[He steps forward and she moves back with him, her heels clacking loudly against the polished floorboards, walking a little uncertainly, even with his guidance. The strong drinks are to blame as she stumbles slightly, her hands reaching to clutch at the cuffs of his sleeves for support. He is holding her patiently, but there is something definite about his movements, a deliberation in his behavior...
The quivering back of her knees brush against the silk edge of the bedding, and she breaks the kiss, breathing heavier than she would like, betraying how much his touch exhilarates her. All it would take is a slight forward nod, and they would be entwined again, but she struggles to settle the anxious quiver in her hands, the graceless lack of control over her balance. She looks over her shoulder, down to the bed, pristine sheets folded back and cushions arranged, pale quilts soft against her skin. A moment of horrible incomprehension passes over her, struggling, grasping fruitlessly for the connection between him and the bed.]
Oh—
[Thunderously, the realization bursts upon her and all its sordid implications. For how bold he has been, she should have realized the blazing hints, and even through the strong daze of champagne, she feels as if a veil of naïvety has been torn aside, and now she can see things clearly. An unpleasant, almost frightened sound escapes her, high and wavering in a wordless cry.
She no longer looks mournful, but distressed to the deepest degree: her face pale and a faint frown lining her pretty mouth. Her hands are snatched back from his wrists, wringing together as if, by rubbing the tender white skin of her palms raw, she could grasp at some purer essence of the answer she has stumbled upon. Her fears of just being a companion for his bed are rushing in like black water, if he thinks of her consisting of nothing more than sweet flesh to warm him, just a mistress to be sated for the night, like any one of her husband's nameless harem.
And when she finds the breath to speak again, she sounds very brittle, her voice very tiny and hurt. To think, she had he thought, he might have—]
You can hardly make love to someone if—if you don't love them.
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The quivering back of her knees brush against the silk edge of the bedding, and she breaks the kiss, breathing heavier than she would like, betraying how much his touch exhilarates her. All it would take is a slight forward nod, and they would be entwined again, but she struggles to settle the anxious quiver in her hands, the graceless lack of control over her balance. She looks over her shoulder, down to the bed, pristine sheets folded back and cushions arranged, pale quilts soft against her skin. A moment of horrible incomprehension passes over her, struggling, grasping fruitlessly for the connection between him and the bed.]
Oh—
[Thunderously, the realization bursts upon her and all its sordid implications. For how bold he has been, she should have realized the blazing hints, and even through the strong daze of champagne, she feels as if a veil of naïvety has been torn aside, and now she can see things clearly. An unpleasant, almost frightened sound escapes her, high and wavering in a wordless cry.
She no longer looks mournful, but distressed to the deepest degree: her face pale and a faint frown lining her pretty mouth. Her hands are snatched back from his wrists, wringing together as if, by rubbing the tender white skin of her palms raw, she could grasp at some purer essence of the answer she has stumbled upon. Her fears of just being a companion for his bed are rushing in like black water, if he thinks of her consisting of nothing more than sweet flesh to warm him, just a mistress to be sated for the night, like any one of her husband's nameless harem.
And when she finds the breath to speak again, she sounds very brittle, her voice very tiny and hurt. To think, she had he thought, he might have—]
You can hardly make love to someone if—if you don't love them.