Forbidden Hour

Alexis woke hungry.

City lights glowed through the apartment windows. The sky remained deep black with no hint of sunrise.

Her bedside clock read 4:30, and her stomach gurgled. She put a hand to it, and her skin tingled under her fingertips as her stomach repeated its demand. Closing her eyes, she recounted what she'd eaten the prior day. Protein and calories were right; she shouldn't be hungry.

She thought of an omelet, glistening link sausage with little flecks of red pepper, and steaming hashbrowns with feathery, crisp edges. No local sourcing, no organic certification. She wanted salt and fat that weighed her stomach for hours. She could have a biscuit too, something that flaked and steamed when she tore it open and absorbed soft butter like a sponge.

She sighed and closed her eyes. She'd get something on the way to work in a couple of hours.

Waffles, her mind offered, and dark syrup that flowed into the grid squares.

She snapped the covers off and got up. Her hand went to the necklace. Still warm, she sat on the edge of the bed and looked into space, the jewel's facets compelling against her fingertips.

Rising, she stripped off her bed shirt and slid on a pair of leggings, a performance top, and her sneakers. She put a coat over the rest and shoved her keys and a card wallet into the pocket.

The hallway outside the apartment was silent and empty, and she rode the elevator alone, her reflection looking back at her in the polished elevator doors. She'd left the top unzipped partway. Her hand played along the jewel's surface.

The elevator doors opened, and she zipped the top up. The doorman offered a sleepy smile and a wave. She smiled back and exited. At the curb, she raised her hand, and a cab slid to a stop. Getting in, she gave the gym's address, and the car started off.

The stores had begun preparing for the day. Entryways were being swept while double-parked delivery trucks stood with rear gates open. Delivery men dollied crates of produce into basement doorways. Alexis thought of sausage again, and her stomach felt hollow.

No, she told herself.

The tall-windowed façade of the gym came into view, casting bright white light onto the street. The cab stopped, and the driver waved from behind the Lexan barrier. Alexis swiped her card and added a tip before stepping onto the street.

Inside the gym, a few early risers stretched and clanked weights. Alexis swiped her badge and passed through the gate.

She found her spot in a far corner, stripped off her jacket, and began to stretch. As she moved, a comfortable ache uncoiled on her inner thighs. She closed her eyes and separated her feet to deepen the stretch, enjoying the uncoiling and discomfort.

In the mirrors, she saw others move between machines, and an occasional glance found her and moved on. As she finished stretching, a man working at free weights finished a set and sat up from the bench press.

His red shirt was soaked, and he buried his dripping face in a towel, catching his breath. The tendons in his forearm played under his skin every time his hand moved.

Their gym towels were the same size, and in her hands, Alexis's felt like a bolt of flowing cloth. In his, it looked like a handkerchief.

She imagined his gigantic hand on her hip, fingers gripping against her waist, depressing into the muscles. His fingers by themselves could overpower her, and the power in his arm could do... anything.

Alexis had been staring. When the red-shirted man lifted his face from the towel, he looked around and exhaled before wiping a drip of sweat from his chin. Then, he stopped. His eyes met Alexis's.

A guarded expression appeared and passed. His eyes traveled from hers over her shoulder and to her hip. His hand flexed. Alexis let out a breath. The skin along her left hip tingled. She touched it, and she felt how his grip would go from exploration to demanding need.

Red shirt blinked. Jerking himself up, he turned away and flicked the towel against the bench. Keeping his back turned, he removed weight plates from the bar.

Alexis blushed as her stomach gurgled.

She picked a rowing machine from the empty row, selected the program, sat, and pulled, gathering pace until sweat dripped down her temples.

Red shirt had switched to a military press. He faced away. Alexis stared ahead.

Her mind would not go quiet. She loved this part of the day. No thinking, just her body working, a biomechanical device that she could live inside of. She'd give it a task and didn't have to guide each step.

Today, her churning brain gave her a choice: red shirt or food.

As red shirt lifted the weights over his head, the bar flexed, and as the repetitions continued, his arms tremored at the end of each lift. She counted the repetitions, feeling each exertion in her chest. She imagined the muscle fibers in his arms being broken down, then growing back thicker, more powerful. More able to overpower and take anything he wanted.

Protein, she thought. Eggs, fish, even bacon. They both needed it. She'd lie beside him like a servant girl, feeding him and letting her hands play over his chest, his arms. They'd shower together first, and she'd wash his body, her hands discovering every texture of muscle.

He glanced in the mirror, and their eyes met.

His arm faltered. One side of the bar dipped, tilting it to the right, but their eyes remained locked for a half beat longer.

Quivering, his arm collapsed. The weight tumbled to the ground and clanked with a resonant thrum, and the bar thudded against the bench before clanging to the floor. He jumped away from the tumbling mass and glanced back at Alexis. Need played across his face before he dove after the rolling weights. Heads turned to the sound.

On hands and knees, he caught the bar, then stretched and worked his right arm, wincing as he did.

Alexis gasped for breath. Her program had time left, but seeing him on all fours stopped her.

She'd seen herself. Beneath him, she'd been pinned and helpless. His hands had been over her wrists. Nothing could stop him, and when she saw it, her grip had faltered, and the row bar had slipped from her hand.

He regained control of the weights. Swallowing, he paused, one hand on the bar before sliding the plates off and examining them for damage.

Alexis gathered her coat and headed towards the door. She needed something. Food, his touch. It didn't matter.

On the sidewalk, hints of dawn lightened the sky, and she scanned the street for cabs. At the end of the block, a chrome façade and neon lights announced a diner. Certain she smelled potatoes, Alexis started towards it.

She'd taken several steps when a hand closed over her shoulder.

Instinct and city life experience ignited fear. The hand pulled, and she was turned. Preparing to scream, she saw the shirt: red and soaked through.

As though in pain, he looked at her as he stepped close. His sweat was fresh, salty. His hand on her shoulder released and slid down her arm, slipping between it and her body like a violation. His hand then found her waist.

Slow and tortured, he looked at her as his fingers closed and tightened, digging into the muscles of her hip. A gentle and irresistible tug pulled her against him, and she leaned her head back to look up at him. Her legs pressed against his. Her throat was exposed.

He could throw her down. He could kiss her. He could do anything.

Alexis trembled. Anything. Please. Anything.

In her fear and in his presence, the touch of his hand gave her something. The hunger she'd been feeling went still. It wanted this, his desire. She would never, ever move from this spot while he held her. His desire flowed, and she consumed it, reveling in her quieted, unthinking need.

The tension in his distress tightened, and Alexis parted her lips. She tried to lift herself on her toes. A kiss would strengthen her pull, but the hand on her hip pressed down, binding her to earth. He bent towards her, his mouth opening.

"What-", he said, mouth open, he shook his head. "What am I doing?"

"You want this," she heard herself say, pushing his hand against her.

"No," he said. His grip faltered, and her need shoved her hip against him.

"You want it," she repeated, unsure if she spoke to herself or the man.

"I-" he said, his hand extracting itself. He forced a step away. "I- I love my wife."

His eyes cleared like someone else had said the words, reminding him. "I love my wife."

He looked at Alexis. Embarrassed, aroused, and confused, he backed away.

"No, please," Alexis said, reaching for him.

The absence of his touch removed the flow, and Alexis' need reasserted itself. She stepped towards him. He almost leaped and shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he said and retreated before turning, the pace of his steps turning into a vigorous jog.

Deep, needy frustration gripped Alexis's chest. She'd had what she needed, and it had slipped away.

Catching her breath, she smelled potatoes frying. Wanting to chase the red-shirted man, she relented; she could be hungry. She went up the street while the echo of the man's fingers remained on her skin.

Potatoes, onions, and grease welcomed her into the diner. She slid into a blue vinyl booth with a Formica table. A waitress brought water. Alexis drank half while the waitress watched with wide eyes.

"I'll give you a minute."

Alexis grabbed the woman's wrist. "Three eggs. Scrambled. Sausage. Hash browns."

The waitress raised her eyebrows, waiting.

"That's it," Alexis said.

Then, she smelled bacon. "And a side of bacon."

"Anything else?"

Alexis shook her head and began to drink.

The waitress looked from the emptying glass to Alexis. "I'll bring more water."

The food arrived moments later. Better than her imagination, she tasted, chewed, and swallowed. The gnawing hunger settled, and she didn't think while every fleck of salt and meat played over her senses.

And, far too soon, it was gone. The plate was empty. Her belly feeling like it would burst, she relaxed. Outside the window, dawn had arrived.

Her mind, usually like an eager puppy, didn't begin working on the spreadsheets and models that waited at work. Instead, she watched the traffic outside the window increase.

She'd indulged, she reminded herself. There'd be a price to pay, but for a moment, she didn't care.

She paid the bill and returned to her apartment. Stepping into the shower, she left the water cool. The weight in her stomach had satisfied one need, but red shirt's escape gnawed, and before going to work, it needed to be quelled.

Distracted by the chill, she stepped out of the shower and dried herself. Clothes, hair, and makeup found their rhythm, and her thoughts turned to spreadsheets and market fluctuations. She left it to work as she departed her apartment, found a cab, and rode the elevator to her office.

Feeling calm, she stepped out.

"Good Morning, Ms. Winters," the receptionist said, holding out two notes.

Alexis accepted the notes. "Good Morning."

Reading the messages, she passed through the double doors and to the outer rim of the floor. The sound of phone conversations and keyboard clicks came from the cubicles in the central space. As she turned into the door of her office, she lifted her head.

Theo stood at the end of the row. He'd been staring, and when she met his eyes, he looked to the ground. His hands were empty, and he searched the carpet for a reason to have been standing there.

She saw him on all fours as he had been outside the strip club. She could snap her fingers and point. He'd crawl. For a moment of her attention, he'd crawl.

She put a hand on the doorjamb and smiled. He took a furtive step, stopped, and disappeared up the row.

The need returned, and she placed a hand over the necklace.

Reminding herself that she was at work, she entered her office. The morning huddle was in a few minutes.

She sat at her desk and closed her eyes. She had to get control of herself. Taking a breath, she lifted a notepad and strode to the conference room, avoiding eye contact.

In the conference room, most of the team had taken seats. Jeff and two others huddled at the head of the table. When Alexis entered, eyes went to her, followed by odd, approving smiles.

"I miss something?" Alexis asked.

Jeff, recovered from his loosened tie and glassy-eyed intoxication, had become the finance PhD again. He wore a bespoke gray suit and powder-blue tie.