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He always came to her at the same time on the same day of every week—five o'clock on a Monday afternoon. Why he had chosen that particular day and time over all others she couldn't even begin to guess; perhaps there was no reason at all. With him, one could never tell. He was an enigma through and through.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Her eyes were focused intently on the hands of her office clock, mentally willing them to move faster. The steady progression of time hypnotized her to the point where she felt as though the life-giving pulse of her heart matched the fixed rhythm of the ever-moving gears and pulleys making up the inner workings of the elegant timepiece.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Just five minutes and fifteen seconds more. Funny how these stolen moments—so saturated with sin—had become so all-consumingly important. They were what she lived for—what she yearned for. He was her obsession.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Four minutes and thirty seconds. During the daylight hours, he haunted her thoughts, an ever-present specter dogging her footsteps and leaving her with no reprieve. If she so much as closed her eyes, he was there—touching her, holding her, loving her. His embrace was always an impossible mixture of extremes: both sweet and harsh, tender and possessive, passive and impassioned...
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Night was always worse than the day. After darkness fell, as she lay in the bed she and her husband shared, visions of her secret lover would drift through her mind's eye. Sometimes she would imagine that it was the other man she was married to, and when the one she had pledged her life and heart to all those months ago reached for her, it was not his face she saw nor his name her heart moaned out in the throes of passion—of course, she always came to her senses before these fantasies progressed too far and found herself fleeing from her baffled spouse to the safety of the bathroom, her whole body trembling with guilt, physically ill at being such a cruel and heartless bitch when it came to the man who placed such faith in her. She was disgusting. She was an adulteress. She deserved to be branded with a scarlet letter "A" and stoned to death for her crimes.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
One minute and fifty-nine seconds. She wondered if she should hate him for reducing her being little more than his willing whore. While it would be all too easy to convince herself that he loved her and desired only to be with her in what ways he could be, she knew he was only using her. He had never said he loved her. Not once. In fact, he had never said anything to her during their trysts—not after that first time, when he'd whispered away all her uncertainties and reservations with a seductive voice, husky and soft.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
One minute and five seconds. Yes, she should hate him—but she couldn't. No matter how dirty and used she felt after he left her alone, she still wanted him. She still cared about him. She still loved him.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Forty-six seconds. It seemed impossible, but she really did love him. She always had and probably always would. It was strange and confusing and beyond her comprehension, but since the moment she had first laid eyes on him, his gaze so wild and strong and fierce that she fond herself both intrigued and mildly afraid, she had yearned for him. If only she had met him before the other. If only she had been able to put aside her fears and give up on the secure and reliable love for something more intense and unpredictable... But she hadn't. And she wouldn't. But she wouldn't give him up now that she had found him either.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Twenty-seven seconds. Maybe she was the one who was using him. Maybe she was the selfish one, leading him on and spinning him around in circles until he didn't know left from right or right from wrong. Maybe she was the cruel one, feeding off of him like a incubus only to return to his brother's house when she was through with him.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Four seconds. Maybe they were using each other.
Tick.
Tick.
Ti—
A low chuckle echoed through her ears. Time stopped.
Slowly, hesitantly, she raised her eyes from the clock-face to see the face of her returning lover. Red eyes glittered back at her.
"Kyo..." she whispered his name like a sweet caress. He bowed his head in greeting, crimson red locks spilling forward to shield his eyes from view. "Kyo, you don't know how happy I am to see you."
His lips met hers.
Suddenly, it didn't matter that theirs was a love doom to fail. Suddenly, it didn't matter that she was married to the twin brother he so detested. Suddenly, it didn't matter that he was using her or that she was using him or that they were using each other. Suddenly, all that mattered was that they were together and kissing and touching and loving. Suddenly, all that mattered were the clothes scattered on her office floor, the rising heat of their bodies, and the low, muffled moans of pleasure.
For a moment in time, all that mattered was that they were together.