you shook me
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You know you shook me, baby
You shook me all night long
You shook me so hard baby
Baby, baby, please come home

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When I returned to the room, I noticed him smoking by the window. The sunlight lit up his features as one curtain was swung to the left. The strong aroma of the Cuban cigar lingered in the air, intoxicating my nostrils as I approached him with a large cup of black coffee in my left hand. When I touched his arm to get his attention, he hadn't even realized I was there. "Your coffee." I murmured, trying not to intrude on his personal space. He was so tall that I felt tiny next to him. I'd removed my heels, and my bare feet felt cold against the parquet. If I had to kiss him, I would have to stand on tiptoe. Good thing that kind of contact wasn't allowed.

"Thank you."

"You're taking a break?"

"I was waiting for you to come back."

"I burned the coffee the first time, so I had to make it again."

He laughed with that raspy, deep tone. So irresistible.

"Don't laugh at me, Mr. White."

"Is this really good to drink?" He gave the cup a slight spin before taking a look inside to analyze the swirling black liquid.

"Don't mock me, you wicked man." I replied jokingly, allowing myself to close his robe because his chest was showing way too much. My warm hand traced his pectoral muscles down to the trim, pulling it into a cross shape, and then reaching for the silky black belt. It only took one energetic knot to get everything back into place. From the outside, it looked like I was a loving wife.

He let me do anything I wanted, which didn't help because now I felt an intimacy between us that most people build over decades. He even reciprocated by shoving his veiny hand between my reddish locks. Instinctively, I tilted my head to meet his palm, and while he cuddled me and smoked his cigar, I closed my eyes and hummed a song. Maybe I was more of a mockingbird than a muse.

"I like that song." I heard him confess.

"Avec mes souvenirs, j'ai allumé le feu..." I set fire to my memories, I sang in French.

"...Mes chagrins, mes plaisirs, je n'ai plus besoin d'eux." My troubles, my pleasures, I don't need them anymore.

"Do you have any regrets, Mr. White?" I stopped singing just to ask him that.

"A few."

When I rested my head on his shoulder, he realized I wanted him to slow dance with me. He softly pulled back the curtain, and the pleasant darkness created the ideal immersive atmosphere.

"Won't you ask me about my regrets?" He further questioned.

"I'm a little scared to ask."

"Why?"

"In three months, I might end up on that list."

"Mpf." Was he laughing at me again? Whatever.

"You must think that I look like a kid with a weird crush."

"I wouldn't call it a crush."

"Mh-mh. It isn't."

I kept my eyes closed as we danced to no music. He held my nape with one hand and my waist with the other, and it felt like the most natural situation to be in. Slow dancing with Mr. White as his personal muse.

We only had a few minutes to ourselves before he returned to his writing. Every hour or two, he would take a moment to summarize the chapter, and I would listen intently, offering my thoughts only when asked to. I was beginning to understand what he was looking for: he needed to write a lead character to whom I could relate, despite the fact that she was in a totally different context. She already embodied both my best qualities and my deepest fears. It scared me how much he learned about me just by looking at me for a few days.

The novel's plot took place in Paris in the 1980s. The protagonist was Marie, a woman who became involved with an alleged serial killer. I didn't know much more because Mr. White wouldn't tell me. Maybe he didn't even know how the story was supposed to develop.

I ended up falling asleep on one of his sofas during one of his writing sessions. When I woke up, I had a blanket over my legs and a pillow under my right temple. He wasn't in the room, but I could smell food coming from the kitchen.

"Oh, you're up." He changed into a formal black suit while I was sleeping. and even though his feet were bare, I could tell he was going to leave anytime soon.

"Do you have to go somewhere?"

"Yes. I have to meet someone."

I looked at the wall clock. "It's midnight."

"I'm making you some food. Feel free to use the shower if you need to."

"Thank you."

"And then patiently wait for me to come back."

"What?"

"I'll be out for a couple of hours, so don't leave."

"Friday is over."

"You want to go?"

I didn't want to go, so I shrugged and tiredly strolled around the house looking for the bathroom. I took the longest bath ever, and when I appeared in the living room wearing a white bathrobe, I couldn't find him anywhere in the house. I felt like an abandoned kitten, which was worse than feeling like a lover.

"I need to get used to this treatment." I told myself this as I went through his closet. I took a pair of black boxers and one of his shirts from him and put both on. I knew he was the type to get upset when others touched his belongings, so I did it almost on purpose. Then I waited. And waited. And waited some more.
Even though we didn't talk much, time flew by when I was in his company, but when I was alone, it felt like an eternity. I checked my phone. No messages. One missed call from Tina. I called her back, but of course she didn't answer that late at night. It was 3 a.m., and he was still nowhere to be seen. The thought of calling him crossed my mind, but I didn't want to risk talking to his wife once again. Shit, this whole thing looked exactly like an affair.

He preceded me. A key turned, the entrance door opened, and I briefly saw the outside world. That's how I found out it was raining in London. He shifted his gaze toward me, as I was half-seated at the couch's backrest. His shirt barely covered my naked, pale legs, and when I moved, his boxers showed. While I did intend to annoy him by messing with his stuff, I was unintentionally sexy at the time and didn't realize it until I saw him devouring me in his eyes. His hunger was almost palpable to me.

"That's a low blow."

I had the most confused expression on my face, but then I understood. I chuckled as I glanced down at my outfit. I knew he wasn't going to break with just this. He wasn't a kid anymore; he could control himself. Yet I did get a reaction, a small one but it was enough.

"I didn't have anything clean to wear." That was the excuse I gave him. "Also, I realized I'm not different from all the women you're used to. I could be walking around naked and you'd treat me the same way you usually do."

"Please don't do that."

I laughed again and headed back to the office with my calm pace. "Let's get back to work." He didn't deny what I said, which was fine with me. I knew he wasn't going to treat me like a lover. The entire contract kept us from becoming anything at all, and in three months it would've been as if we'd never met, because we didn't exist outside of those walls.

Did I overestimate myself?

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