I thought the winter break would lessen my passion for you, that the winter testing ban would give me the space and solitude that I needed to systematically remove you from every aspect of my life, to purge my waking thoughts of this obsession. But for all my good intentions and promises that I would keep my distance, it all crumbled when you marched over to me in the garage after the press conference with a look of mischievous indignation and flushed with adrenaline from your victory, wrapping your strong arms around my neck and telling me that this is what you wanted. And, reading my mind with startling clarity, you told me with concrete conviction that you knew this is exactly what I wanted, no what I needed, so I should shut up my half-hearted protests and kiss you, to make up for my childish ignorance of you in Australia when I spurned your advances for the sake of my sanity.

So, I did what you told me, as I always have done, and I kissed you, paying scant regard to anything other than you in my arms, the taste of champagne on your lips, on your heated skin and causing your hair to damply stick to your forehead, making you all the more tousled and alluring.

I know I’m not supposed to love you, irrationally doting over you and behaving little more than an old lovesick fool over my young and so very maddening lover. Yet, I’m helpless when you are near me, and I suddenly feel as if the years have tumbled off me, leaving behind an intense longing for you and a burning desire to touch you.

Yet, with age comes wisdom, and I’m not so blind with adoration not to see how you have me wrapped around your little finger, carefully invading my life only to hover tantalisingly out of my full reach even as you kissed me in front of your mechanics, in front of your other lover and your bosses as if you couldn’t care less that they saw.

Why are you doing this? The many nights I’ve lain back trying to imagine just why you are playing this game with me. I don’t expect you to love me, though you’ve still told me you do, probably your little concession to a desperate guy in love. But still I don’t understand you. I don’t understand why you have to flaunt your manipulation of me, my infatuation for you, in the ways that you do.

Do you tell him that you love him too, like you told Jenson before him and god knows who else? And does he believe you with the same naïve and trusting nature that I have been guilty of? Because I did believe ... once. How could I not? Your words were soft, sweet, seductive, and I believed every promise that left your angelic lips, backed up by those beautiful blue eyes that just made me hopelessly addicted to you and let me drown in your insincerity.

But you always were a beautiful liar, weren’t you. Because who could disbelieve that saccharine smile? And I so wanted to believe you, believe in your apparent sincerity because I refused to think that you were simply manipulating me, that whilst you wrapped your muscular arms and toned legs around me in the private serenity of a faceless hotel room, you were anything but mine. No, I was yours, your plaything, the guy you slept with for you own amusement, the guy who would do anything you asked of him, no questions asked. The guy who would let you get away with murder and who would come running back at the click of your fingers. 

You never tried to convince me that my suspicions were unfounded, never assured me of the honesty of your emotions. You would murmur declarations of love under my teasing kisses as they explored the contours of your sculptured body. You would cry my name at the height of pleasure and scream you love me. Yet, you lie, you always have done. You love what I do to you, love the way I adore every inch of your body, pleasuring you, ravishing you to prove to you how much I need you. But it isn’t love. Not for you. That is my folly alone and one I chide myself for absolutely. Yet, seeing the pleasure I give you reflected in your contorted expression and the tremor in your voice as you groan and murmur, barely aware of anything but those absorbing sensations, I deceive myself that this is enough. To have you in my arms, in my bed crying my name insincerely, enveloping me with your arms and kisses is better than the agony of not having you at all.

Which is why I tolerate your failings, your manipulation of me, the way you don’t hide your brash and carefree infidelity. And so you keep doing it, knowing you can get away with hell because I am so head over heels for you that I will forgive you for anything. Even when I saw you in the arms of the team mate you have always said you hate with a vengeance, when it was his arms, his lips, his body on yours, and when you simply looked at me and told me you were sleeping with him, after the anger and disgust passed I took you back and told you that I wouldn’t let you go for anything. I gave you a mandate to carry on behind my back with whoever you please because I couldn’t stop you for fear of losing you completely. Nothing but a possession, the balance didn’t even alter in the bedroom when riling me up with your misdemeanours to provoke a reaction, that familiar smirk would curve on your lips accompanied with a growl of pleasure when I pinned you roughly down, aching to hear an admonish of guilt from you but in the end only able to give into the overwhelming urge to be inside you, to kiss you, make love to you. To possess you physically as consolation as capturing you emotionally has always been beyond my grasp. Of this, you are completely aware.

Do you laugh at my naivety? Probably. Do I care? Only partly. You see, I can think of countless excuses for your behaviour, acting the apologist so that you don’t have to tell me lies. Blame the failings on your youth, my possessiveness, but most of all I tell myself that I am lucky to even be this close to you. After all, what do you see in me? You keep coming back to me, letting me hold you, caress you, do things to you that I’ve only ever dreamed of doing to you before. If you had no sort of feelings for me, why would you still be here?

I know I’m deluding myself, but the taste of your lips, the sensation of your naked skin on mine and your whispered words is my ear, I could never give you up. You dictate my actions and desires, disposing of my rationale and common-sense, running rings around me leaving me dizzy, confused but utterly enthralled.

I’m not supposed to feel like this, but I couldn’t have it any other way.

~The End.