Crossed Some Line
by Victoria P.

You've thought about it. You don't spend a lot of time thinking about it, but you can't lie and say it hasn't crossed your mind.

She's lovely, with bright blonde hair and long, coltish legs that would wrap around your hips, and a generous mouth that's always full of smiles for everyone.

But mostly you think about it because you see how Josh looks at her. She's everything you used to be -- young, idealistic, beautiful. He basks in her attention and she glows from his. Rumors have circled them since the campaign, though everyone in the west wing knows nothing's ever happened. Josh is a good guy, would never screw his assistant.

They don't know he was too busy screwing you.

And anyway, he has a type -- brilliant and ambitious brunettes who look good in suits.

You don't like to think of yourself as someone's type; you like to think it meant more than a few drunken fumbles when you were both starting out on the Hill, and blowjobs on the campaign. You both knew once you were in office, it would have to stop, and it did.

That doesn't mean you don't still wake up reaching for him, though he never spent the night even when you were together.

So when you look at Donna, it's not really Donna you're seeing.

And when she hugs you, and you look up to see concern in Josh's eyes, you think it's meant for you, and it warms you more than her body pressed against yours.

Later, at the bar, she pulls you out of the booth to dance with her as Toby and Josh argue about pardons and the WTO. You can't identify the song, which means you've gotten old before your time, because you used to know this stuff. Donna knows this stuff; she's singing in your ear, her beer bottle is cold against your shoulder as she pulls you close.

You bury your face in the crook of her neck, inhale the scent of Pantene and cherry almond Jergens lotion, which your first girlfriend in high school used to use, and you haven't smelled in years.

You tighten your arms around her and feel her inhale in surprise before she relaxes into you, her long, elegant fingers sliding through your hair.

This is the moment everything changes, the moment the line is crossed. You both know it. You raise your head, look quickly over at Josh, who is still engrossed in his argument with Toby. The song ends and you move apart, but keep hold of her hand. Josh looks up when you sit down, but his eyes are on Donna. You remember when he watched you like that.

She slides her lips around rim of the bottle, her fingers stroking up and down the long neck, and it's for your benefit. You brush your foot against her calf and she ducks her head, smiling behind the fall of her hair. You play the game for as long as you can, touching each other under the table, then in plain sight as you exchange drinks. Josh is smiling vaguely, definitely feeling no pain, but Toby shoots you a worried glance, the same glance you've seen all week. You grin at him, small, tight, feels odd on your face, but you want to laugh that the great and wise Toby Ziegler is missing the fact that you and Donna are going to fuck later while he's going home to an empty bed.

When you're splitting up to go home, Donna bundles Josh into a cab with Toby, nattering on about his sensitive system and how he lives closer to Toby so of course they should share the cab, and she'll call him in the morning. You know under other circumstances, Josh would end up sleeping on her couch, and one day, he'll sleep in her bed; Josh always gets what he wants in the end, and this time he'll have waited years for it. And he wants it, because he's gone out of his way to tell everyone how much he really doesn't.

You didn't want it, and you haven't waited for it, but it's yours when you tumble into the cab. You're boneless and sleepy, slumped against each other and enjoying the warmth of another body close by.

You reach your apartment, and you pay the cabbie. You don't even have to say anything -- you hold out a hand and Donna takes it.

You lead her upstairs and all that drunken lethargy is gone in an explosion of hands and lips, pulling at coats and suit jackets and shirts. You slam the door and push her up against it, mouth sliding against skin like silk, the taste of cigar smoke and beer and Jergens lotion against on your tongue. The taste of Donna on your tongue.

You manage to stumble to the bedroom, dropping clothes along the way. She kicks off her heels and crawls onto the bed, pulling you down to her with your tie. She asks you to keep it on.

Her breasts are high and full, pink-tipped and responsive to your hands and mouth. You find her skin a marvel -- fairer even than your own and finer, softer, more luxurious. You want to lick every inch of it before the night is over, because you know, in the back of your mind, that this one night is all you're getting. You want to make sure she is thinking of you, that she remembers you, though you both know Josh is always between you.

She's impatient, her hands working nimbly at your zipper, pushing your trousers and boxers down over your hips; you kick them off, and laugh a little hysterically when she demands you remove your socks.

She's got the condom ready; her hands tremble slightly as she rolls it on you, and then you're moving over her, sliding into tight, wet, heat. Her legs wrap around you, long and pale and toned -- she reminds you of a palomino.

Your writer's brain conjures up metaphors when all you want to do is lose yourself in her body, the way you fit together. She arches her back so her breasts can brush your chest; you angle your hips so you can thrust deeper, harder, your hands pushing hers above her head, stretching her beneath you, holding her there as you drive into her. She gasps and moans your name over and over, Sam. Sam. Oh, God. Sam.

You tell her she is beautiful, perfect; you thank her in between dropping kisses on her face and neck.

Pressure builds inside you until you come with enough force to shatter your world, make it unrecognizable for a few blissful moments. You can feel her shuddering beneath you, her body clenching around you. You kiss her, hard, teeth clicking before the rough-smooth slide of tongue on tongue.

You'd pegged her for a cuddler, but she rolls away on her side, facing out. You clean up and spoon behind her, but she's already asleep, muttering nonsense words.

When you wake, she's already up and dressing, picking her clothes off the carpeting and talking on the phone. You feel the weight of what you've done settle like a lump of lead in your stomach.

She hangs up and turns to you.

"Josh can never know," she says.

"Of course."

When he asks you later if you got home okay, you smile and tell him Donna's quite a woman.

"Yeah," he says, and his eyes are intense; you think he can see what you've done, smell it on you even through the Ivory soap you use in the shower. "You didn't--"

"Have I ever taken advantage of a lady?" you say, feigning outrage.

"No, no, of course not." Josh shakes his head as if clearing it. "I don't know what I was thinking."

You console yourself with the fact that you didn't technically lie, and your skin crawls at the way your slow descent into politics as usual has begun coloring your personal life.

Donna smiles at you when you leave Josh's office, but she won't meet your eyes.

You've both chosen Josh, but this time, Josh will choose Donna.


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