no matter how much I wanted to. And no matter how desperately he would try to persuade me to the contrary. So, you won’t get me to admit my folly, not when my only crime is dreaming of whimsical possibilities. If that is punishable, then surely he should be more reprimanded than I for where I idly dream, all his thoughts are turned towards its culmination; he is far more sure of what we should be and less so much fettered by of all my restraints. Yes, I may be older, and with age wisdom is supposed to follow. The age old adage of ‘you should know better’, but whoever first made that claim surely didn’t have to contend with a demanding beauty enflaming his senses with sensual promises of pleasure and exploration without having to utter a word. It is forever a losing battle, fighting off his advances, denying our true colours, and every time we are together I feel my resolve slipping another tantalising notch. No, that body laid out in teasing display for me is enough to tear down the resistance of almost anyone - pale, well-toned, a shock of blond tousled hair with cornflower blue eyes drenched in misplaced innocence and full scarlet lips begging to be touched and tasted. To taste them. God, that thought has haunted my sleep for so long now that I cannot remember the last time a night passed without troubled thoughts.

And he knows it, probably wanting this even more than I, or at least he is much more overt in his demands than I would ever dare to be. The one to maintain the lingering glances, the affectionate touches, coy smiles and often suggestive comments when I am always the more nervous, too preoccupied with the fear of inciting strange looks from others, that they might somehow guess what goes on behind closed doors.

But never more than that. He is careful in his slow methodical seduction, surprising when he has always been the more impatient and demanding of the two of us. From the outside, I doubt that anyone would ever notice anything untoward. Just innocent, playful behaviour for the camera and for our private moments as we play to unspoken rules, follow sub-conscious boundaries that even he has not yet crossed and I could never initiate; though if he gains the courage and confidence to break the laws we have made for ourselves then I could only weakly be dragged over with him because though I know it is wrong, it’s an alluring prospect which arouses more than mere curiosity.

This is as close as we have been, in all our years. Oh, there have been times where for a moment we have forgotten ourselves and perhaps pushed back the boundaries a little too far. Usually aided with alcohol to loosen the tongue and relax inhibitions; when conversation has turned to more worrying areas we have got close to giving words to ... this, I don’t even know what to call what we have. But that is all they have been, moments, seconds, minutes, nothing lasting and restraint has always held firm and we have pulled ourselves apart, turned to safer topics and denied the truths we cannot admit by charades - that we want each other in the most basic of ways. Our words are many, light, sometimes they take on a more serious form, but always they are doubled edged and that second meaning is what gives us such an illicit thrill. Not what we are doing, but what we know we want to do, all the words we do not say.

Tonight, though, no words are needed to convey our clandestine meaning. All the pretence in the world cannot disguise it, even denial as strong and resolute as mine when I know that this is fabulously wrong. As close as we’ve ever been, both spiritually and physically. I don’t really remember how we got this far, lying out together, as close as you can get without touching, the conversation long since over and replaced with this charged and knowing silence. And I really don’t know what will happen next. Those rosy pouting lips are inches from mine on our shared pillow so I can feel the soft tickling sensation of warm breath on my face, those striking cobalt blue eyes hypnotic as they gaze challengingly at me, framed with soft lashes and dusty blond waves that I long to run my fingers through.

A case of who can make the first move, if either of us dare.

I want him. Unquestionably. Achingly aroused, he would only have to shift mere centimetres closer in his position and he would realise just how much. The stuff of dreams, of reaching out to touch him, see him arch in consent if I gently pushed him on to his back and took that first kiss from his lips. Yet, it shouldn’t be possible. I should love him, but desire him - I cannot believe I feel this way, that it is at all possible. And what he feels ... I’m not sure my turbulent mind can find any sense in that.

Something must give. Already, I see the uncomfortable and impatient tension in his sapphire eyes. Oh, at least his worry is enough to provide some reassurance for me for I’m considerably more lost in this than he. Waiting for some sort of sign from me, perhaps, to spur him on to a reckless move. I cannot give him that, no, my guilt that this is wrong won’t allow me to play an active role in this initiation. I don’t think we should do this but I will not stop him, will not refuse his advances if he makes a bold move. The coward’s way out, or perhaps not. I just secretly hope that tonight will not just be another of our so close but so far moments, too fleeting, too unsatisfactory. I am just not sure that if he touches me I won’t flinch and we will be back to square one, side-stepping our desires and avoiding our responsibilities because I cannot allow myself to take that extra step. Or at least I don’t think I can.

So, the onus must lie on him. Selfish, I know. I should take as much equal responsibility for this as he, but I see the consequences, I have responsibilities for him that he lacks for me. I cannot let my conscience feel that I have taken advantage of the person I have yearned to protect throughout his life.

Yet, he is so beautiful, charming, intelligent, both fragile and incredibly strong-willed, that if we go no further than this, the disappointment that I will harbour will haunt me for the rest of my life. And a life full of what might have beens is a life troubled and unfulfilled. He makes me admit that perhaps a little guilt is worth the certainty of his touch, a few risks necessary to remind me of how much we do want to explore this.

To know what he is thinking might be a reassurance, to know if all these thoughts find their parallel in his conscience. Does he angst over the morality, over the consequences? Or is his restraint borne more out of recognition of my own uncertainties?

Minutes pass, the only mark of their departure from the changing numbers of the neon alarm clock on the bedside cabinet, but their passing is barely noticed, seeping from seconds, to minutes, to possibly hours. I’m not sure. I don’t really care either. And despite my anxieties, my worries about us, I feel more at peace, more comfortable lying here with him than I have with anyone else I can think of. Which in itself should be a concern. But there has never been any awkwardness around us, in spite of this whatever it is. If anything, it has kept us closer. And when he rests a hesitant hand on my hip, giving me plenty of time to brush him off and consider the consequences of such a small gesture, all I can think is that this is inevitable. When I don’t flinch, an arm slides possessively around my waist, all the time two bold sapphire eyes watch me for my reaction. And then the most brazen of actions, he pulls himself closer until we touch, a faint smile curving on his lips when, on reflex, my arm slips around his waist as now we are inescapably interlocked, his leg hooking around mine to keep me close against him, so much so that I can feel the rise and fall of his chest with every panted nervous, aroused breath he takes.

He looks at me again, this times his eyes sweet with hope and hesitancy, as if we are both about to come to our senses and realise the full nature of these actions. Worried that we have got so far and I am going to back out of it. I know I shouldn’t go any further, and perhaps on any other night I wouldn’t, but the mesmerising silence, the warm comforting feeling of being in his arms and holding him feels so natural that he manages to overwhelm me without saying a thing.

I don’t know who initiates it, who breaks out of this trance first and takes the plunge, but some indescribable moments later we share our first kiss, lying together in a dimly lit room, absorbed in each other.

Innocent until proven guilty. And the only witnesses are these four walls, in a dark anonymous hotel room. Even if walls could talk, who would believe what they have seen?

And I feel not a trace of guilt for doing it.

~The End.