A Roger E. Moore "Iron Chef" ficlet.
Tom rolled over and looked into her eyes. As it had every time, since their first time three years ago, the sensation in the pit of his stomach reminded him how he felt. He said, simply, "You're beautiful."
Her eyes, at first returning his gaze, looked away. "Then why...?"
He rolled onto his back, his head on the pillow, staring straight up at the ceiling, unable to meet her eyes, and answered softly "I don't know." It was the truth.
"What if she found out?"
"She won't. I'm not going to tell her and you're certainly not."
She sat up, the sheet falling from her, more sorrowful than angry. "It's not fair, Tom. It's not fair on me and it's not fair on her."
"I know. Damn. I know."
"Look at me."
He rolled over again. He raised an arm to her head and caressed her hair, her ear, her cheek.
"You love her too, don't you?"
"Yes. I can't give her up. But I can't give you up either."
"Then I guess I'm going to have to be satisfied...with this." She lifted his hand and kissed it.
"I'm sorry. If there was any other way you know I'd take it."
"I know." She gently leant over and kissed him, long and tenderly. Their passion was spent, but their love wasn't. When it was over she stood up and picked her clothes up off the floor.
"I have to. Mom and Dad will be home soon."
"I love you, Elsie."
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