She Won't
She will come to him one night, lips curled into a smile. She'll joke with him, but he won't know why. She'll kiss him, and it'll make even less sense.
He'll kiss back, and she'll guide his hand up her skirt. She'll throw her head back as his fingers move up higher, pushing aside her panties. Her smile will be fake -- the look of someone broken, but pretending not to be hurt.
He won't ask what's wrong. After all, she won't be wondering about his problems.
She'll pull up her skirt; he'll pull down her panties. She'll lick her palm before she unzips him, slides her hand inside. He'll thrust towards her hand roughly, thrust until she leans back and offers herself to him.
He'll push inside her even though he feels so, so ashamed. He'll count the reasons why this is wrong in time with her moans. She'll clutch onto the edge of the desk as he moves. For some reason, he'll desperately want her to grab onto him.
She won't call him sir; she won't call him anything. He'll wonder if he's grown faceless after years of unfavorably studying his own reflection.
Afterwards, he'll offer her tissues, cringe at the base form of cordiality. She'll answer with a nod of her head, hold a few between her thighs. She'll look regretful when she throws them away, like she's disposing of the evidence of a horrid crime. He won't be insulted.
"I didn't mean for this to happen," she'll manage.
He won't challenge her as to what she wanted to occur. "I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault." She'll slide her panties back on, smooth out her skirt. "I...I don't know."
He'll pull her towards him. She'll hug him back, softly kissing his neck. "I'm sorry," she'll say.
She'll leave without another word. The next night, she'll take him home. Now, they'll have time to disrobe. Now, he'll have time to feel extra guilty.
He'll always, always leave time to feel guilty.
They'll do it over and over again, like they haven't learned the pointlessness of their exercise. She'll never, ever touch him when he's inside her.
He won't tell Jed, because he definitely wouldn't approve. He liked Jordon, but he won't like the idea of Leo sleeping with someone half his age, someone that probably doesn't even want him.
No, Jed wouldn't like that at all. No, Jed is not someone he can tell.
She'll only go down on him on certain days, as if it's been marked on a calendar. She won't question him when he says someone else's name, when the name isn't that of his wife. But she won't look at him either, choosing to stare at a spot on his thigh as she wipes her mouth with her hand.
Her kiss will be shallow and short. She'll look at him as if nothing had happened, and he'll wonder if she's overlooking this out of charity or kinship, if she's imagining someone else when his head's between her thighs.
That is something she'll never, ever tell him.
So, he'll watch her: the way she smiles at Josh, how she stares at CJ, her habit of leaning close to Margaret. He'll wonder about the length of the hair that she imagines herself slipping her fingers through.
He'll listen to her wordless moans as he hums the letters of his best friend's name against her clit. He'll wonder when he became such a pack of contradictions, a mess of confusion, a man who has meaningless sex with a girl, ties all his worthiness to the coattails of a man who means everything.
She'll come during his third go-round of the alphabet of Bartlet. He'll kiss her with the same superficial pressure that she offered him.
It'll always, always be superficial.
She won't be his friend, his protector, his companion. She won't even be his lover, no matter how many times she lets him inside her.
But they won't stop it.
No, they can't do that.