[There's the swish of velvet curtains, her fingers resting on the rim of her emptied glass, about to signal for another when she finds herself suddenly presented with a guest. She must be intoxicated herself, or else the mild heat of alcohol without having had supper is quicker-acting than previously thought, because she is not exactly put out by his sudden appearance. Rather, she is delighted when presented with another tall drink, and hides a smile behind the curl of her hand, amused at his audacity as much as the sense of childlike earnesty on his features.]
Evening.
[She takes a long drink, the miracle liquor already beginning to haze her sour thoughts of resentment towards her husband quite pleasantly. She lacks all of the sharp sarcasm of her dear golfing companion, but Jordan is unfortunately absent, and Daisy answers him with plainest innocence, a sense of genuine curiosity in her tone.]
It's awfully early to be drinking, isn't it?
[She asks with a gesturing nod of her head, her face tipping slightly too much forward, so that she almost dips back into her own glass. Perhaps she has drunk a little much herself, her second sweet champagne halfway vanished already. She never had much of a taste for it before, not so much enjoying the innate flavors—but marriage had given her a craving for the stuff, even before ascending to the altar. Terrible habit, and the seaside city just seems to further feed the appetites of its wicked inhabitants.]
[He makes a show of checking his watch, looking down at it earnestly, then back up at her, and shaking his head slowly. After a few moments of silence, he takes another sip of his drink and finally answers the question presented to him.]
It's past noon, ain't it?
[Past noon is, apparently, the appropriate time for drinking. Some people would consider five to be a more proper cutoff point, but when it comes to alcohol, Jimmy doesn't suppose he has any reason to do anything 'properly.' After all, the stuff's illegal, no matter how many otherwise classy establishments may serve it.
He's glad, in a fuzzy, likely misguided sort of way, that she's not displeased by him showing up in her booth. If she'd been looking for a moment of privacy, a chance to get away from the crowd and share a drink with nobody but herself, she's apparently out of luck for the moment -- he's sitting here very comfortable now, and he doesn't seem inclined to go away unless she directly asks him to.]
Besides, every day's a good day for...
[He has to look back at his glass, because he's been staring at her champagne instead of his own drink, and suddenly can't remember what it is he's imbibing, except that it's exceptionally strong -- so strong that it'd be hard to notice if it were of an inferior quality, which he suspects -- and that it's doing its job of getting him well and truly on his way to drunk properly.]
Whiskey.
[He says it triumphantly, as though it's a coup in it of itself that he's remembered what the drink in his hand is.]
[She resists the temptation to wrinkle her nose, perhaps a little sourly, at the subsequent drops of amber whiskey running down the side of his glass. Something about him, at least in this state, reminds her a little of Tom, in a bittersweet combination: for as much as she is charmed by his masculine posturing, nor is she wholly swept up in his brusque manner of speaking, or how he insists drunkenness is a fine state for a man to be in. Admittedly, to burden the heart with bottles of the liquid courage, and to claim it for vigor is a mistake most men are guilty of, and there are even times when she too sips on sweet chardonnays and thinks herself all the better for it.
She is not entirely sure what to make of him. She enjoys the simplistic red of his mouth, caught in a perpetual, albeit slightly sluggish smile, and she is pleased well enough that he is so enthusiastic in her company, but he should really be sober enough to offer conversation beyond drinking—or else, his innate charms will service him very little.
Taking initiative, again owing to her own drinking, she extends her hand to him: small, white, and fragile, her slender wrist heavy with a pearl bracelet. She does so with a note of hesitation, as if bordering on the wonder if he would just as quickly crush it rather than shake it.]
Isn't a gentleman supposed to introduce himself first?
[There is nothing unkind in her voice, however, speaking with artificial dispassion to disguise her willingness to talk. There's a brief pause, waiting for his end, and then, in a gibbering catastrophe of nerves:]
How do you do—? [She launches into a rapid introduction, wavering, unsure how to approach the man or whether she has sorely misjudged him: perhaps he is an even greater brute than her husband.] Daisy— [The burn of old South is slurring her words just slightly, warm and breathless, spurred on by her own indecisible heart.] Fay— [She takes a pause, a quiet little shuddering of her shoulders as she remembers to shake of the remnants of her old maiden life, remembering her new surname and all the expectations that come with being enfolded into the enormous blue-blooded cage of the empire.] Buchanan.
[He reaches out for her hand, taking it very gently, as though
somehow convinced that she's very delicate -- and, indeed, she looks
delicate to him, even slowed by the alcohol as he is -- and shakes
it.]
That'd be makin' the assumption that I was a gentleman.
[It could so easily sound dismissive and rough, but he says it with
such a teasing note inherent in his voice that it's obvious that, even if
he means it (and he does,) he finds it very amusing, somehow. Her name
strikes him as familiar, and his brow furrows a little with the
concentration required to think seriously about it, trying to call up from
already shaky memory where he's heard that name before. It'll come to
him.]
I'm Jimmy.
[He says it with another easy grin, draining his drink, wondering if
those're nerves he hears in her voice or if he's just reading things into
her tone that weren't there in the first place. Maybe she's uncomfortable
about sitting here alone with him -- he can't exactly blame her.]
James Edison Darmody, if we're gonna be formal about it.
[Is it rude, to tease just a little, at the way she's introduced
herself with her full name? Maybe, but he likes to think he's charming
enough to get away with it. There's no malicious intent, just genuine
amusement.]
[His gentle teasing, and the even gentler way he takes her hand seems to reassure her, her heart no longer fluttering with such intensity, no longer racing from the queer combination of instinctual wariness and the pressing conversational cues of having to make introductions. Not that she is assured, entirely, of his good character—his refusal to be called a gentleman could be foreboding, if it were spoken in a different tone (foretelling of something devilish about him, maybe, as if a criminal cruelty could be seen in his gait and his speech, as if the gangster is another kind of monster dreamed up by some terrible imagination)—but the first impression he makes upon her is not terrible at all. She shares in his quiet little joke, playing at being formal in an entirely informal situation, sharing drinks in an establishment which promises a good time to be had for all its patrons, although what constitutes as "a good time" is a very broad definition.
Indeed, she notes sourly, her husband's definition of enjoyments is a very scandalous one, no doubt being met to his satisfaction upstairs.]
A pleasure, Mr. Darmody.
[She slips her hand from his, freeing it to tuck an errant strand of blonde behind the delicate curl of her ear. Through the open curtain, she can see the stage, women in identical outfits taking their places to begin a dance routine, sweating from the blazing hot lights. She doesn't take any pleasure in watching the lithe, nubile young things on stage, the performers with short skirts and spangles which reach barely the tops of their legs, thinking again of her spouse's enjoyment of the performance—and she reaches up, quite suddenly, to close the curtains.
Doing so has unintentionally cast them in an artificial darkness, lit only by the dimmer overhead bulbs. They are quite alone in the private booth, and in a moment of self-consciousness, she clutches for her glass again, only to see it has already been emptied.]
[He can't help but laugh a little when she closes the curtains, maybe because he's just been wondering what she thinks of the entertainment here, and that seems to be a pretty decisive answer, or maybe just because he's been drinking and most things seem slightly funnier than they really are right now, softened by that gentle haze that alcohol brings.]
Pleasure's all mine. What brings you to Atlantic City?
[That's what people're supposed to ask, right? That's one of those expected things, although maybe he shouldn't just assume that she's not from around here. Sure, he doesn't think she is, but hell, maybe she'll take offense at being thought to be a tourist. You never can tell with some people.
All the same, he's curious, and there's no hiding that, especially not when it's obvious that his eyes are on her as she tucks her hair behind her ear. Maybe she'll assume -- and rightfully so -- that he's attracted to her, but that just makes him hope he's made a decent enough first impression. Apparently, it had been favorable enough that she'd felt comfortable closing the curtain with him sitting there, though whether that's for a desire of some sort of artificial privacy with him or just the desire to shut out the outside world for a moment, it's hard to tell.]
[That's a fair question, there is nothing she registers as flirtatious about it. What brings her all the way out here, miles from home? She has traveled numerous places in the past few years (a single, bitter failed attempt to visit New York aside): from Louisville as the blushing bride, to sunny beaches where she spent her first days as a wife, and then she was swept off to France, to be dazzled by the city of lights. Only recently did she and her husband settle down in Chicago, and even then, now they are off vacationing once again.
What brings her here could be anything: her husband once again acquiring a taste for exotic women, exasperation with the constant exchange of houses, and her mounting disenchantment with each of the promises Tom makes her, only to break every single one of them.
But the most simple answer of all is:]
My husband brought me.
[She replies, as if he hadn't seen the diamond wedding band around her finger. But there is nothing joyful in her tone, and even the rich warmth to her voice sounds slightly harder: this is, after all, just yet another repeated display of exuberance expense, which passes for affection in her passionless marriage. She wishes she could say—not to him, but just for the sake of saying it—that Tom used to make slow, languid love to her for hours on end between breakfast and supper, but that had never been. Even their honeymoon was punctuated by trips to the gambling table, too many glasses of wine, and a wedding night that had her in tears by the end of it.
But, all of that is far too dark talk to bring to the table.]
I don't know where he went off to.
[She says plainly, as if to explain his blatant absence.]
Brought you 'n then left you alone in a place like this?
[He shakes his head, raises an eyebrow, still feeling as though he's moving in slightly slow motion. Maybe he shouldn't be drawing attention to the fact that her husband is nowhere to be found, but he's had enough to drink that his usual social niceties -- already shaky, to say the least -- are much more difficult to call up. At the very least, though, he can try to make it sound like less of an insult against her husband. Most people don't care for that kind of talk, even if they're thinking the exact same thoughts themselves. He's learned that the hard way, more than once.]
Can't imagine wantin' to let someone like you outta my sight for too long, that's all.
[Maybe he can turn that into a compliment towards her rather than a slight to her husband, and maybe she'll take it in the spirit it's intended -- not necessarily, though; he knows he has the remarkable ability to put his foot further and further into his mouth the more he tries to right his impolite wrongs.
Is a charming smile enough to sound somewhat less insulting? He'll give it a try, anyway, partially because he doesn't want to offend her, partially because he genuinely feels like smiling at her, would likely have done so no matter what he'd said to her, even though, of course, he has noticed her wedding ring. It had been the first thing he'd looked for, actually, but he hardly intends to inform her of that fact. Some things, remarkably, he's capable of keeping to himself.]
[A fierce blush rises to her cheeks, busying herself with fumbling for a cigarette from her silver case, withdrawing one and lighting it with deliberate slowness, fruitless in stifling the tiny smile he brings to her lips. It is not his place to comment on her marriage, no matter how clear the circumstances may appear to him, but the comfort of his compliment sweetens any bitter taste he might have soured their conversation with. And even if he hadn't added the compliment—even it was spoken just for the sake of lightening the air between them—she isn't one to start a conflict over her husband's honor.
She takes several short puffs, exhaling plumes of white smoke. Between the cigarette and her glasses of champagne, she is feeling at least slightly hazy, enough to consider him charming, rather than insulting. Although, if she were sober, perhaps she would have given further thought to how he had introduced himself, as not a gentleman— Perhaps she would have taken his whimsical comment to heart, and would have thought twice before closing the curtain around the two of them—
It's far too late, anyhow. Not that she wishes to leave his company, but only that, if she had been thinking soundly, she would've realized how it appears to be so openly vulnerable, and so clearly flattered, before a man just as intoxicated as she. Had she not taken that extra glass, or not smoked such a strong brand of cigarettes, maybe she wouldn't have teased him in kind.]
Are you going to say, you would never let me out of your sight?
[That wouldn't be any fun, would it, if she was accurately predicting his next words? (Although, of course, that's very likely what he had been intending to say -- some version of it, anyway, probably phrased a little more flirtatiously, or, alternatively, a little less eloquently. It's hard to tell, when he's drinking, just what's going to come out of his mouth next. Even he can't tell, sometimes.]
Maybe I'll say somethin' else, though. Maybe I'll say that havin' you in my sight right now is a pretty damn great experience.
[That's complimentary, too, although again, not in a particularly well-phrased way. Certainly, she must know she's beautiful, must know people enjoy looking at her, and it's one of those easy compliments, the kind that anybody could make. What it lacks in its construction or originality, however, it somewhat makes up for in the earnest honesty in his eyes. He really, really means it. Having her across from him like this, smoking her cigarette as she is, blushing at him, smiling at him... he can hardly think of anything he'd rather see.
And now that he's said all that, he's going to lean back a little, lighting his own cigarette, taking a long, satisfied drag on it, smile still playing around the corner of his lips.]
[She startles for a moment, her shoulders tightening, her pale brows drawing together in a state of distress, giving a little anxious cough. The sharpness of his cursing ruins the slow, rhythmic cadence of his voice, even as much as it is layered in compliments and flattery. That sort of language reminds her, far too uncomfortably, of brutal men and the inevitable violence they bring.
She smiles all the same, but her good humor is somewhat spoiled, her fingers even possibly betraying a slight tremble as she takes a long breath from her cigarette. To say that her enjoyment of the entire evening hinges on his one curse would be an exaggeration, however, it does not brighten her image of him any further.]
Thank you.
[There is a decided edge of false politeness to her tone, a light wariness, clearing her throat with distinct uncertainty as to how to proceed—whether he will realize his blunder, or whether he will continue on blithely, as a true drunkard would. The curtains are very heavy, thick velvet and entirely opaque, and it is just barely too hot in their little booth. She fumbles, crossing one leg over the other, and when her thigh brushes against his knee beneath the table, it is entirely accidental.]
[He realizes it, of course he does, because though he may be the type of person to blunder himself into uncomfortable situations, he's not completely incapable of recognizing them. He's had enough experience speaking to people who find swearing and casual speech in general to be unpleasant, to be unprofessional, and when he really needs to, he can clean it up. Apparently, this seems to be one of those times.]
Sorry. Guess I could've phrased that a little nicer.
[It's not hard to see the uncomfortableness on her face, the way her brow furrows for a moment, which is a no less beautiful expression than the other expressions she's made, in the time they've been speaking, but which he's still unhappy to have caused to occur. He always seems to be putting himself into this position, one which requires an apology and an attempt to shape up, and the worst part is, he does it completely unintentionally.
When her leg brushes against his, though, he can't help but let the smile come back. Hers isn't an intentional touch, of course it isn't, but when he moves his own leg a little, brushing his knee against her thigh in a feigned attempt to shift positions, there's nothing accidental about it.]
[She exhales on a wavering, high note, more of a breathless cry than any resemblance to a laugh, a sound of relief and bleak irony at the ridiculousness of the situation, at herself for becoming so easily upset, at him for doing his best to remedy the sour turn of speech. She shakes her head, with none of the wild hysteria he may have been anticipating, and accepts his apology without further fuss, already terribly embarrassed by her own girlish turn of emotions, from laughter to tears and back again.]
We've both had some to drink.
[She offers, some feeble explanation to excuse both of their behaviors, realizing the earnesty in his face even through the light veil of smoke. After all, she has her vices just as he, and she too has spoken things better left unsaid, or even voiced thoughts she had instantly regretted: teasing remarks taken too far, or quiet comments infused with an unthinkable sense of bitterness. To consider him unforgivable or beyond redemption because of a thoughtless comment would be the most unkind thing of all.
After all, all he had been trying to do was offer her a kindness.
Her worries quieted, she attempts to settle back into her comfortable seating arrangement, but the sudden brush of heat—the moment of contact, the heavy pinstripe of his trousers against the fragile lace of her skirt—makes her think better of it, and she remains where she is. Never mind how the accidental touch catches her breath in her throat, feeling as silly as a schoolgirl, for fussing over how her legs are crossed or not.]
[But can he really blame the fact that they've been drinking on what
he decides he wants to do next? Truth be told, he'd probably shouldn't
prolong the contact between their legs, and he certainly shouldn't lean
forward a little, putting one of his hands on top of hers, but when's he
ever been too good about doing what he's supposed to?
Until she pulls her leg or her hand away, then, they're touching in
several places. He knows it could just as easily be seen as too forward,
just as easily get him slapped as result in another one of those charming
blushes of hers. But he's still doing it.]
I still meant what I said, even if I didn't say it too well.
[Is any of this a good idea? Probably not. But alcohol makes him
bold -- bolder, in his case.]
[Once again, his hand covers hers—there is almost something tender, loving about the gesture—and she hears a quality about his tone that she cannot place: whether it's meant to be apologetic, or seductive, or some combination of the two, she cannot deny his brazen confidence. Dimly, the realization strikes her that the firm press of his knee is intentional, but—what is there to do about it? She cannot push him, or shove him away, or deliver a smart slap any more than he could stop being tempted by her.
She could pretend she hasn't noticed, the possibility presents itself to her. She could blithely continue on with their clumsy attempts at conversation, to act as if she has never felt the warmth of his palm and the battered, rough skin of his pale knuckles. She could carry on the modest charade that she has never thought of admiring the masculine shape of his frame and the solid weight of muscle belied by crisp suits and silver silk ties. If she did, it would certainly cause less fuss. If she didn't, she might upset him awfully, or worst of all—ignite a flicker of some brooding temper, an unknown violence in his blood, which could be directed towards her, if she refuses him.
And—and it has been ages, since she's been touched with any sort of genuine sweetness, with something more than lust or the impersonal pragmatism of her spouse. She trembles in her hesitancy, her gaze darting anxiously between him and the gap in the drapery, the sound of stampeding footsteps and boisterous laughter not a mere few feet away, only the thin velvet curtain protecting their modesty—
She takes a shaky, shuddering breath, as if strengthening her resolve:]
Mr. Darmody, I—
[The curtains burst apart, and in her surprise, she presses against his side in the way that intimate sweethearts would, dropping her cigarette onto the polished table, clutching at the cuff of his sleeve in a moment of terrified incomprehension.
But it is only another drunken couple, looking blithely for their own booth: the man slurs an apology, leading a giggling woman on his arm away. The curtains are yanked shut again, her heart racing in her throat, her cigarette still smoldering feebly on the table. She does not disentangle herself immediately, her fragile frame still seized stiff from the shock of it all—but eventually, gently, she attempts to slide away, to put a comfortable distance between them.]
I'm married, Mr. Darmody.
[She says in a small voice, as if ashamed of her confession. And there is no reason, none whatsoever, for her heart to ache when she says this. As if anticipating his next bold remark, she continues on:]
It doesn't matter if I love him— [If she loves him—it had never meant to slip out, but there it is, her honeyed voice sharp and bitter with unkind honesty.] I'm his wife.
[It doesn't quite sound like a rejection, though. Not quite.]
[He startles a little, too, when the drunken couple bursts through
their curtain, interrupting their moment of... what? He can't quite call it
intimacy, though he obviously intends to push it in that direction, if
she's so inclined. It can't properly be described as tranquility, either,
because although he's pleasantly slowed and addled from the alcohol, he
still feels a certain delight when he looks at her, completely
inexplicable; he can't put words to it, all he knows is that he very much
likes the feeling of her soft, delicate hand below his.
And then she's speaking, and saying that, and he may be
drunk, but he's not so drunk that he doesn't hear the 'if' in that
statement, the implication that perhaps she doesn't love her husband, and
there's the fact that her husband is nowhere to be found, here, has left
her alone... But he won't insult her husband again. What little good sense
he has is enough to caution against that.]
I know.
[Does he need to mention that he's married, too? Is it relevant? He
wears a simple ring, after all, but he'd rather not go into it. He'd rather
not describe all the ways that that marriage isn't what he'd imagined,
isn't even what his wife had wanted, and...
Well. That's a road he doesn't need to go down, not when he's been drinking
and could so easily get morose. Instead, he'll say what's on his
mind.]
I just keep thinkin' about what kissin' you would be like.
[He leans forward further, like he really intends to try it, and in
framing it that way, he has tried to, at least, sidestep the issue of
marriage and responsibility entirely.]
[That flusters her most of all, when he speaks so boldly like that, ashamed and the color bright in her cheeks, a flush of red creeping down her exposed throat, their knees brushing together and the handsome, boyish youth of his face drawing closer to hers. She cannot even manage to shake her head, not this close, her lips parting and opening to silently protest, her breathing shallow, the nails of one hand leaving the stinging imprint of red crescents into the peach-soft flesh of her palm. The tension within her is threatening to overwhelm her, and she thinks of consequences, of the shame this will bring, but her heart feels as if it's going to burst—]
Please—
[Her voice is barely more audible than a whisper, plaintive and pleading, shivering from the summer heat of his flesh. She looks as desperate as any deprived lover: lightly sweating, breathing in thin, ragged gulps of smoky air, her eyes glassy with the feverish beginnings of panicked excitement.]
Please, don't—
[He leans in and her lashes flutter close, on the precipice. Don't stop, or don't go any further? She is caught between yearning and wanting something, but is she wanting for distance or closure? She doesn't love him—in the short span of an hour, or even less, that she has known him in the sweltering embers of afternoon, a woman cannot fall in love. But aren't there true accounts of love at first sight? No—what this is, it feels much less clearer than love, a product of it, or perhaps an imitation, a feeling much more potent and thunderous and obscured. He overwhelms her, and he shocks her—yet he also flatters her, and he is kind to her, in his own rugged way, and—oh, she doesn't know what to think!]
[Don't what? He truly doesn't intend to proceed if she wants him to stop. He's not the type of man, no matter how little of a gentleman he may proclaim himself to be, to force his attentions on anyone who doesn't want them. But -- and is he just fooling himself into thinking this, aided by his inebriation? -- her "don't" sounds almost... Well, it sounds almost like she wants something from him, something she may not be quite willing to admit.
One kiss then. Just one. How can it hurt? If she's scandalized, if she shoves him away or shouts at him or even slaps him and tells him to leave immediately, he won't be surprised. He holds out hope, of course, because he always does, no matter how ridiculous that hope may be, that she'll reciprocate, that she'll melt into the kiss instead of rebuffing it.
There's only one way to find out.
He finally closes the distance between them, and cups her chin in one hand, gently, firmly, then tilts her face up towards his and presses his lips against hers. It's a deep kiss, an intimate one, nothing that could be mistaken for fumbling, awkward, or platonic, but there's nothing demanding about it, either. If one kiss is all he gets, then he wants to make the most of it before she makes him leave.]
[She's trembling, she's exposed, as vulnerable as a bride on her wedding night, her nerves jittering just as badly as when the white lace hem and layers of ivory chiffon had fallen away. Watching him draw nearer from beneath her lashes, she thinks he might just be teasing, a cruel attempt at heartbreak, but then he takes her by her shaking chin, and—
If there is anything she is assured of, is that he is purely genuine when he meant to kiss her. If there is anything in the world that can incite the hopeless romance in her, tainted from cynicism over the years, is a gesture with good intentions and nothing but love—and it must be love, or at least affection—behind it. His kiss is not as innocent as hers, not at all like the faltering touch of her lips, but is just as bold and forward as the rest of his demeanor. For how much she feared he would turn violent, his lips remain firmly closed against hers, but no less passionate.
He told her of his intentions, but she is surprised all the same by the taste the whiskey and smoke on him, motionless against him. Perhaps he might take her lack of protest as encouragement—and she should protest, after all, she is a married woman. She could catch his skin between her teeth, or scream, anything rather than allowing him to ravish her mouth, the tension in her rising in a crescendo, torn between action and submission.
She chooses the latter, meekly accepting the kiss, not quite ready to reciprocate without coaxing. Her hand stirs on her lap, her fingers straining for a moment, as if reaching for some phantom of the past—but the moment passes, and her hand traces the angle of his jaw, the warmth of her fingers barely ghosting along his face. It is not quite a caress, but yet another abandoned attempt at protesting, a gesture of half tenderness and half frantic confusion. Her eyes are wet, and finally, at last—she parts her lips for him, exhaling on a bittersweet, breathless sound akin to a cry.]
[It's almost surprising to him, almost, when she doesn't pull away, when she gives in and lets him kiss her, when she doesn't slap him or shove him or scream at him or do anything that indicates that she's completely appalled by his action, by the way he insinuates himself into her space and heightens their intimacy exponentially. He had been prepared to be rebuffed, and the fact that he isn't -- though he can't necessarily say that she's as enthusiastic as he is -- comes as a surprise. A pleasant one, but a surprise, nonetheless.
So it takes him a moment of consideration, a moment where his lips are pressed to hers, where her hand is barely pressed against his jaw (he can feel her fingers, just a little, and they provide a pleasant sensation, a feeling he'd like to feel more of) and his fingers are still cupped underneath her chin. His lips are pressed against hers, and his brain is working as quickly as it can, trying to determine whether he should keep going, whether she'll let him, whether it's far too opportunistic to just keep kissing her...
But, of course, it's his desire for hedonistic pleasure that wins out; that, and the little breathless noise she makes, the one that he can't quite tell the meaning of, but knows that he appreciates, nevertheless. And that's what keeps him kissing her, that's what keeps him leaning closer, seeking out as much closeness as he can, taking full advantage of the moment before she thinks better of all of this, before she tells him to go away for good.
He's always pushed his limits just a little too far. It only remains to be seen how far he can push them tonight.]
[This is not the sort of polite, chaste kiss exchanged between shy beaus, not even the kind of electric ecstasy of new lovers, but something wholly foreign to her—the wet, dark warmth his tongue pressing between her parted lips is sinfully wicked, raw and visceral, and it gives her a shiver. There is the distant clatter of her empty glass, tipped over by the jostling of the table when his weight, lean with muscle, and his hands, hardened with calluses from a sort of terrible labor, press heavily over her, covering her shuddering, quaking body as if she is coming apart at the seams, and she needs him to hold her together.
What this is, she can sweeten it with as many desperate fantasies of love at first sight or hidden adoration as much as she would like, but it still remains an act of plain infidelity. Whorish behavior, her husband would sneer after too many New York Sours, and worse still, she is not immediately overwhelmed by a grevious sense of guilt—not when she is star-struck and lying passive beneath a stranger, a man she is inexplicably and infinitely charmed by, and he is treating her not like another gleaming silver award to polish for guests, or like an object of violence. Her treats her unlike any other suitor has, unlike any other man has, at all—and a rather tender memory, one of her soldier and wartime lover, rises to the forefront of her mind. He is not as brutish as Tom, but neither is he the traditional romantic as her very first lover had been—God only knows where he could be now.
But, morbid thought aside, she cannot dwell on the past when the present is so insistent, stealing the breath from her, leaving her gasping into his lips. This kiss, blurring the boundaries of flirtation and true intimacy, is morally reprehensible by every matrimonial law—and it will all be risked for naught, it he doesn't truly care for her. Does he care for her? Certainly, he cares for the comfort of her flesh, the temptation of feminine curves, but for her heart, for more than a pretty face? They haven't known each other for very long, at all. Perhaps she is just a conquest to him, a temporary concubine—and the thought is such a miserable one, her physical relief tinged with such bitterness that her pale cheeks are streaked with tears. He is pushing her past what she believes she can accept, but whether she believes it or not, she still has not refused him.]
[This is good, this is better than he'd hoped for, and the fact that she's not turning him away means more to him than he can possibly articulate -- not that he's articulating much of anything at the moment, not with her pressed close like this, underneath him and so soft and yielding.
There's a moment where that's all it is, a blissfully perfect kiss, something that he's been looking for for a long time and never quite been able to find, or maybe he's just never been satisfied with anything because he's always looking for something better, always trying to convince himself that there's someone perfect out there, someone who will love him just as much as he loves them... Those thoughts come back to his mind, even when he tries to block them out, even when he's running a hand down Daisy's face, feeling the softness of her skin, the warmth of her body and of her lips, and...
His fingers find something on her cheeks that isn't just the delicate skin, that isn't just the curve of her cheekbone. Those are tears, aren't they? And he's not the type of man to ignore tears, not when they can have so much meaning, not when they're being shed at a moment like this, which should be only pleasurable, not painful. He draws back, for a moment, meeting her eyes with his own intent, deep blue stare.]
What is it?
[And there, maybe, is some romance in his tone. There, maybe, is something soft, almost adoring. It's not the tone of someone who is here simply opportunistically. If listened to just the right way, it could almost sound like love, but that's ridiculous, isn't it? There's no way he could fall in love with someone so fast. And yet... He's been known to believe he has before.]
[The wet sound of their kiss parting is enough for her to come back to herself, her heart skipping in her throat, speeding like an uncontrollable locomotive with his face so near to her own, still leaning heavily over her. Hot tears spill over, her breath catching a little when he meets her gaze so directly, humiliated to death that her face is smeared with tears, during what is supposed to be a heartfelt moment.]
It's just—
[She attempts a smile, but the weak effort is ruined by her bottom lip trembling: a telltale sign of being close to bursting into tears. How can she explain, without sounding like a petty child? How could he ever know, that she is frightened, awfully frightened, of being nothing more than a scarlet woman to him? The things she wants from him—love, devotion, protection—are all impossible dreams, which he couldn't possibly provide for her, a girl he just met, after all. Worst of all, what if this union is little more than temptation and impulse, a hollow carnality, borne from out of the haze of liquor and cigarettes? Surely it is, or so sound logic would claim: she is fragile and lonely, and he is just sating a physical hunger.
But, when he touches her so carefully, his moment of wild abandon replaced by utmost tenderness—when he speaks with such sweetness, feeling concern (which he is neither obligated nor pressured to feel, and indeed, many men would not even bother with asking) over her wretched state, she thinks that, perhaps, she might be seeing the best of him. And that, for however much her jaded heart tries to warn her otherwise, he cares for her.
She dares to hope it may be true.]
Just—
[And if he does care for her, how far is she willing to let him carry on their taboo coupling? Another kiss? A secret rendezvous, after tonight? An entire affair, conducted in secret? To the bedroom of a hotel? She is shocked at her own audacious thoughts, giving a little startle. She wouldn't even entertain such scandalous thoughts if these were usual circumstances, if she hadn't already drank a fair amount!
But he is certainly not usual, is he? Not if he has already enchanted her, not if this is blossoming into something deeper than a fanciful whim.]
[He sounds legitimately surprised, maybe even a little concerned, because the tears on her eyelashes are so obvious, because the way her lip is trembling worries him. It's not her embarrassment he's thinking of, nor her humiliation, though if he were thinking more clearly, he might realize, of course, that she'd feel uncomfortable about being so emotional in front of someone she barely knows -- all he cares about is making sure she feels alright, making sure that this hasn't somehow upset her in a way he can't quite understand.
And yet, he's still surprised by what she says, because...]
You should be kissed like that.
[There's firm assurance in his voice, the kind that can only come from stating something very honestly. If her husband doesn't kiss her that way, he thinks, then her husband must be very stupid, or very unpleasant, or both. Of course, he's already suspected that, considering that her husband is nowhere to be found -- or maybe he's just trying to make himself feel better by making her conveniently missing husband into the villain.]
You should be kissed like that all the time. But maybe not in a place like this.
[It's the smoothest segue he can think of, the best way he can suggest without outright suggesting that they go somewhere else. He'd like to, but he's not sure she would. He knows -- can tell, just by looking at her, by the way her face looks -- that she's still conflicted.]
[She is both embarrassed and privately delighted by his assurance, taking a sort of pleasure in how he speaks with such utter sincerity, as if every word he says is more than the truth, but law. All of her lingering hesitation cannot doubt how plainly he states his beliefs, even if in a slightly unrefined manner—and she knows, by the honest ring in his voice, that he is tempting her for more than just his own sake.
The whiteness of her face, blotched pink and shining wet from her silent crying, dips slightly at his invitation, considering it for a long moment. Literally, he is offering nothing more than another place to go, where they can steal away for an hour or two, and kiss like proper lovers. Literally, that is all he is suggesting. But the undertone to his words is plain as day, even to her delicate sensibilities. Is it very possible, to make love without being in love—? Of course not, or so says the romance novels and radio serials, and so she would like to believe. But then, wouldn't that mean that Tom falls in love at least once an hour, from how many beguiling glances he has made at dancers and bell-girls and waitresses of all sorts?
Not that he is necessarily asking for any kind of physicality—at least, nothing beyond a kiss or two. Her imagination is simply running away with her, spurred on by the sudden engagement between the two of them. A kiss in somewhere private is not criminal, she justifies—at the very least, she takes comfort in knowing Tom was the first hypocrite, who first broke their wedding vows, and then broke her fractured heart. Her gaze drifts upwards, as if upstairs, her husband was listening to their conversation at that very minute. He would never know: he would be preoccupied with his sports-talk for at least until the end of the evening. She would be gone and return before she was ever missed—if he ever missed her at all.
Just for an hour or two.]
A—all right. Just a short little arrangement.
[There is a hitch in her voice, reaching for a cloth napkin to wipe at her cheeks. It's not going to be the sort of ghastly, loveless union one would read about in the "primitive" tabloids—his intentions for her are pure, and noble, and honest and above all, loving. She has herself half-convinced of that—but only by half.]
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Evening.
[She takes a long drink, the miracle liquor already beginning to haze her sour thoughts of resentment towards her husband quite pleasantly. She lacks all of the sharp sarcasm of her dear golfing companion, but Jordan is unfortunately absent, and Daisy answers him with plainest innocence, a sense of genuine curiosity in her tone.]
It's awfully early to be drinking, isn't it?
[She asks with a gesturing nod of her head, her face tipping slightly too much forward, so that she almost dips back into her own glass. Perhaps she has drunk a little much herself, her second sweet champagne halfway vanished already. She never had much of a taste for it before, not so much enjoying the innate flavors—but marriage had given her a craving for the stuff, even before ascending to the altar. Terrible habit, and the seaside city just seems to further feed the appetites of its wicked inhabitants.]
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It's past noon, ain't it?
[Past noon is, apparently, the appropriate time for drinking. Some people would consider five to be a more proper cutoff point, but when it comes to alcohol, Jimmy doesn't suppose he has any reason to do anything 'properly.' After all, the stuff's illegal, no matter how many otherwise classy establishments may serve it.
He's glad, in a fuzzy, likely misguided sort of way, that she's not displeased by him showing up in her booth. If she'd been looking for a moment of privacy, a chance to get away from the crowd and share a drink with nobody but herself, she's apparently out of luck for the moment -- he's sitting here very comfortable now, and he doesn't seem inclined to go away unless she directly asks him to.]
Besides, every day's a good day for...
[He has to look back at his glass, because he's been staring at her champagne instead of his own drink, and suddenly can't remember what it is he's imbibing, except that it's exceptionally strong -- so strong that it'd be hard to notice if it were of an inferior quality, which he suspects -- and that it's doing its job of getting him well and truly on his way to drunk properly.]
Whiskey.
[He says it triumphantly, as though it's a coup in it of itself that he's remembered what the drink in his hand is.]
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She is not entirely sure what to make of him. She enjoys the simplistic red of his mouth, caught in a perpetual, albeit slightly sluggish smile, and she is pleased well enough that he is so enthusiastic in her company, but he should really be sober enough to offer conversation beyond drinking—or else, his innate charms will service him very little.
Taking initiative, again owing to her own drinking, she extends her hand to him: small, white, and fragile, her slender wrist heavy with a pearl bracelet. She does so with a note of hesitation, as if bordering on the wonder if he would just as quickly crush it rather than shake it.]
Isn't a gentleman supposed to introduce himself first?
[There is nothing unkind in her voice, however, speaking with artificial dispassion to disguise her willingness to talk. There's a brief pause, waiting for his end, and then, in a gibbering catastrophe of nerves:]
How do you do—? [She launches into a rapid introduction, wavering, unsure how to approach the man or whether she has sorely misjudged him: perhaps he is an even greater brute than her husband.] Daisy— [The burn of old South is slurring her words just slightly, warm and breathless, spurred on by her own indecisible heart.] Fay— [She takes a pause, a quiet little shuddering of her shoulders as she remembers to shake of the remnants of her old maiden life, remembering her new surname and all the expectations that come with being enfolded into the enormous blue-blooded cage of the empire.] Buchanan.
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[He reaches out for her hand, taking it very gently, as though somehow convinced that she's very delicate -- and, indeed, she looks delicate to him, even slowed by the alcohol as he is -- and shakes it.]
That'd be makin' the assumption that I was a gentleman.
[It could so easily sound dismissive and rough, but he says it with such a teasing note inherent in his voice that it's obvious that, even if he means it (and he does,) he finds it very amusing, somehow. Her name strikes him as familiar, and his brow furrows a little with the concentration required to think seriously about it, trying to call up from already shaky memory where he's heard that name before. It'll come to him.]
I'm Jimmy.
[He says it with another easy grin, draining his drink, wondering if those're nerves he hears in her voice or if he's just reading things into her tone that weren't there in the first place. Maybe she's uncomfortable about sitting here alone with him -- he can't exactly blame her.]
James Edison Darmody, if we're gonna be formal about it.
[Is it rude, to tease just a little, at the way she's introduced herself with her full name? Maybe, but he likes to think he's charming enough to get away with it. There's no malicious intent, just genuine amusement.]
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Indeed, she notes sourly, her husband's definition of enjoyments is a very scandalous one, no doubt being met to his satisfaction upstairs.]
A pleasure, Mr. Darmody.
[She slips her hand from his, freeing it to tuck an errant strand of blonde behind the delicate curl of her ear. Through the open curtain, she can see the stage, women in identical outfits taking their places to begin a dance routine, sweating from the blazing hot lights. She doesn't take any pleasure in watching the lithe, nubile young things on stage, the performers with short skirts and spangles which reach barely the tops of their legs, thinking again of her spouse's enjoyment of the performance—and she reaches up, quite suddenly, to close the curtains.
Doing so has unintentionally cast them in an artificial darkness, lit only by the dimmer overhead bulbs. They are quite alone in the private booth, and in a moment of self-consciousness, she clutches for her glass again, only to see it has already been emptied.]
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Pleasure's all mine. What brings you to Atlantic City?
[That's what people're supposed to ask, right? That's one of those expected things, although maybe he shouldn't just assume that she's not from around here. Sure, he doesn't think she is, but hell, maybe she'll take offense at being thought to be a tourist. You never can tell with some people.
All the same, he's curious, and there's no hiding that, especially not when it's obvious that his eyes are on her as she tucks her hair behind her ear. Maybe she'll assume -- and rightfully so -- that he's attracted to her, but that just makes him hope he's made a decent enough first impression. Apparently, it had been favorable enough that she'd felt comfortable closing the curtain with him sitting there, though whether that's for a desire of some sort of artificial privacy with him or just the desire to shut out the outside world for a moment, it's hard to tell.]
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What brings her here could be anything: her husband once again acquiring a taste for exotic women, exasperation with the constant exchange of houses, and her mounting disenchantment with each of the promises Tom makes her, only to break every single one of them.
But the most simple answer of all is:]
My husband brought me.
[She replies, as if he hadn't seen the diamond wedding band around her finger. But there is nothing joyful in her tone, and even the rich warmth to her voice sounds slightly harder: this is, after all, just yet another repeated display of exuberance expense, which passes for affection in her passionless marriage. She wishes she could say—not to him, but just for the sake of saying it—that Tom used to make slow, languid love to her for hours on end between breakfast and supper, but that had never been. Even their honeymoon was punctuated by trips to the gambling table, too many glasses of wine, and a wedding night that had her in tears by the end of it.
But, all of that is far too dark talk to bring to the table.]
I don't know where he went off to.
[She says plainly, as if to explain his blatant absence.]
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[He shakes his head, raises an eyebrow, still feeling as though he's moving in slightly slow motion. Maybe he shouldn't be drawing attention to the fact that her husband is nowhere to be found, but he's had enough to drink that his usual social niceties -- already shaky, to say the least -- are much more difficult to call up. At the very least, though, he can try to make it sound like less of an insult against her husband. Most people don't care for that kind of talk, even if they're thinking the exact same thoughts themselves. He's learned that the hard way, more than once.]
Can't imagine wantin' to let someone like you outta my sight for too long, that's all.
[Maybe he can turn that into a compliment towards her rather than a slight to her husband, and maybe she'll take it in the spirit it's intended -- not necessarily, though; he knows he has the remarkable ability to put his foot further and further into his mouth the more he tries to right his impolite wrongs.
Is a charming smile enough to sound somewhat less insulting? He'll give it a try, anyway, partially because he doesn't want to offend her, partially because he genuinely feels like smiling at her, would likely have done so no matter what he'd said to her, even though, of course, he has noticed her wedding ring. It had been the first thing he'd looked for, actually, but he hardly intends to inform her of that fact. Some things, remarkably, he's capable of keeping to himself.]
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She takes several short puffs, exhaling plumes of white smoke. Between the cigarette and her glasses of champagne, she is feeling at least slightly hazy, enough to consider him charming, rather than insulting. Although, if she were sober, perhaps she would have given further thought to how he had introduced himself, as not a gentleman— Perhaps she would have taken his whimsical comment to heart, and would have thought twice before closing the curtain around the two of them—
It's far too late, anyhow. Not that she wishes to leave his company, but only that, if she had been thinking soundly, she would've realized how it appears to be so openly vulnerable, and so clearly flattered, before a man just as intoxicated as she. Had she not taken that extra glass, or not smoked such a strong brand of cigarettes, maybe she wouldn't have teased him in kind.]
Are you going to say, you would never let me out of your sight?
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[That wouldn't be any fun, would it, if she was accurately predicting his next words? (Although, of course, that's very likely what he had been intending to say -- some version of it, anyway, probably phrased a little more flirtatiously, or, alternatively, a little less eloquently. It's hard to tell, when he's drinking, just what's going to come out of his mouth next. Even he can't tell, sometimes.]
Maybe I'll say somethin' else, though. Maybe I'll say that havin' you in my sight right now is a pretty damn great experience.
[That's complimentary, too, although again, not in a particularly well-phrased way. Certainly, she must know she's beautiful, must know people enjoy looking at her, and it's one of those easy compliments, the kind that anybody could make. What it lacks in its construction or originality, however, it somewhat makes up for in the earnest honesty in his eyes. He really, really means it. Having her across from him like this, smoking her cigarette as she is, blushing at him, smiling at him... he can hardly think of anything he'd rather see.
And now that he's said all that, he's going to lean back a little, lighting his own cigarette, taking a long, satisfied drag on it, smile still playing around the corner of his lips.]
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She smiles all the same, but her good humor is somewhat spoiled, her fingers even possibly betraying a slight tremble as she takes a long breath from her cigarette. To say that her enjoyment of the entire evening hinges on his one curse would be an exaggeration, however, it does not brighten her image of him any further.]
Thank you.
[There is a decided edge of false politeness to her tone, a light wariness, clearing her throat with distinct uncertainty as to how to proceed—whether he will realize his blunder, or whether he will continue on blithely, as a true drunkard would. The curtains are very heavy, thick velvet and entirely opaque, and it is just barely too hot in their little booth. She fumbles, crossing one leg over the other, and when her thigh brushes against his knee beneath the table, it is entirely accidental.]
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Sorry. Guess I could've phrased that a little nicer.
[It's not hard to see the uncomfortableness on her face, the way her brow furrows for a moment, which is a no less beautiful expression than the other expressions she's made, in the time they've been speaking, but which he's still unhappy to have caused to occur. He always seems to be putting himself into this position, one which requires an apology and an attempt to shape up, and the worst part is, he does it completely unintentionally.
When her leg brushes against his, though, he can't help but let the smile come back. Hers isn't an intentional touch, of course it isn't, but when he moves his own leg a little, brushing his knee against her thigh in a feigned attempt to shift positions, there's nothing accidental about it.]
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We've both had some to drink.
[She offers, some feeble explanation to excuse both of their behaviors, realizing the earnesty in his face even through the light veil of smoke. After all, she has her vices just as he, and she too has spoken things better left unsaid, or even voiced thoughts she had instantly regretted: teasing remarks taken too far, or quiet comments infused with an unthinkable sense of bitterness. To consider him unforgivable or beyond redemption because of a thoughtless comment would be the most unkind thing of all.
After all, all he had been trying to do was offer her a kindness.
Her worries quieted, she attempts to settle back into her comfortable seating arrangement, but the sudden brush of heat—the moment of contact, the heavy pinstripe of his trousers against the fragile lace of her skirt—makes her think better of it, and she remains where she is. Never mind how the accidental touch catches her breath in her throat, feeling as silly as a schoolgirl, for fussing over how her legs are crossed or not.]
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Yeah, we have.
[But can he really blame the fact that they've been drinking on what he decides he wants to do next? Truth be told, he'd probably shouldn't prolong the contact between their legs, and he certainly shouldn't lean forward a little, putting one of his hands on top of hers, but when's he ever been too good about doing what he's supposed to?
Until she pulls her leg or her hand away, then, they're touching in several places. He knows it could just as easily be seen as too forward, just as easily get him slapped as result in another one of those charming blushes of hers. But he's still doing it.]
I still meant what I said, even if I didn't say it too well.
[Is any of this a good idea? Probably not. But alcohol makes him bold -- bolder, in his case.]
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She could pretend she hasn't noticed, the possibility presents itself to her. She could blithely continue on with their clumsy attempts at conversation, to act as if she has never felt the warmth of his palm and the battered, rough skin of his pale knuckles. She could carry on the modest charade that she has never thought of admiring the masculine shape of his frame and the solid weight of muscle belied by crisp suits and silver silk ties. If she did, it would certainly cause less fuss. If she didn't, she might upset him awfully, or worst of all—ignite a flicker of some brooding temper, an unknown violence in his blood, which could be directed towards her, if she refuses him.
And—and it has been ages, since she's been touched with any sort of genuine sweetness, with something more than lust or the impersonal pragmatism of her spouse. She trembles in her hesitancy, her gaze darting anxiously between him and the gap in the drapery, the sound of stampeding footsteps and boisterous laughter not a mere few feet away, only the thin velvet curtain protecting their modesty—
She takes a shaky, shuddering breath, as if strengthening her resolve:]
Mr. Darmody, I—
[The curtains burst apart, and in her surprise, she presses against his side in the way that intimate sweethearts would, dropping her cigarette onto the polished table, clutching at the cuff of his sleeve in a moment of terrified incomprehension.
But it is only another drunken couple, looking blithely for their own booth: the man slurs an apology, leading a giggling woman on his arm away. The curtains are yanked shut again, her heart racing in her throat, her cigarette still smoldering feebly on the table. She does not disentangle herself immediately, her fragile frame still seized stiff from the shock of it all—but eventually, gently, she attempts to slide away, to put a comfortable distance between them.]
I'm married, Mr. Darmody.
[She says in a small voice, as if ashamed of her confession. And there is no reason, none whatsoever, for her heart to ache when she says this. As if anticipating his next bold remark, she continues on:]
It doesn't matter if I love him— [If she loves him—it had never meant to slip out, but there it is, her honeyed voice sharp and bitter with unkind honesty.] I'm his wife.
[It doesn't quite sound like a rejection, though. Not quite.]
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[He startles a little, too, when the drunken couple bursts through their curtain, interrupting their moment of... what? He can't quite call it intimacy, though he obviously intends to push it in that direction, if she's so inclined. It can't properly be described as tranquility, either, because although he's pleasantly slowed and addled from the alcohol, he still feels a certain delight when he looks at her, completely inexplicable; he can't put words to it, all he knows is that he very much likes the feeling of her soft, delicate hand below his.
And then she's speaking, and saying that, and he may be drunk, but he's not so drunk that he doesn't hear the 'if' in that statement, the implication that perhaps she doesn't love her husband, and there's the fact that her husband is nowhere to be found, here, has left her alone... But he won't insult her husband again. What little good sense he has is enough to caution against that.]
I know.
[Does he need to mention that he's married, too? Is it relevant? He wears a simple ring, after all, but he'd rather not go into it. He'd rather not describe all the ways that that marriage isn't what he'd imagined, isn't even what his wife had wanted, and...
Well. That's a road he doesn't need to go down, not when he's been drinking and could so easily get morose. Instead, he'll say what's on his mind.]
I just keep thinkin' about what kissin' you would be like.
[He leans forward further, like he really intends to try it, and in framing it that way, he has tried to, at least, sidestep the issue of marriage and responsibility entirely.]
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Please—
[Her voice is barely more audible than a whisper, plaintive and pleading, shivering from the summer heat of his flesh. She looks as desperate as any deprived lover: lightly sweating, breathing in thin, ragged gulps of smoky air, her eyes glassy with the feverish beginnings of panicked excitement.]
Please, don't—
[He leans in and her lashes flutter close, on the precipice. Don't stop, or don't go any further? She is caught between yearning and wanting something, but is she wanting for distance or closure? She doesn't love him—in the short span of an hour, or even less, that she has known him in the sweltering embers of afternoon, a woman cannot fall in love. But aren't there true accounts of love at first sight? No—what this is, it feels much less clearer than love, a product of it, or perhaps an imitation, a feeling much more potent and thunderous and obscured. He overwhelms her, and he shocks her—yet he also flatters her, and he is kind to her, in his own rugged way, and—oh, she doesn't know what to think!]
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One kiss then. Just one. How can it hurt? If she's scandalized, if she shoves him away or shouts at him or even slaps him and tells him to leave immediately, he won't be surprised. He holds out hope, of course, because he always does, no matter how ridiculous that hope may be, that she'll reciprocate, that she'll melt into the kiss instead of rebuffing it.
There's only one way to find out.
He finally closes the distance between them, and cups her chin in one hand, gently, firmly, then tilts her face up towards his and presses his lips against hers. It's a deep kiss, an intimate one, nothing that could be mistaken for fumbling, awkward, or platonic, but there's nothing demanding about it, either. If one kiss is all he gets, then he wants to make the most of it before she makes him leave.]
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If there is anything she is assured of, is that he is purely genuine when he meant to kiss her. If there is anything in the world that can incite the hopeless romance in her, tainted from cynicism over the years, is a gesture with good intentions and nothing but love—and it must be love, or at least affection—behind it. His kiss is not as innocent as hers, not at all like the faltering touch of her lips, but is just as bold and forward as the rest of his demeanor. For how much she feared he would turn violent, his lips remain firmly closed against hers, but no less passionate.
He told her of his intentions, but she is surprised all the same by the taste the whiskey and smoke on him, motionless against him. Perhaps he might take her lack of protest as encouragement—and she should protest, after all, she is a married woman. She could catch his skin between her teeth, or scream, anything rather than allowing him to ravish her mouth, the tension in her rising in a crescendo, torn between action and submission.
She chooses the latter, meekly accepting the kiss, not quite ready to reciprocate without coaxing. Her hand stirs on her lap, her fingers straining for a moment, as if reaching for some phantom of the past—but the moment passes, and her hand traces the angle of his jaw, the warmth of her fingers barely ghosting along his face. It is not quite a caress, but yet another abandoned attempt at protesting, a gesture of half tenderness and half frantic confusion. Her eyes are wet, and finally, at last—she parts her lips for him, exhaling on a bittersweet, breathless sound akin to a cry.]
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So it takes him a moment of consideration, a moment where his lips are pressed to hers, where her hand is barely pressed against his jaw (he can feel her fingers, just a little, and they provide a pleasant sensation, a feeling he'd like to feel more of) and his fingers are still cupped underneath her chin. His lips are pressed against hers, and his brain is working as quickly as it can, trying to determine whether he should keep going, whether she'll let him, whether it's far too opportunistic to just keep kissing her...
But, of course, it's his desire for hedonistic pleasure that wins out; that, and the little breathless noise she makes, the one that he can't quite tell the meaning of, but knows that he appreciates, nevertheless. And that's what keeps him kissing her, that's what keeps him leaning closer, seeking out as much closeness as he can, taking full advantage of the moment before she thinks better of all of this, before she tells him to go away for good.
He's always pushed his limits just a little too far. It only remains to be seen how far he can push them tonight.]
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What this is, she can sweeten it with as many desperate fantasies of love at first sight or hidden adoration as much as she would like, but it still remains an act of plain infidelity. Whorish behavior, her husband would sneer after too many New York Sours, and worse still, she is not immediately overwhelmed by a grevious sense of guilt—not when she is star-struck and lying passive beneath a stranger, a man she is inexplicably and infinitely charmed by, and he is treating her not like another gleaming silver award to polish for guests, or like an object of violence. Her treats her unlike any other suitor has, unlike any other man has, at all—and a rather tender memory, one of her soldier and wartime lover, rises to the forefront of her mind. He is not as brutish as Tom, but neither is he the traditional romantic as her very first lover had been—God only knows where he could be now.
But, morbid thought aside, she cannot dwell on the past when the present is so insistent, stealing the breath from her, leaving her gasping into his lips. This kiss, blurring the boundaries of flirtation and true intimacy, is morally reprehensible by every matrimonial law—and it will all be risked for naught, it he doesn't truly care for her. Does he care for her? Certainly, he cares for the comfort of her flesh, the temptation of feminine curves, but for her heart, for more than a pretty face? They haven't known each other for very long, at all. Perhaps she is just a conquest to him, a temporary concubine—and the thought is such a miserable one, her physical relief tinged with such bitterness that her pale cheeks are streaked with tears. He is pushing her past what she believes she can accept, but whether she believes it or not, she still has not refused him.]
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There's a moment where that's all it is, a blissfully perfect kiss, something that he's been looking for for a long time and never quite been able to find, or maybe he's just never been satisfied with anything because he's always looking for something better, always trying to convince himself that there's someone perfect out there, someone who will love him just as much as he loves them... Those thoughts come back to his mind, even when he tries to block them out, even when he's running a hand down Daisy's face, feeling the softness of her skin, the warmth of her body and of her lips, and...
His fingers find something on her cheeks that isn't just the delicate skin, that isn't just the curve of her cheekbone. Those are tears, aren't they? And he's not the type of man to ignore tears, not when they can have so much meaning, not when they're being shed at a moment like this, which should be only pleasurable, not painful. He draws back, for a moment, meeting her eyes with his own intent, deep blue stare.]
What is it?
[And there, maybe, is some romance in his tone. There, maybe, is something soft, almost adoring. It's not the tone of someone who is here simply opportunistically. If listened to just the right way, it could almost sound like love, but that's ridiculous, isn't it? There's no way he could fall in love with someone so fast. And yet... He's been known to believe he has before.]
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It's just—
[She attempts a smile, but the weak effort is ruined by her bottom lip trembling: a telltale sign of being close to bursting into tears. How can she explain, without sounding like a petty child? How could he ever know, that she is frightened, awfully frightened, of being nothing more than a scarlet woman to him? The things she wants from him—love, devotion, protection—are all impossible dreams, which he couldn't possibly provide for her, a girl he just met, after all. Worst of all, what if this union is little more than temptation and impulse, a hollow carnality, borne from out of the haze of liquor and cigarettes? Surely it is, or so sound logic would claim: she is fragile and lonely, and he is just sating a physical hunger.
But, when he touches her so carefully, his moment of wild abandon replaced by utmost tenderness—when he speaks with such sweetness, feeling concern (which he is neither obligated nor pressured to feel, and indeed, many men would not even bother with asking) over her wretched state, she thinks that, perhaps, she might be seeing the best of him. And that, for however much her jaded heart tries to warn her otherwise, he cares for her.
She dares to hope it may be true.]
Just—
[And if he does care for her, how far is she willing to let him carry on their taboo coupling? Another kiss? A secret rendezvous, after tonight? An entire affair, conducted in secret? To the bedroom of a hotel? She is shocked at her own audacious thoughts, giving a little startle. She wouldn't even entertain such scandalous thoughts if these were usual circumstances, if she hadn't already drank a fair amount!
But he is certainly not usual, is he? Not if he has already enchanted her, not if this is blossoming into something deeper than a fanciful whim.]
I've just—never had such a kiss.
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[He sounds legitimately surprised, maybe even a little concerned, because the tears on her eyelashes are so obvious, because the way her lip is trembling worries him. It's not her embarrassment he's thinking of, nor her humiliation, though if he were thinking more clearly, he might realize, of course, that she'd feel uncomfortable about being so emotional in front of someone she barely knows -- all he cares about is making sure she feels alright, making sure that this hasn't somehow upset her in a way he can't quite understand.
And yet, he's still surprised by what she says, because...]
You should be kissed like that.
[There's firm assurance in his voice, the kind that can only come from stating something very honestly. If her husband doesn't kiss her that way, he thinks, then her husband must be very stupid, or very unpleasant, or both. Of course, he's already suspected that, considering that her husband is nowhere to be found -- or maybe he's just trying to make himself feel better by making her conveniently missing husband into the villain.]
You should be kissed like that all the time. But maybe not in a place like this.
[It's the smoothest segue he can think of, the best way he can suggest without outright suggesting that they go somewhere else. He'd like to, but he's not sure she would. He knows -- can tell, just by looking at her, by the way her face looks -- that she's still conflicted.]
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The whiteness of her face, blotched pink and shining wet from her silent crying, dips slightly at his invitation, considering it for a long moment. Literally, he is offering nothing more than another place to go, where they can steal away for an hour or two, and kiss like proper lovers. Literally, that is all he is suggesting. But the undertone to his words is plain as day, even to her delicate sensibilities. Is it very possible, to make love without being in love—? Of course not, or so says the romance novels and radio serials, and so she would like to believe. But then, wouldn't that mean that Tom falls in love at least once an hour, from how many beguiling glances he has made at dancers and bell-girls and waitresses of all sorts?
Not that he is necessarily asking for any kind of physicality—at least, nothing beyond a kiss or two. Her imagination is simply running away with her, spurred on by the sudden engagement between the two of them. A kiss in somewhere private is not criminal, she justifies—at the very least, she takes comfort in knowing Tom was the first hypocrite, who first broke their wedding vows, and then broke her fractured heart. Her gaze drifts upwards, as if upstairs, her husband was listening to their conversation at that very minute. He would never know: he would be preoccupied with his sports-talk for at least until the end of the evening. She would be gone and return before she was ever missed—if he ever missed her at all.
Just for an hour or two.]
A—all right. Just a short little arrangement.
[There is a hitch in her voice, reaching for a cloth napkin to wipe at her cheeks. It's not going to be the sort of ghastly, loveless union one would read about in the "primitive" tabloids—his intentions for her are pure, and noble, and honest and above all, loving. She has herself half-convinced of that—but only by half.]
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