A/N: In a sense, this story, writing style wise, is based off of "Brokeback Mountain" the short story. If the time jumps are too confusing, please let me know. Oh hell, I want your review regardless, so please give it to me :D

"Fade to Black"

"Damn it, Wesley! Give me some privacy!" Sarah yelled to the locked bathroom door, cutting off her husband of years multiple you okay?

Do you have the tests?

Want me to come with you?

I can time it if you want.

God, he was annoying.

In the beginning, she'd thought she could stand his utter boringness for the simple fact that he was a trust fund kid. Instead of traveling at their leisure, living it up, he'd decided he wanted to become a teacher, of all things. She just couldn't understand why he would even bother. But as the years rolled on, she began to find ways to pass the time he was gone all those hours, day after lousy day… Wes didn't know of her playmate, of course.

Of that, she was sure.

But even that began to lose its allure. After five years of marriage, and at age thirty-five, she found her maternal instincts kick in.

She wanted a baby.

His baby, more importantly.

He was intelligent and good looking after all, and she had no doubt that he would be a great father to her child.

After seven months of trying, she found herself once again in the bathroom, waiting for test results.

She was looking down at the plastic stick, holding it tensely between her thumb and forefinger. Her face, once full of nervous apprehension, rapidly fell once realization marinated in as she saw one lonely pink line across the window.

It took three seconds for her knees to give, and she spun and collapsed on the toilet seat, mouth slightly parted open.

Shock overrode despair, temporarily.

And then the tears came.

She said she wanted to be alone. He didn't particularly agree with her, but he respected her wishes all the same, and waited patiently on the other side of the wooden bathroom door.

It was much too quiet.

The only sounds he could hear was that of his own breathing, and the creaking floorboards beneath his feet as he occasionally shifted his wait around.

Curiosity getting the better of him, he crept downward to his knees, wincing slightly as a bone popped, sounding so loud in the silent hallway, and then continuing his descent until he was kneeling before the keyhole. Not willing to scratch his glasses, he took them off of his face, folding them carefully, and then hanging them in the V of his button down shirt. Bracing each hand on opposite sides of the door frame, he leaned forward, squinting through the skeleton keyhole. The feel of the rounded, brass doorknob was an annoyance on his forehead, but was well worth the discomfort.

He saw her standing at the sink, hands braced on either ends of it as she leaned upon the marble surface--much like he was doing out in the hall. Only her eyes were closed. He could see as much from her reflection in the mirrors, for her long, blonde hair hid her face like a golden drape, locking him out even further from her emotions.

He was quite thankful for that mirror.

Several minutes passed, and his forty-one year old knees began to feel quite numb. But then she moved. She stood up stiffly, picking up the test, peering at it. Before he had the chance to read into her look of shock, she dipped downward, then spun around to the left, and out of his view. From the sound of a soft plop, he guessed she sat down on the ceramic lid of the toilet. Putting his ear to the door, he heard something clatter on the black marble tiles of the floor before hearing his wife five years his junior burst into tears.

They did not sound like tears of joys.

He thumped his forehead, once, twice against the door, upset and aggravated, before leaning back onto his haunches, fingers digging briefly into the tops of his muscular thighs. He relaxed his hands, stiffly rising to his feet, and then standing in one swift, fluid motion with as much grace as a dancer with a Julliard degree. He wiped harshly at his face, over the closed lids that housed his tearful blue eyes, with the back of his left hand, and then walked towards the stairs, practically running down, not caring how much noise he made now.

He wished to disturb the quiet.

It was a ritual with them--going seven months strong. His wife would not want to be comforted. In fact, if he showed any grief whatsoever, she would only lash out at him--physically, verbally. Emotionally. So he headed to his refuge.

His study.

Full of leather bound books, classics and so forth, a fire place, and alcohol. Hell, he could even house himself in darkness there, if he so desired. Which he often did, of course. There were large windows that went from floor to ceiling, and a balcony that overlooked their spacious backyard, but there were also heavy, maroon drapes to obliterate the outside world, including its harsh light of day.

He closed the door behind him, leaning against the frame much like he did upstairs, deciding on whether or not to lock the door. He wanted to--lock her out as she did him each time, but he always didn't, hoping like hell that she would finally come to him, so that they could get through it together.

But he knew she would not.

She would not share the pain, nor would she bother opening the door to see what he was up to, or seek his arms for comfort. She did not desire it.

So he left it unlocked.

He pushed back, turning, and heading towards the large hearth. He turned up the gas, feeling a tremor of satisfaction as the flames came to life, licking at the bricks. He glanced at the cart in the corner, and the bottle that housed a dark, amber liquid.

He had all of the heat and desire he needed right here.

It had become abundantly clear--she had made him fit for a pair of antlers.

As of late, she had not been faithful to him.

He discovered this on his own, of course. He did not need to see her adulterous ways in the flesh, for he had seen it in her eyes; in her walk; in her entire demeanor. He now knew why she pushed him away so readily.

She did not love him anymore.

She couldn't possibly, could she? Love him, and yet hurt him in such a manner? No, she couldn't. And even if she did, it would not matter, for he could not forgive her.

Would not.

She had committed the ultimate betrayal in his eyes.

For the past five years, he had taken care of her, loved her, respected and doted upon her. And when she had been unable to give him children, he simply loved her more. And what did he get in return? Her scorn, her hatred…Her venom. And yet, he remained still by her side. She was his wife, was she not?

But it mattered not to her. No.

She had decided it best to hurt him in the very core of his being--his insides gnawed and ripped apart by emotions he could not fully comprehend.

She had broken his heart.

Such a painful, wrenching thing--the breaking of one's heart. How was he to move on from there? How was he to rectify that which could not be undone?

How could he forgive her?

He could not.

Not that she had asked for it. But if she had, he would not have been able to give it to her. He had given everything else already--all of himself. There was nothing left. Especially not divinity. How could there be, in this shell of a man? Broken, beaten, bloody and cold on the inside? Rotted out flesh and decaying innards.

No, she would find no forgiveness here. Only death, and the disease that some may call love.


It had all been a lie.

She had never loved him--never even conceived the idea of it. She had always shut him out, leaving him in the darkness… He desperately hoped that the dark was not where he was meant to remain. He hoped for an angel to deliver him to redemption.

Three days--it had been three days since he had realized the truth. And he had yet to do anything about it. He'd gotten up, gotten dressed, and went to work for the last three days as if nothing were amiss.

It was driving him insane.

On that third day, he couldn't bear the pressure completely. That was the day he started adding vodka to his coffee on his lunch break. It made it easier. It mae it bearable. It made him warm.

He didn't feel like going to the lunch room or the teacher's lounge as he usually did. He had his special drink for one, and another, he didn't find himself to be particularly hungry. He sipped from his navy blue mug, taking out a box of new, golden, unsharpened number two pencils from his desk drawer and got to work.

One by one, he transformed their blunt ends to fine, pointed tips with his electric sharpener. After finishing with the last one, he held them together in his two hands, all five sharpened, lead tips pressing into the softness of his left palm, their blunt erasers digging harmlessly into his right. His grip tightened on both ends, and he pulled downward on the pencils, ignoring the stabbing pin pricks in his left palm. He grit his teeth, and one lead tip gave and broke off, the remaining four steadily digging into his skin. And then all five snapped in their middles, the remaining sharpened ends of lead scratching down his palm, leaving dark gray streaks in their wake. One pierced deep enough below the surface to cause blood to form, though the red liquid never breached the whorled flesh.

He dropped the broken halves, slightly entertained by the hollow clatter they made upon impact on his desk. He turned his palms upward, and noticed on the right that there was an angular cut of thick skin towards the middle--probably from a jagged piece of metal beneath one of the erasers.

He looked at his left palm, and solemnly took in the pencil marks left behind, and hated how disappointed he was that there wasn't more blood shed. He laughed mirthlessly, resting his face in his hands--his slightly damaged palms cradling his sharp, angular cheeks. And, by their own volition, his hands moved toward the center of his face, close to his aquiline nose, fingers going beneath the rims of his wire thin frames, and then reached upward, knocking them off of his face, his palms digging into his closed lids.

And he cried.

He was startled out of his grief, however, when he heard the door open. It was his student--Madison Morgan. She was one of his favorite students--all A's and a few B's, pleasant, and generally didn't need to be coerced into class participation, but wasn't one of those know it alls who rose their hand at every turn.

But she was also more than that.

He thought it was cute, the little crush she had on him. He could see it in her dark brown, almond shaped eyes ever since the first time they met. That is, when she was finally able to meet his eyes without a nervous little smile, or looking away completely.

He just knew she had been blushing.

This was her second year as his English student--last year in honors American literature, and now for her final year of high school, honors World Literature. He looked at her--nothing but legs in her short, dark blue denim skirt, white tennis shoes and ankle socks, and a form fitting baby T in their school colors of blue and gray with "School Zone--Why am I Here?" emblazoned across her modest chest.

He'd be lying if he said he'd never noticed her before. She was a lovely young woman, after all, even if she was his student.

And she was in fact his student.

But after the drinking and emotional devastation of the past week, and her inquiry to his well being, he realized that right then in that moment, he couldn't bring himself to care.

It had been a over a year since she last had a gym and health class, and it was there, in her sophomore year that they'd had a seminar on suicide prevention. Dance therapy and activities had been presented, and the instructors showed the most clichéd signs of depression to look out for--heaving sighs, forlorn looks, passing on all things fun, slouching when you sit (accompanied by looking "lost" as one did so), and yada, yada, yada. Though Mr. Williams didn't exactly meet those criteria, he didn't have his usual enthusiasm and zest for teaching and doling out reading assignments. His exuberance that had existed day after day for the past year and couple of

months was gone, replaced with half smiles and a strange lack of homework and projects, which were hard to complain about, but still.

It was obvious Mr. Williams was drowning.

"Mr. Williams? I was wondering, uh..." She paused, watching as he tried to hide his tears. She had been about to ask him about the upcoming paper, but upon seeing his overt sadness, her ruse flew out the window.

The tears had been a cold shock.

Instead of beating around the bush, she finished her question with, "...Wondering if you're okay? You just seem...I don't mean to pry. I just wanted to know if you're alright," she explained, walking slowly towards him. She saw his heavy, dark brows furrow at that, and he turned his head towards her. He stood up slowly, damp, cobalt eyes staring at her unblinkingly. She took in his parted mouth, his thin upper lip separated from the angular, plush bottom one, and it made her heart quicken. She swallowed, cursing herself for being all lame, letting her big, girly crush on him affect her. This was important, and so not about her. He needed help. She didn't know if she could do anything, but she was willing to try. Even if it was to just listen.

"You...wanted to know how I was feeling? You wanted to check on me?" he asked in a whisper, shocked awe coloring his face.

"Yeah. I mean, you just seemed so--"

"You've been watching me?" His voice was low and raw, and made her shudder internally. She didn't know how to answer him.


"I've seen you, watching me. You like me."

She lowered her eyes, feeling her skin flush and her pulse race.

"Uh, Mr. Williams--"

"Call me Wes," he demanded in a heady whisper. She gasped when his hands shot out, grabbing her wide hips, and then tilting his head up slightly to make up for the one inch difference between them in height, pressing his lips firmly to hers. Her eyes widened as she became stupefied as to what was actually occurring.

Her teacher, Mr. Williams, was kissing her. Passionately. Wantonly. Chock full of intensity and ardor. When she opened her mouth to ask "What," he took the opportunity to thrust inside, slowly massaging her tongue with his, invading her mouth with his warmth and wetness, with the taste of coffee and vodka.

Suddenly, her question didn't seem so important.

His hands traveled up her back, caressing, before going down again, pulling her by the hips so that her pelvis was flush against his. She moaned involuntarily at the feeling of his hardness pressing so intimately against her.

Height difference aside, they were perfectly aligned.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, thinking Oh...god, and wondering if it was all an elaborate dream. Her fingers crept up the back of his neck, and into his thick, dark brown, wavy hair. She had longed to do that for so--


Seventh period lunch was officially over. It was five minutes until it was time for her class.

With him.

They pulled apart slowly. The expression on his face was one full of remorse, as if the wretched bell had broken the spell. And maybe it had, since he looked so...as if he were about to apologize. She swallowed, and turned around quickly, taking long strides to the door.

She didn't want him to apologize; she didn't want him to be sorry.

She didn't want him to regret that kiss. After all...

She didn't.

She turned away--left before he could utter a word.

What have I done? he thought, leaning back against his desk, heaving a more than weary sigh. He never lost control like that.


"What the fuck have I done?" he muttered to himself, turning and sitting at his seat once again. Glancing at the stack of graded papers on the right side corner of his desk, he grabbed them, impulsively flipping through them, until he found Madison Morgan's.

Taking out a red pen, he began to write…

The last time she'd been kissed had been some random guy at the last party she went to. As per usual, she'd had this strong craving to be touched and held intimately by a member of the opposite sex, and found a pretty steady outlet for her sexual frustrations with strangers at parties. It wasn't as if she had a boyfriend to feel guilty about (hence the need for tactile contact and otherwise in the first place), nor was she having sex with any of these random young men, for she deemed such acts as dipping off during a party to get laid in some closet or bathroom or alley ho-acious, but also because she didn't fancy losing her virginity in such a crude manner. The fact of the matter was that she was a warm blooded, sexual being, who happened to be single. With the aide of her alter ego, Autumn Brown, she got felt up or fingered on occasion by some cute guy who she didn't have to worry about seeing again on account of attending a different school (that is, if he was in fact a high school student). Though those instances were fun, they could not compare even remotely to Mr. Williams.

To Wes.

Her lips still tingled, as she walked briskly to her locker. She had less than five minutes to get her book bag and lit books before she had to return to room 303--for World Literature with Mr. Williams.
She grinned stupidly to herself, licking her lips and swallowing his lingering taste. Her schoolgirl crush fantasies had come to life.

It was strange and yet an incredible sense of euphoria overcame her. She wasn't sure what to think about that, and decided to just think of it in the most simplest of ways: She liked Wes, Wes kissed her, and it was good.

So enamored in her post make-out daze, she wasn't even aware of unlocking her locker and pulling out her needed materials. Nor of slipping her arms through her book bag straps, and walking back to the classroom she had practically fled from three minutes ago. She paused as she reached the door, and then backed away a bit, not wanting to be seen by him through the open door, and definitely not wanting to be the first person in there. If they were alone together, that left room for a confrontation. And in that confrontation, it was possible he would take it all back. In fact, if his repentant blue eyes were any indication, she was sure that he would.

And she didn't want him to.

Wanting to appear inconspicuous, she crouched down to her knees, taking off her book bag and rifled through it aimlessly as the other students walked by her, heading into the classroom. Thirty seconds or so before the bell rang, she picked up her things and headed inside, being one of the last few students in. She sat down quickly, mindful to keep her eyes downward, and pulled out a copy of "To the

"Hey girl. I didn't see you at lunch. Where've you been?" Miros, her neighbor and buddy in the class, as well as division asked her.

Madison gave her a weak smile, shaking her head slightly.

"Wasn't feeling well--had monster cramps from hell, so I took a nap in the library."

Miros made an "Oh" face, then turned to her bag, pulling out her notebook and what not. Madison tried to not focus on Mr. Will—Wes, who had rose from his seat, and began handing out papers. Of course, when he said her name softly, her eyes left her no choice by darting up, looking at him in response.

"Ms. Morgan?" His eyes had that same hypnotic pull, and she became so distracted that she did not even reach out for the paper he was handing to her.

"Your paper?" he asked, amusement in his eyes.

"Oh, yes. Thank you," she answered dumbly, taking the paper from him.

"Well done, as usual," he commented, before turning away, striding across the room to another student. Madison looked down, flipping the pages until she got to the last one. An A, of course, written green ink. He didn't like to mark up his students papers in red, he'd said at the beginning of the school year. This is why her eyes darted down to the startling red ink beneath the green.

He had added a note.

Madison, please see me after class. There are some things in regards to class work I must speak to you about.
Mr. Williams

Madison swallowed, looking up at him. His back was to her as he discussed something with a student on the other side of the room. He was going to shut her out--she just knew it. The euphoria that had blossomed in her chest moments earlier slowly evolved into a harsh tightness that made it hard to breathe…

Madison couldn't focus in class after that, and refrained from class participation of any kind. Mr. Williams didn't give her a hard time about it--in fact, he seemed a bit distracted himself. But Madison couldn't help but notice the too bright fluorescent lighting in the room, reflecting off of the smooth, shiny beige surfaces of the desktops attached to navy blue, hard plastic and metal chairs. There weren't more than twenty-six students in the room, two rows of desks going around half the square room, and yet, Madison felt a bout of claustrophobia. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she felt as if there wasn't enough air to breathe.

She was terrified.

She couldn't pinpoint why exactly, but she was not looking forward to when the period ended at two twenty-five.

Madison knew how horrendously wrong this all was, and acknowledged that fact. But she wanted him, even if he was, well, not old, but old enough to be her father. What with the twenty-three years between them. And he was married. She could overlook the teacher thing--after all, it wasn't as if she would receive special treatment. Like with most of her other teachers, she was already on his good side, and had been throughout the duration of being his student. And the age thing wasn't a problem either. New, but not a problem.

The problem was that legally, he was taken.

She watched, as he read aloud from their current novel of study, taking in the rich timbre of his voice, and though his pale lids and long, dark lashes hid them from view as he looked down to read, she saw in her mind's eye his hypnotic pale, blue eyes, seemingly icy due to its color, and yet were warm and full of mirth, because of the feeling in them--because he was warm and kind. The windows to his soul appeared cold, but was not an accurate indication to the man that he truly was.

And his hands. Madison had a thing about hands--if they were dirty, unkempt, fingers too short, nails too long or too nubby, too small, too calloused or too soft, then she did not want them touching her. But his hands...they were utterly flawless. Though he was barely average height for a man, standing at five foot nine, his hands were large, finger long, and not too narrow or too wide, and nails trimmed and clean. They were soft, but firm, and did not have too many hairs. She wanted to feel those pale hands of perfection on her--grabbing, caressing, gripping--she did not care. They just needed to be on her bare flesh.

She swallowed, looking down at her slight reflection on her desk. She was certain that that part of her fantasy would not come true. Because at sometime today, after class was over, he was going to apologize for ever touching her in the first place.

At the very least, his careless decision of kissing his student caused him to get his head back in the game, and teach almost as well as he had before learning of his wife's infidelities. Only "almost as well" because he was still driven to distraction due to mentally practicing his apology to Madison. Though regardless of how his delivery would turn out, he wanted to convey his genuine sincerity.

When the buzzer finally sounded to announce the day's end, he sat down at his desk, idly shuffling papers, saying goodbye to a few students as they filed out.

All except one.

Madison sat quietly at her desk, sideways, bag packed, hands folded neatly atop her desk as she glanced out of a slit in the drape, showing the street below, the teachers' parking lot, and the adjacent art building.

"Thank you for staying, Madison." She nodded, still keeping her head turned away from him. Instead of asking her to look at him, he sat down at the desk next to hers, putting him directly in her line of vision, and effectively blocking her view to the outside. He mirroring her by sitting sideways as well, facing her.

Madison did not look away.

Instead, she leveled her dark brown, almond shaped eyes to his, and waited for him to speak.

"I know that you have a crush on me, of sorts, and I just wanted to apologize for taking advantage of that."

"Apolo..." her eyes lowered as her voice dropped, so that even though he saw her lips move, he could not hear her finish the word. "So then...you don't find me attractive at all?" she asked quietly, eyes returning to his, full of uncertainty.

'Beautiful. Sexy,' he thought.

"Yes, I think you're very...attractive," he responded guardedly.

"That's all?" She gave him half a smile, but her voice was sad. He would not lie to her.

"No, that's not all. What I think…it would be improper as well as unethical to say," he answered solemnly.

"What difference does it make now? A few words doesn't compare to a kiss."

"In some ways, words can be worse, depending upon their meaning."

"Like what?"

'Like I'm a grown man, and you make me lose control of my faculties. You make me hard beyond reason.'

He sighed, weary, shaking his head.

"It's not important. I promise you, it won't ever happen again."

"What if I want you to? What if I wanted that kiss from the beginning? To be the beginning?" She hated how desperate she sounded, but now was the time to say it.

"Doesn't matter. It was wrong, and it cannot be anything."

"There's a difference between cannot and does not, you know. You may not want to, but you did feel something, right? Can't we just...let me make you happy." She had leaned forward during the exchange, and her hands lowered and reached out--fingers running lightly up and down his thighs. Her lovely brown face was merely the slightest of leans away from his...

It was as if she were not herself. Maybe it was her alter ego, though she must admit, it did not feel as such. It was as if she was outside of her own body, watching as it moved with a mind and an agenda not necessarily separate, but more forth right then she would have been. She was direct, and sensual, and new what type of reaction she was provoking within him.

She had no control.

Apparently, neither did he, once she opened that door, making it the point of no return...

And not of his own volition, for he knew it was wrong, and yet his body could not have disagreed more, he leaned forward. He kissed her firmly on her soft, full lips. After a moment, he pulled back slightly, only to lean back in, biting lightly on her fuller, bottom lip. She lightly gasped, eyes closed, and he placed his hand gently on the long column of her neck, and then kissed her properly, angling his head so that he could go deeper. He moaned in appreciation as her nails practically burrowed through the fabric of his navy blue khakis, pressing into the skin of his upper thighs. He wanted more--he wanted her to feel more of him, and taste more of her. He wanted to start with the latter.

He pulled away again, then stood up, pulling her with him. He gazed at her, smiling wryly at the combination of lust and confusion on her face.

"This is pure insanity, you know that, right?" he asked her, though it was rhetorical. He laughed a little to himself, trailing his fingers over her prominent collar bone, that peeked over the scoop of her T-shirt. "But hell, I've already surpassed reason...why bother to stop here?"

And then he was walking away, towards the door, and locked it. He moved back to his desk, turning the radio atop the file cabinet that was level to his desk. It was classical. He turned it up a bit, and then laid hungry eyes on her. It was the darkest she'd ever seen his eyes--the blue had darkened considerably, and it was almost hard to separate the pupils from the irises.

"Neglect and loneliness can make a man change. And yeah, I was depressed...but all it did was lead me to you." His gait and demeanor altered as he approached her slowly, like a leopard stalking his prey. Her mouth went dry as fear and desire warred inside of her. "I've thought of this. Felt ashamed for feeling what I felt, and thinking...I wanted to hold you close, look into your eyes, and kiss you. Want to kiss you all over." His voice was low, slightly shaking from his emotions, and husky. It felt like raw silk traveling languorously over her bare skin.

"Come here," he demanded, taking her hand before she could respond, leading her across the room to his desk. Not that it mattered--she would not protest, nor would she tell him to slow down. She wanted that contact just as much as he did.

Though her eyes did widen in confusion once he had her sitting on his desk, and he kneeled before her...

Her legs quivered as his nimble fingers skimmed up and inward on her smooth thighs, reaching their apex, and brushing lightly over her damp, light blue, cotton panties. She stiffened, clamping her legs together when his fingers tried to pull the panties aside.

"Hey--it's alright..." he cajoled, standing up and positioning himself between her parted knees. His right hand came up to rest on her neck, fingers gently caressing the side of the long, slender column, and thumb moving back and forth slowly against the back.

"What's wrong?" he asked. She looked away from his intense stare, but didn't attempt to move from his embrace. Madison sucked in a breath as the warmth of his left hand trailed up her thigh slowly, making its way up to the juncture of her thighs.

"I just...I mean I--"

"If you don't like it, I promise I'll stop." He leaned in, giving a kiss to her neck that slowly evolved into light nips as his fingers went to the edge of her panties, slipping inside of the damp cotton, and pushing his index finger inside of her, thumb restlessly massaging her clit. Her hips thrusted forward as she nodded slightly, allowing Wes to pull her back onto his desk, staring straight up at the florescent lighting, refusing to look at his head that was now descending between her legs.

Madison gasped involuntarily, body jerking at the first intimate contact. Several moments later, after many incoherent mumblings, unconscious shakings, and heavy, gutteral pants, she became terribly parched. And though her eyes were tightly shut, she could feel and see the brightness of the lights overhead through her lids. It wasn't like when you closed your eyes to the sun-- a warm, glow of yellow and orange overcoming your vision, but a dull brightness overlapping a sea of black. It was weird; it was wrong. In the back of her mind, she couldn't help but think that he should have turned the lights out first--at least the ones that were directly above her. A part of her felt as if she were on display, spread out and open, bathed in floodlights. The other, so caught up in the rapture of passion, didn't dare to give a damn, nor wanted to.

Mouth agape, she burned and shook. Broken, she collapsed, disentegrating to particles of ash that congealed seconds later into a pool of satisfaction. The crook in her neck from the edge of the desk did not even register.

"Thanks for the ride home," she said softly, staring down at his hand interwined with hers atop her lap. After insisting that he drive her home, not simply because it was the gentlemanly thing to do, but because it was dark outside by the time they left school, he had tentatively grabbed her hand fifteen minutes into the forty minute or so drive to her house. "Is this alright?" he asked her in a hushed, hesitant tone. She smiled, tranquil, nodding. The rest of the ride continued in a warm, serene silence.

"It was truly my pleasure, Ms. Morgan." Though his voice was sincere, its low tone made it sound more passionate than it was meant to be.

"You know, when you say it like that now...it sounds kinda kinky," she said lightly with a little chuckle. She looked up at him, and he was smirking at her, giving her bedroom eyes.

"Yes, I know." And he cupped his hand behind her neck, pulling her to him.

It would be another hour and six fog tinted windows later before she actually made it inside her house.

Madison's nerves were eating away at her. It had been almost too easy. Today was the day of the Homecoming game, and eight days since the classroom incident. After third period, she was done for the day as far classes, for attending the game automatically gave one a reprieve from the rest of one's school schedule. She explained to her mother that by the time the game was over, the school buses made it back to the school, and that when she finally made it on the CTA, it would be so late, and therefore it would make more sense if she could stay over at her friend Tina's house so that they could travel on the CTA together.

Her mother agreed, of course.

Her mother also consented when Madison asked to spend the night, since it was a Friday after all, and staying also until Sunday afternoon, for the homecoming dance was that Saturday evening. Madison would merely take her homecoming outfit with her, and change and whatnot at her friend's house. Tina's mother would drop her off.

Of course, she planned on doing no such thing. In fact, Tina, nor anyone for that matter, would know of Madison's true whereabouts. Excluding Wesley Laurence Williams, of course.

Madison sold her game tickets to another student, who needed one at the last minute for her fickle boyfriend.

Madison's true plans consisted of walking to the Blue Line and hopping on the train, taking the Racine stop to Division, where she would meet Wes. He would then drive them to the Westin Hotel by O'hare Airport.

They were going to spend the weekend together.

In order to make this little rendevous work, he called in sick that day, so as not to arouse suspicion in case anyone noticed that the two of them were absent. It was a ridiculous notion to be sure, since practically the entire school was going to the game, and who would notice one particular student and one particular teacher not in attendance in a sea of faces? At any rate, it eased his paranoia. She had no idea what he told his wife for his whereabouts for the entire weekend, and decided to not only not worry about it, but to not even give it anymore thought as well.

Two stops before she was to get off of the train, she pulled out her cell, and went to her recent calls list, pressing send on his number.

"Hello, sweetheart." Though the movement of the train was loud and distracting, she shivered internally at the husky timbre of his voice.

"Um, hey. I should be there in about five minutes."

"I'm already here. Can't wait."

"See you soon."

"Not soon enough." She could hear the smile in his voice. "...But alright. I'll circle around for a few, and then park right at the top of the stairs, okay?"

"Alright. Bye," she said a bit breathlessly for some reason or other, and quickly snapped her phone shut in irritation at her embarrassment. She was thankful for the shaking jolts of the train, involuntarily moving her body, for it had camoflauged the shivering her body did all on its lonesome because of the brief conversation she had just had with Wes. She almost thought her nervousness was utterly ridiculous. The man had seen her half naked, after all. But, she knew what would happen at some point during this getaway weekend--they were going to have sex.

Along with her essay on "To the Lighthouse," she was going to give her virginity to her literature teacher--to Wesley.

With a sigh, she took out her brush and mirror, retouched her lip gloss, and brushed her hair. She still didn't feel presentable, however.

But she did feel, that in spite of all her nervousness, she was just as excited.

It was a quarter to twelve by the time they finally got checked in. They went upstairs to put away their bags, and he asked her if she would like to go down to the restaurant for lunch.

"No. I mean, not now. I'm...just not hungry," she explained, her gaze flitting from him, to the bed, to the floor, and back again. He took in her navy blue, velure track suit--the form fitting pants and zip up jacket, and wondered what exactly she was wearing underneath it.

"Baby, we've got the whole weekend. But if you don't want to wait..." He trailed off once her gaze settled on him, and remained steady. He could tell she was a tad nervous--she didn't know what to do with her hands. First they were fisted, bursting through the pockets of her little jacket. Then they were clasped in front of her. And when she finally locked eyes with him, she wrapped her arms around herself, delicate hands resting on her shoulders.

But it was her gaze that called to him. Her siren song may have been silent, but his body felt its palpable vibrations.

He approached her slowly, keeping his eyes on hers. Her scent was intoxicating--the scent of coconut oil overwhelmed his sense, causing his nostrils to slightly flare, and prickled his taste buds, making his mouth slightly water. He put both of his hands on hers, and moved them down from her shoulders, grasping them, though her arms remained crossed.

"How about a movie then?" He gave her a small smile to accompany his gentle tone. The edges of her mouth quirked upward, and she nodded her consent.

They were both lying on the bed on their stomachs, feet towards the headboard as they watched "The Negotiator." She felt his eyes on her from time to time, but kept her focus on the film. Sometime during the middle of the movie, she got up to use the bathroom, and when she came back, he was lying properly on the bed. Not wanting to follow him, she resumed her initial position, putting them in a side by side sixty-nine.

Though they continued to watch the film in silence, she eventually felt his warm hand lay gently right above her ankle, slowly massaging its way up her calf. She felt him shift on the bed, raising up on his knees as he continued his ascent. But now he was using two hands--one on each leg. Thighs now. Slowly over her round backside, lingering, and then continuing on up her back to her shoulder blades. He was straddling her hips, kneading the slightly tense muscles he found.

"Is it okay if I take off your jacket? It would make this a lot easier," he asked, and she sat up a bit on her elbows, unzipping the front and pulling it down her shoulders. He assisted, and pulled them all the way off of her arms.

It wasn't too long before the rest of her clothes followed--light blue camisole top, and damp black lace panties.

He disrobed himself even more quickly.

The lights had already been out, but the television was still on, the rest of the film playing out and giving the only illumination to the room, since the heavy drapes blocked out the daylight. He was tender, yet aggressive. Attentive and passionate. Giving, but taking as much as he pleased, and he wanted all of her. He wanted to make her his. The thing of it was that she had already been for quite some time, but now he possessed her body as well.

And though she had been green before those moments, she somehow managed to possess him too.

Her eyes couldn't stray from her hands sprawled on the granite counter.

Her fingers were long, the nails clipped moderately short. But there was no polish; no rings or bracelets. Her hands were bare.

The counter was cool and smooth, but the heat from her hands caused a steam, leaving streaks on the polished black stone with random swirls of white, as her hands involuntarily dragged back and forth upon it.

Involuntary, for he was directly behind her, pulling and pushing at her skirt and panties. His mouth was open, right next to her ear, and she could feel his hot, humid breath, and his low groan of deep, wanton desire made her eyes drop closed as she waited. The thought that her nails were in need of a manicure briefly crossed her mind before a sharp, inhalation of breath quickly obliterated it. Her body arched back against the hard, broad expanse of his chest as he finally thrust into her--unexpectedly, hard and violent.

Though not unwelcome.

God, how the Amazon between her legs and the Great Cascadia that tremored her womb welcomed it.

A low, tremulous moan was dragged from the back of her throat as he pulled away, only to be replaced with a high pitched gasp as he quickly came back.

And then he paused—kissed her neck and lightly bit at the long, smooth, brown column as his hands traveled under her shirt and up her torso, slipping beneath the under wire of her bra, and gently grasping and massaging the firm, supple handfuls that were her breasts. The band of his wedding ring felt smooth and cool against her nipple, and the sensation made her eyes open.

It jerked her back to reality.

She bit her lip, still immensely enjoying the feel of him inside her, slowly moving out only to quickly glide back in, but not being able to escape the fact that he wasn't hers.

She didn't belong here.

She still wanted it—wanted him. Even if it wasn't all of him.

Blocking the traitorous thoughts away, she stayed in the moment, living for that moment alone.

The crumbs he gave would have to suffice, for, what other choice did she have?

Things never end well for the other woman.The Scarlet Letter, Ethan Frome, hell, even Fahrenheit 451. The girl didn't even get the chance to fully become "the other woman" because she was killed off.

But then, there was Jane Eyre, but she didn't fancy Wes being scarred for life. Or him locking his wife in a tower somewhere...

She remembered four months ago when she was practically begging to be the other woman. And now, she was pregnant. A statistic caused by a scandal of all things—getting knocked up by the only man she ever loved—ever been with, who coincidentally was her married teacher. She hadn't taken a test yet, but she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was pregnant.

The vomiting and the fucking lack of period told her so.

She watched him as he walked back and forth across the room, animatedly discussing and lecturing the class on The Kitchen God's Wife, and she wondered how it would all end. Not the book, of course, but them.

She wondered if he would choose her in the end, or if he would leave her alone.

She stared intently into his icy, blue eyes across the room, her own suddenly full of tears, and he paused, locking his gaze with hers—the collective pairs of eyes of her classmates turned to stare her down as well, but more with curiosity as opposed to actual concern.

"Madison? Are you okay?" The soft timbre of his voice caused two large, hot tears to roll over her lids, gliding with ease down her cheeks. His overt concern acted as a poison to her ducts, rendering them useless, and the tears continued to bleed forth. She slowly shook her head, thinking morosely to herself.

He had to care for her—he lovingly kept her poetry, and took the time to write her extensive letters on heavy parchment paper. He would write similes and metaphors for his affection, as well as for her—her eyes, lips, and her soul, which seared him most. How fate was a tricky bitch, placing her literally across from him, with a mere several feet separating him at his teacher's desk, to her at her student one. And how it took him over a year to realize who she was—

His companion.

His equal.

His lover.

And yet, he still had not left his wife. So really, how could she really be so certain?

Their baby or the tiger…which would he choose?

She was afraid to know.