He wouldn't cheat on me. I know he wouldn't. Or, at least, I used to know. I'm finding doubts creeping up on me with every passing hour. I take him for granted; I can't pretend I don't. I know I don't appreciate him, don't treat him the way I should. I guess I just got too comfortable with our relationship. I know that when he tells me he loves me, that he means it with all his heart. So, even if he is out fucking some slut, it doesn't matter, 'cause he loves me, right?

Maybe he's with that little bitch. God damn her. She had her chance with him and she blew it. He never really cared about her, anyway. I'm the only one he's ever really loved. He told me, and I can't doubt that even if I wanted to. Sometimes I want to. When he looks at me with those big blue eyes, looks at me so wistfully, wondering if it's his fault that I'm never around. I want it to be his fault, but it isn't. I stay late at the studio more often than not, let him get restless and lonely waiting for me to come home. I never call just to tell him I love him, or even to let him know I'll be home late. I turn on a recording of his angelic voice and let it inspire me, and I don't think twice about what he needs.

We haven't made love in months. I'm too busy for that. We just fuck. And it's good. But it isn't enough. I know he misses the tenderness, the cuddling, the soft kissing. I know he thinks about the hours we used to spend in each other's arms, having whispered discussions about any and everything; safe in our world of eternal love and unfailing trust. I know it must kill him, to have that love and trust and not be able to enjoy it, because I won't let him. I throw myself into my work, and leave him trapped in our love. He can't leave me, he can't hate me, because he knows what we have is something special.

I didn't used to be like this at all. I used to be all over him, always eager just to be near him, to hear him talk or see him move. Everything about him fascinated me, and it still does, I just don't let him know or enjoy it anymore. I keep our love, and I don't share it with him.

I used to love to run my hands over his body, just explore his skin, and marvel that an animal could be this beautiful, this perfect. I still do it, but I wait until he's asleep. Then I can have all the pleasure for myself. I don't know how or why I became so greedy about the bliss our union creates, but I did. When we are together, it's magical, and somewhere along the way I began wanting the magic all for myself. To take from him and not return. In an unbreakable bond, I pushed the boundaries, knowing I couldn't lose. Our Love couldn't die, even if we both wanted it to kill it. We were meant to be.

I came home late tonight, and as usual I didn’t bother to call. But to my surprise I found our bedroom empty. His sleeping form wasn't there for me to admire. His silky skin wasn't there for me to stroke as he dreamt of the times when I was a giving lover. There was no note, either. His cell phone was laying in the middle of the bed, making it clear that he left it behind intentionally. He wants me to know that he could cheat if he wanted. He wants me to think about how he could have anyone, anytime. He wants me to agonize over the fact that he gets whatever he wants, and if he wants a new lover, he'll take one. It's true. He always gets what he wants. He wants me to be jealous and miserable, and, goddamn it, I am. I know he couldn't share his heart with another, even if he tried, but he could share his body. His delicious, flawless body. I seethe at the mere thought of some one else touching him where only I should touch, of experiencing the rapture of his ardor. The thought of some one else seeing his face when it's flushed with passion, of some one else making him moan, makes me lose control. I pick up the lamp by our bed and hurl it against the wall. Glass shatters all over the floor, but I don't pick it up, I just toss myself onto our bed, screaming and cussing. He wants me to realize how lonely the bed is without his body lying next to me, and I do. I hug his pillow to me, trying to comfort myself with his scent. If he comes back...If? When. When he comes back...

And suddenly, there he is. He strides through the door, confident and beautiful as ever. Even when I'm really neglecting him, when I can *feel* him missing me, he always has that cockiness about him. He knows he is Art. He notices the broken lamp and throws me a mischievous glance, biting his lip. I am sitting up in bed now, and staring at him, letting him know that even though I know what he was up to, he still won.

He strips slowly, letting himself enjoy the way I watch him. I take off my clothes, too, throwing them on the ground by the bed. He comes towards me, pushing me back onto the bed by my shoulders as he climbs on top of me, and kisses me. Slow, sensuous kisses. A moan erupts from deep inside me, and I can feel him smile into the kiss. Tonight we will make love. Tonight and as often as we like from now on, which will be very, very often. And when we want to fuck, we will fuck. He doesn't want to be greedy; he isn't turning the tables on me, though he could if he wanted to. He's scared me into a vulnerable spot with his little disappearing act, and he knows it. But he doesn’t want to take it all for himself, he wants to share. He will erase my fear with his touch, he will forgive me with his kisses, and he will bring us back to the place where we were before I pushed him out. The place where we were trapped in love together, but not really trapped, because we didn't ever want to escape. Maybe we never left that place, maybe I just made us forget we were there.

Our hands entwine, and he guides them above my head and holds mine by the wrist with one hand as his other strokes my cheek. Our kisses are deep, searing, almost frantic but not quite, and electric as always. Every time we touch it's fate. It always has been, always will be, and soon we are moaning into every kiss. I wrap my legs around his hips, and he lets his hand slide from my cheek, down my torso, and grasp my waist. He will be in me soon, and it will be perfect. We are both panting with need, overwhelmed by how intense the physical act of our love always is. We've done this countless times, and it never fails to shock us. He pushes inside me gently, but I can sense his want. His thrusts are slow, and we are trembling and gasping. I want this to last forever, and I want to end it right now. I want him to keep it slow and almost painful in its exquisite pleasure, and I want him to fuck me fast and hard until the world shakes from the force of our animal want. This is complete Love and complete Lust.

I feel dizzy from how good this is, weak from it. He is devouring my neck and I am rolling my head, begging his name. The hand that was holding my wrists strokes its way down my arm and cups my head, angling it so he can kiss me even deeper. My arms wrap around him instantly, one grasping his back, pulling him closer so our chests are pressed together, so the only thing between us is our sweat, while the other arm mimics his, threading into those indescribably soft golden brown curls. I feel him pull his mouth away from mine, and I open my eyes. He is delves into them, his eyes glazed with passion and intense with emotion. He smiles and I smile, knowing we could never have this with anyone else.

How could I have ever thought he'd cheat? But that's okay, I needed to be afraid in order to get over whatever the hell was wrong with me. From now on I will leave for the studio late and come home early, from now on I will mess up at rehearsals because I am too caught up in his voice and movements to pay attention to my own. I will ache for him during our shows, and attack him as soon as we are alone, so desperate he'll laugh at my fervor before returning my kisses with matching intensity.