Ivan Press

[Hilary Durante] [*flat stare*]

[Hilary] [How many weeks is Dion in obsesso-mode?]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 3

[Hilary] It's midnight between Thursday and Friday when the elevator doors close and Dion leaves Ivan Press's apartment, thinking that the Ragabash is not only a brown-nosing sycophant but one of those unfortunates whose desire does not intertwine with Gaia's plan. He is glad to be gone from Ivan's presence, but he can understand why his mate would tolerate him, even befriend him.

She's a compassionate woman. He reminds himself of this all the way back to Wilmette. She has a tender heart. She reaches out to those who are lonely, the way she did with him when they were introduced. He tells himself she didn't want to wake him this afternoon, she knew how weary he was from being on his guard since returning home.


It's midday on Saturday, bright and sunny, and a messenger is arriving with another of those lovely cards for Ivan. Slim, straight, elegant. Hinting at being old-fashioned while still modern, and obviously feminine.

The note is simple. She hopes his sudden departure from tea to tend to her did not negatively affect his relationship with Mrs. Lowenfeld-Reed. She would feel just awful. Hilary apologizes for imposing so very long on his hospitality and thanks him for offering it. She's needed at home now and won't be attending any more society functions until she's assured of her good health and her family's peace of mind.

Fondly,
H


It's days later. There's no knowing when Dion will drift back into the calm harbor of hyper-intellectualism and retreat from his wife and son again.

[Ivan] There's no forewarning to Hilary after Dion leaves the penthouse. There's no text message on her phone telling her, he's on his way. There's no inquiry later that night as to how she's doing. How things went. If she's even alive.

No contact from her, either. Just silence and -- on Ivan's part, at least -- some level of uncertainty. Wondering.

It's two, three days before he even thinks of taking the chance of contacting her again. And it's not some maid dressed up as an Avon lady; it's not some elaborate scheme or playact or mission-impossible chain of events. It's just his phone in his hand, a text message tapped out, a fingertap away from send when he stops and thinks.

Thinks of mad, dangerous Dion with his rage like a storm. Thinks of how delicately crafted those lies were, and how fragile they are, how easily they could all come crashing down if he sent a text and her phone chimed and Dion reached over with his big hand and --

He deletes the text. It goes away, and days go by, and then there's another card, and by then he's all but forgotten about it all. Or convinced himself he has. Or something. This time the note is something he'd expect from her. All politeness and cool, surface charm; and beneath that, information. Where she is; and a sense, albeit a murky, indistinct one, of how she is.

Locked up. Locked down. Ivan wouldn't be surprised if he drive by the Durantes' to find guards on the walls, guns in hand. He thinks for a moment, and then he drops the card at the bottom of some hollow on the wall meant for a painting or other that Dmitri hasn't had the time to buy, that Ivan hasn't had the time to approve of. He shouts for his phone, and when he gets it, taps out a short message after all:

How are you?

It's a risk. He sends it anyway.

[Hilary] There's a wait, but not a long one, for a response.

Bored. You?

[Ivan] Somehow, the response amuses Ivan. She sounds like a teenage girl. She sounds like her stepdaughter, except her stepdaughter is an icy little robot.

Can't complain. How much longer?

[Hilary] Her fingers still in Dion's hair for a half-beat, no longer. She resumes massaging the Galliard's scalp before he stirs to ask her what's wrong. He pays attention to her every breath. She wonders if he can hear that tightness in her core. Feel it. Smell it. Sense it somehow.

I don't know. A month, maybe less.

While he's typing a reply, or considering one:

I thought you didn't want to anymore.

[Ivan] She's with her mate. Right now, right this moment. Maybe they're in bed. Maybe they're out on the veranda, enjoying the summer that, for a little while at least, feels a little bit like Spain. Like the mediterranean coast. He has no idea; for all he knows she's blessedly alone, and that's why she's texting him. He doesn't think she has the courage -- or the recklessness -- to do what she's doing right now.

Ivan should know better.

The question gives him a moment's pause. Then he taps back, I didn't. Guess I have a thing for damaged goods.

[Hilary] This time there's no answer. Not a risky one, or a reckless one. One minute stretches into five. Longer. Maybe Dion snatched the phone out of her hand, or someone called, or something came up and she didn't feel the need to let him know.

Maybe.

[Ivan] This time the silence goes on and on and on. It's not like a phone call. With a phone call, he'd have some hint, some clue. A gasp or a cry, if someone snatched the phone from her. A distant shout, if she was called off. A seething silence or a final click, if she was angry.

Five minutes go by. Ten. He's in his living room. He's sprawled on the couch in shorts, his lower leg lean and long, bare foot flat on the floor. Light is pouring in the windows, unstoppable. He can hear the air conditioners going full-blast to keep this place pleasantly cool, but it's worth it, it's worth it, it makes him feel like he's living in the sky.

Another message appears:

I wanted you.

[Hilary] Risky, that. Especially if the phone was taken from her. If Dion asked her why she was texting, and who, and what they were saying, or if he had reason to risk upsetting his delicate hothouse flower by ripping her phone from her tiny, slender hand. I wanted you from that male, from someone who is 'Ivan Press' in her phone, just like everyone is just first name, last name in her phone. That male who is supposedly gay. That male who she was alone with for hours.

Less risky, her answer coming a minute later: You're a fucking prick.

[Ivan] I'm sorry, comes the reply, immediate. Sometimes I prod because I don't believe you're capable of emotion.

A moment later another text follows:

Or maybe because I want to see some goddamn emotion from you.

[Hilary] A long pause again. Maybe long enough for him to wonder if she's decided he isn't worth talking to. Because he's a prick.

When a reply does come, it isn't in the form of defensiveness. She doesn't try to tell him that she sure as fuck is emotional, where does he get off, rehrehrehrehreh. She doesn't remind him of the times he's had her breathless with lust, doesn't argue that lust itself is an emotion as much as a physical craving. She doesn't tell him he's seen her with tears on her cheeks, or argue, or snap.

Like what?

[Ivan] Like the way you look when we're done fucking.

[Hilary] That text is deleted. All of them are. She reads them. She deletes them. She sends them, and deletes those, too. It isn't normal behavior for her, but she doesn't trust Dion. She can't trust Dion not to go on a rampage and the thought of all the chaos that would ensue were he to decide he doesn't trust her, either just...

exhausts her.

It doesn't upset her. It doesn't make her want to cry. It just wears her out.

And just how do I look then?

[Ivan] There's a long pause, then.

She can't see him either. She doesn't know if he's gotten up to get a goddamn drink. To go soak in his jacuzzi. She doesn't know if his starved swans have shown up, if his cook just made something delicious, if his friends are calling him to come out, come party, come spend your money so we can pretend to be rich.

And she doesn't know if he's shifting a little on his couch, stirring because she's arousing him and infuriating him at once.

Like you just got fucked hard. What else. If texts could snap, that one would. Then another one: Like you actually felt it. Like I got through to you somehow.

[Hilary] I have my husband's head in my lap.

No 'watch it, asshole'. No caution to maybe stop being so blatant about fucking her. No warning that Dion might look. Just: this is what she's doing. This is who is mere inches away from her tapping out messages to Ivan.

Her phone pinged twice with messages from him. He only gets the one.

[Ivan] Another long pause. He hadn't realized. If she were anyone else he'd figure her out immediately. She likes the thrill. She likes being bad. Doing the forbidden. Talking to her lover while her husband rests in her lap. Close enough to smell it if she gets aroused. Close enough to think it was for him, when really ...

but she's not someone else. He can't read tone at all from her texts, in his mind she sounds bland, borderline bored.

This comes through eventually:

I thought you didn't want to anymore either.

[Hilary] Her hand moves over Dion's scalp, soothing. He could do this for hours. Just lie here until her legs go numb. Just to be close to her. He doesn't dwell on the fact that she doesn't seem real, that there seems to be nothing beneath the surface. Dion doesn't need nor want her to be a person, and so they live quite peacefully together when they live together at all. She is an idea, and one he can adore wholeheartedly without consequence, without the sticky business of seeing her.

Seeing that there isn't anything to see. That in the place where some people have a soul she has an empty room, as cold and dusty as an unused attic.

I like the way you use your cock.

And Dion doesn't see that in the place where some people might have emotion: anger, defensiveness, yearning, guilt, shame, loneliness,

Hilary has silence.

[Ivan] The sort of ironic, humorless laugh he gives doesn't really translate. A moment later the text flashes up on her phone:

You like it when I hurt you.

[Hilary] A master of the obvious, you are.

So many tones that sarcasm could take. Dry. Snappish. Fond.

[Ivan] That quip -- or snark -- or whatever it is: ignored. The question that bounces back: Why?

[Hilary] Why do you?

[Ivan] A long, long silence. Finally the sms screen pops up again:

Because I know you feel it then.

[Hilary] A long silence where she doesn't hear back from him doesn't disturb Hilary. She's not the type to chew her fingernails, staring at the screen, wondering if he's going to answer. But the response Ivan gets to that is short, and comes quickly:

Bullshit.

[Ivan] What was I supposed to say - I like hurting you? That fires back nearly as quick.

[Hilary] It takes time for her to tap out a response. She doesn't dare use more than one finger. She keeps stroking Dion's hair. He talks to her a little; she talks back. She assumes Ivan is alone, because if he weren't alone he might be distracted. Diverted. That's what she would do, if she were alone. Amuse herself.

I already know you do.

[Ivan] Good for you. Even without tone, there's an acidity to that. Maybe you can explain to me why I like hurting you.

[Hilary] Don't be cross.

As though they're in the same room. As though he's getting cranky and she's swatting idly at the air near him, dismissing his grouchiness like the overtired whining of a child.

Or as though she's pleading with him. Baby, don't be mad at me. Don't be like that.

This conversation is going round in spirals. They don't answer each other directly, except when they do, and then it's rather vicious. They ask questions they don't expect replies to. They prod each other, and only one of them has admitted it's intentional, and given his reasoning. At least, it seems like she's prodding him, too. Pushing. At the same time, it's hard to imagine why she'd do such a thing. Maybe it's just ...her.

The message, just one this time, goes on:

What do you want me to say?

[Ivan] I don't want you to say anything. I want you to fuck me. that message goes off immediately; another one follows in seconds. But your fucking husband is there. So.

A longer delay. She's perhaps halfway done with a response -- if she was going to give a response at all -- when another message pops up.

When can I see you again?

[Hilary] Her phone is silenced. There's no vibrate. No need for either, when she has it in her hand and doesn't want constant buzzing or pinging to irritate her husband. Or herself. But message after message flashes up.

fuck me
your fucking husband
again

And Dion's close enough to smell it if she gets aroused, close enough to all but feel the heat of her cunt as she reads that first one. The other two get deleted. She reads that one again before erasing it. It's a long time before she answers.

When he's gone.

Then a second one, moments later, moments she spent tapping quickly.

When he's gone I want you to tie me down on your bed and use me.

[Ivan] They can't see each other. For all he knows her husband is already turning over on her lap. Is already nuzzling her, scenting her, wanting her the way he always does:

obsessively. Insanely. Pursuing her the way some men pursue dreams and religions.

For all she knows, he's got his pants pushed down and his cock in his hand already. For all she knows he's tapping onehanded. For all she knows all he has to do is think about fucking her, and he's hard.

You have your husband's head in your lap, comes the reply, mocking. It's impossible to tell if the mockery is genuine or playful. It doesn't matter. A moment later another message supercedes it.

When he's gone come find me.

[Hilary] There's no answer to that last message flashing on her screen, scanned by her eyes before she deletes it.

Neither of them have any way of knowing what's going on with the other. If she's aroused or bored. If he's hard or smirking. If she's going to come find him when Dion goes away again, when he gives up on impregnating her, or -- also possible -- succeeds and decides he can extricate himself from the messy business of home and family again for awhile.

He can imagine what he likes. But this is what really happens:


Hilary deletes those last messages, emptying her inbox of everything from Mr. Ivan Press. It would be paranoia if she tried to construct a conversation out of what mundane messages were traded, to make it look like something other than what it was. She doesn't really expect Espiridion to go looking through her phone. She has many friends, and they all miss her. In his mind, she is telling them all that she wants to be with him for now, because he is home so rarely, and this pleases him.

The heat of her body pleases him, and her sensuality pleases him. How restless her sexuality is. How all he has to do is come home to her and she wants him, climbs onto him in the middle of the night, opens her legs to him if he nuzzles her, paws at her breast. There is nothing about Hilary that doesn't please him.

He tells her as much, murmuring in his native tongue as he kisses the inside of her knee. Kisses her thigh, brushing the sheets away from her legs with the backs of his fingers. His touch finds her wet, and he doesn't wonder at why. How quickly. How strong her lust is. He doesn't think it strange that when he takes her this time she lays flat on her back and barely touches him, opening to him like she has no choice. As though her lust for him is so strong it binds her to the mattress. So strong it's incandescent, blinding, so she closes her eyes.

When it's over Hilary isn't weeping, or gasping. They have a conversation about baby names while he kisses the sides of her breasts, the sloping curve underneath. Kisses her belly as though in blessing. She strokes his hair as she did before, mindlessly, thinking of other things.