[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.]
[It's a simple little word, but the happiness on his face is almost childlike, for a moment. He is genuinely delighted, completely pleased, and, yes, a little surprised, but only a little. He can hear that slight hesitation in her voice, certainly, but she's telling him yes, saying that 'just a short little arrangement' will be fine, maybe will be more than fine (it certainly will be, in his own mind) and that's enough, for the moment.]
Okay.
[He stands up, maybe a little unsteadily, already thinking of where they'll go, already ruling out hotels where he knows far too many people, places he might run into someone he does business with. It's not, necessarily, that he'd be ashamed of being seen with another woman -- because, frankly, he's been seen doing far worse things than having a romantic, drunken rendezvous with someone not his wife -- but he doesn't think Daisy would like it, wouldn't like them to be taken notice of.
All the same, as he brushes aside the curtains, he does offer her his arm. If it's possible to be at all chivalrous about this, considering what they're heading off to do, he'll try to make it so. The unsteadiness caused by his drunkenness isn't exactly a great combination with his already unsteady gait from his limp, but maybe she won't mind.
He'll just lead the way, then. He'll let that confidence -- cockiness? -- keep speaking for him.]
[She clings to his arm strongly, keeping her face lowered like an shamed and scorned harlot, physically drawing back at the sudden burst of sound and noise as they take their first shaking steps upon the world outside of their isolated booth. She almost whimpers at the clash of cymbals from the band, but her voice is drowned out by the brass taps of trumpets and the husky voice of a singer beneath the spotlight. Between the different colors of suited gentlemen and their own female companions on their arms, she and him slip between the dancers with ease, parting smoothly through the crowd.
It is already night, when they emerge from the dazzling lights and heady atmosphere of decadent merrymaking. Outside the club, a seaside breeze stirs the lace hem of her dress up around her stockinged knees, and she pushes it down with an indignant hand. There is no need to ask where they will go, not when he knows the city with obvious familiarity. Along the way, there are jewelry sellers and street florists and barkers for amusement park attractions, and as he guides her through the festival of activity, it is almost as if they are a proper couple.
The hotel he singled out is a mere few blocks down, with lavender wallpaper and silver accents (chosen for the lavish decorations purely for her benefit) and bellboys who ask no questions when unlocking the door to their suite. The interior is just as lavish and possesses as romantic an atmosphere as the rest of the hotel, an anonymous room where anyone at all could be seeking refuge. To the ignorant guest, they could be just a honeymooning pair, or a long married twosome celebrating a special event—not a man and his girl who had just barely met hours ago.
Looking at the streak of moonlight falling across the bed, it strikes her that he may be just toying with intimacy. She thought she had been assured when he first kissed her, when he showed enough control to be gentlemanly about her worries, but with the reality of the rented room and the heavy key upon the nightstand, she is seized with doubt. What proof has she that he loves her—and it has to be love, the pure, genuine article, or else she would not do this for anything else—or is there nothing to convince her but her own fervent imaginings? Is she so desperate for his adoration that she has conjured it from nothing more than a kiss and polite question?]
—James.
[She speaks his name very softly, and it's the first time it has touched her lips tonight.]
Are you in love with me?
[She punctuates the question with a bittersweet wisp of a smile, as if asking in good humor. He may feel inclined to lie to her, but the question still stands to be asked, spoken in too honest and too somber of a tone to be taken as any sort of jest. If the answer is no—she has received the truth, cruel as it is. If the answer is yes—
[It doesn't require a great deal of coordination to lead her to the hotel, not when he knows exactly how to get there, when he's been there before -- but of course, he won't tell her that, she doesn't need to know the details of any other experiences he's had like this. Better for both of them to pretend that it's special, and, if he concentrates on it long enough, it does feel that way.
Maybe it's just a certain sense of hopeless romance that makes him believe it, a sense that he shouldn't have, not after all these years, not after all the things he's seen, but that he oddly clings to all the same, but there is something about it that feels...
Right? Romantic? Affectionate, certainly. Fraught with sexual tension, certainly; he'd be crazy to think it wasn't, especially with what he's intending to do here, what they're both here to do. But there's something else to it, too, something that feels... right. Comfortable. And, yes, maybe a little loving.
So when she turns to him and asks that question, when he looks around the room and sees the beautiful decorations, the bed, the way the moonlight is coming in through the window, he just has to smile, mirroring that bittersweet expression on her face unintentionally.]
Not yet. But y'know, I think I could be. I really think I could be.
[And in this moment, it feels true. So of course he has to draw her close for another kiss.]
[She tries to pretend she doesn't feel the slight breaking of her heart, when she hears his reply. Of—of course, she should have known better, and deep down, her battered and beaten heart knew better, that love cannot capture a man within just an hour or so—but her little girlish dreams of a fairytale ending and a mysterious stranger whisking her away had prevailed over that cynical thought. But, still, she clings to the silver outlining of his brutally honest reply.
Not yet, but he could come to love her—perhaps he just isn't sure. Protests stir in her mind, but they are silenced by the intoxicated haze of desire, the feverish desperation, almost a physical ache, to believe that he could love, in time. And if—if she meets his kiss, perhaps she could help him communicate his muddled thoughts.
She yields to another one of his overwhelming kisses with only a murmur, and if she had been in her right mind, she would never have surrendered with such simplicity. But she is not in her mind, and maybe it is the shimmering of the moon, or the odd sense of nostalgia which seems to cling to him, or the pale violet walls which color her mind with thoughts of a maddening sort, the urgency to know his mind, to make this night somehow right. The rhythm of her pulse at her wrist is beginning to pound with a fierce intensity, her heart still feeling heavy, but for the first time, she unskillfully tries to return his passion with her own small, sweet kisses, bashful and innocent.]
[He would have liked to tell her that he did love her, because he truly does feel like something like love could come out of this, at least temporary love, which can be very valuable in it of itself, but he also didn't want to lie to her. She deserves better than that -- he's only known her for an hour or so, and he knows that. She shouldn't have anybody lie to her. She should have the truth, hard as it may be to swallow.
And he likes to think that telling her he could love her is worth something. Something small, something relatively meaningless, in the big scheme of things, perhaps, but something, nevertheless. He knows that, given enough time, it wouldn't be hard to fall for her at all. He doesn't believe in love at first sight, because that's...
Well, is it ridiculous? Hasn't he thought he's felt it before?
He shouldn't dwell on it. Instead, he's kissing her fervently, moving her back a little, nudging her towards the bed. His movements are gentle, but firm, his intention clear -- at least, in his own mind. He knows why they're here, and, to his knowledge, so does she. She responds to his kiss sweetly, not particularly passionately, but then, it would be hard to match him for passion, when it comes right down to it.]
[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.
[Her confusion and her sudden realization strike him as somewhere between oddly sweet and oddly sad, but no matter how he slices it, it's utterly incomprehensible. What had she thought they'd come here for? Had that been why she'd asked whether he loved her? Had she really thought they could love each other after so short of a period of time? He hadn't been lying when he'd said that he thought, given enough time, he could, because he can already feel that affection for her, something that goes beyond just sex, but...
She sounds so distressed, not as though she's feigning her upset, not as though she's teasing him, but as though she's really, truly horrified. And the way she draws her hands away from him, the burrow on her brow and the downturn to her lips, that all sums up something akin to... disappointment? Fear?
Her voice strikes him as almost heartbreaking, and he wants to comfort her, but he's not quite sure how.]
I thought we wanted the same thing.
[Because he'd really thought, when he'd brought her here, that they'd been on the same page. That, although she was somewhat shy, somewhat timid, somewhat naive, she had the same basic idea of what coming to a hotel like this meant, of what his kisses had meant. Apparently, he'd been wrong.
Still, he doesn't step away, not entirely. Instead, his hand reaches out to stroke her cheek again, and this time, he makes sure to keep the touch affectionate but not heated, gentle but not at all passionate. All it could be described as is, truly, 'romantic.' Maybe even 'loving,' if that's what someone wants to read into it.]
I don't wanna hurt you. I only wanna make you happy.
[That's true, too, but what will make each of them happy might be very different things, it seems.]
[She manages to utter a strangled sob, which she unsuccessfully tries to disguise as a laugh, finding bitter humor at her own foolishness, so desperate to believe that there could be anything other than physical temptation in his intentions.
Hurt her? Never did she think he would hurt her, never did she fear the blow of his fists or the power of his rages incited by alcohol, otherwise, she would not have come. Surely, he must know that? He must know, even now, that she does not detest him? He has hardly tricked her, not when she was so willingly fooled, and her despairing regret is only because she should have realized sooner. Her vague first impression had been correct, after all, but she had dismissed it as only her imagination running wild, a perversion brought about by devilish elixir. If she had known that she was wanted, but only for the services of her flesh, would she have come along so willingly?
Maybe she would have.
Because, presently, she can't bear to see the hurt flitting across his expression, making the soft angles of his handsome face look oddly vulnerable. She hears the anguish in his voice, the boyish confusion, and feels just as guilty for wounding him, in a sense. She cannot stifle the pangs of sympathy for him, any more than she can stop the delirious attraction which draws her inescapably towards him.
She can feel him frame her face with such delicate care, far more purer than the heated press of his hands from before, and she can imagine how simply she could surrender to him. The way he looks at her, how he treats her like a fragile glass which could shatter, is the very opposite of his feverish lust which had lured her in. It is a very convincing imitation of love—daresay, indistinguishable from the real thing.]
Did you mean it?
[When he said he could love her, that is. Even the smallest of chances is more merciful than absolute deception. It is a shallow comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. It seems like they were under opposite impressions before, but ultimately—what they both want is intimacy of a sort. Love, attraction, infatuation, lust—what-ever it may be, it has undoubtedly possessed the both of them, and she takes a tense step closer, her hands still folded over her heart.]
[He looks almost offended -- no, that's not the right word, because it's not offense on his face, but something very like hurt, something somewhat similar to her own expression, truthfully -- that she'd even suggest that he didn't. All the same, he can see why she's asking: a guy getting a woman in a position like this, having the audacity to be so forward with her in a relatively public place, then taking her back to a secluded hotel room... of course it would seem as though the only thing he wanted was her body, and that he'd say anything to get it.]
'n y'know, if I just wanted...
[Well, he doesn't really need to finish that sentence. He doesn't want to make reference to anyone else, at the moment, and he doesn't particularly need to say that if the only thing he'd wanted was someone to fulfill some fleeting lust with, it would be perfectly easy to find plenty of willing women at Babette's. It would sound too much like bragging, and there's no reason to call up the spectre of other prospects simply to convince her that he'd been honest in saying he could love her. It would cheapen it, somehow.
It's one of those rare, rare times when he knows how to hold his tongue.]
I do think I could love you. I think it'd be awfully easy.
[It's a conscious effort not to swear around her, it really is, not to say what he really wants to say, which is that it'd be so goddamned easy for him to fall in love with her that he's half-convinced he's doing it already, but he remembers how she'd responded to that kind of language, and so he tries to hold himself back from letting it out. It's harder than it should be.
The fact that she's stepping closer is reassuring. That means he can wrap an arm around her again, doesn't it? That means he can pull her close for another kiss, a slow one, testing the waters more than anything else, finding out if she'll rebuff him now, after all of this confusion, after she realized that they might not be on the same page at all.]
[It's still not what she wants, still not what she wishes he could say, but it's the best he can give her. And in these circumstances—if he were any other man, she almost knows instinctively—no other suitor would have immediately put an end to his advances when she refused. Another man could have simply not bothered at all to listen to her confusion, assuming she was playing at being coy. Another man would not have listened to her maddeningly contradictory words, and he positively would not have answered her ridiculous, romantic notions with as much kindness as he had. Although he has no reason to—although he could have just taken his pleasure before hers—is he not doing his best to comfort her, as a lover should?
This kiss is slower, sweeter, the sort of kiss which is the stuff of dreams, fairy tales and fiction. It is the first one they have exchanged tonight which is not a frantic race for completion or a tangle of confusion passion, tender and careful. One she can, at long last, relax into, the tension in her delicate frame gradually being undone. His hand curled around her waist supports her, it doesn't trap her or keep her caged within his reach, and with his lips on hers, being held in his arms, it feels like there is more to be attained tonight than just plain intercourse.
It feels like they can make love—even fall in love.
Tentatively, her hands fall away from where they are clasped, reaching blindly out to smooth along the lapels of his suit, dark pinstripes which appear black in the long shadows of the room. From there, they settle around his shoulders, and there is no unspoken tension or efforts to restrain himself in his frame, at least that she can feel. Is this good for him too? Is this enough for him, at least for this moment? Or does he want more than the chaste pace of kissing, the elaborate coaxing, the almost virginal shyness she possesses?]
[It's amazing, how he can feel the tension begin to ease out of her. He's not sure what it is that he's said, because he hasn't been calculating in his words, except for the calculation required to avoid swearing, and yet she seems to have taken them to heart, maybe really been reassured by them. It's nice, somehow, to think that just speaking honestly, if more cleanly than normal, has had that result.
And when she puts her arms around his shoulders, and lets herself be close to him, he's perfectly happy to take it slow, perfectly happy to let her by shy, to let her set the pace, because he can't think of anything else he'd rather be doing right now. Maybe that's the alcohol talking, making him slow and sentimental, or maybe it's just that he really does want her to enjoy herself, doesn't want to scare her, and, yes, sees her as a bit of a challenge, a bit of a puzzle to solve.
He's learned, from his previous attempts, that any quick movements with her, any sign of pushing too hard or too fast might startle her, might break the quiet reverie they have right here, and so he sticks to kissing her. His hand on her waist is firm, but he doesn't grip her with any kind of possessiveness, as he might with someone else; he's doing his best to mold himself into what she'll find appealing, into what she'll want to keep around, even if he's not consciously thinking about it.
All he wants to do is please her. It's not a thought he'd admit to out loud, or even to himself, but it's there, all right, behind all these deep, slow, affectionate kisses, behind all of these gently spoken words.]
[This time, it's her own desire which causes her to slightly sway, almost shivering in the moonlight—not from a sense of dread, but from the yearning for more of his new, almost polite kisses, rather than an impassioned frenzy of deep kisses and heavy-handed touches which she feels neither prepared nor wanting for. She presses forward for a moment, her fragile weight resting entirely against him, but they cannot keep kissing forever. For a fleeting second, the thought strikes her that perhaps he would allow it, if that is what she wished for—but she has a suspicion that his endurance is not as fathomless as he tries to present it as.
She breathes a sweet sigh, a delighted little smile curling at her lips, in startling contrast to her damp cheeks. He has charmed her, and if nothing else tells him, the languid, slow way she sinks down onto the bed should. She hesitates before proceeding any further, before at last unhooking her diamond earrings, slipping off her bracelet of braided pearls. Freed of her riches, there is only the white silk petals of her dress and the cream color of her skin for him to gaze upon.
Feeling barer, and at once lighter, than before, she allows him lean over her further and further, until she lies flat on her back, her sleek bob splayed out across the cushions, her breath high and shallow in her throat. Her arms limply return close to her, her wrists held high on either side of her slender shoulders. It's a submissive pose, open and vulnerable, the blossoming pink of her throat and face is made all the more pronounced by the pale moon.]
There—
[Her voice catches on a high note, a breathless whisper, uncertain what to say, how to present herself in a way which might be attractive. All she can say is, simply, is there she is for him.]
[He watches her taking off her earrings, removing her bracelet, his eyes intent upon her, hands going to loosen and remove his own tie, because at least he can do that as he's pressing her back onto the bed. When she's lying there, flat on her back below him, he has to pause again for a moment, because she looks so delicate, so fragile, like if he makes the wrong move, if he does something wrong, somehow, she'll break apart entirely.
It's hard to know what to say in response to her, hard to know if he should be reassuring her somehow, if he should be showering her with compliments -- that wouldn't be hard to do; the way she looks right now is worthy of plenty -- or if he should be silent entirely, and just concentrate on kissing her, on touching her.
But he's never been good at staying silent.]
You're beautiful.
[Unoriginal, perhaps, but heartfelt. He leans in again, going for another kiss, and this time, one of his hands is sliding down the length of her body, tracing her curves, feeling her warmth. He'll try to remove her dress soon, and he's sure they both know it, but there's nothing wrong with going a little slowly, especially not now that he feels sure that she truly wants to be here, wants to have him close.]
[She can hardly reply to his compliment when he claims her mouth once again, but she appreciates it all the same, surrendering to the tame and tender kiss. She fumbles for his unoccupied hand, and when she finds it, laces their fingers together—as if doing anything, everything she can to make it more meaningful, more passionate. She has been anticipating his touch, but still gives a kittenish cry of startled pleasure when one heavy hand wanders over modest curves and her petite build, feeling the heat of long fingers trailing over her clothed outline one by one. Another tremor shudders through her, but it has little to do with grief, only the low burn of a physical ache—feeling it the same as him, at last.
She had seen how he had discarded of his tie, and her free hand reaches out, almost wonderingly, to touch the dark buttons at the front of his crisp suit. Just then, the shivering tips of her fingers falter, abandoning the bold task of unbuttoning his collar for him, suddenly seized with an incommunicable sense of shame, as if this is her first lover, her first time being taken to bed.
Unable to help him undress, too overtaken by her own timid reservations, she is tempted to lose her nerve entirely, to continue on with another series of sugary kisses. But perhaps it is the champagne and the cigarettes urging her on, pulling back to catch her breath, and the hand which gracelessly lost in its attempt to disrobe him instead drifts down to her own clothing. The sleeves of flimsy, gauzy silk give no resistance when she slips them down, revealing the delicate frame of her shoulders, her exposed collarbone. Her dress is not so far down that she is entirely exposed, her modesty hidden by the opaque pattern of lace daisies.]
[The way she hesitates at undoing his collar strikes him as charming, somehow, though he's certainly not shy when it comes to this sort of thing, and he doesn't often encounter people who are. Still, there's something charming about her overall, and so he doesn't see this shyness and bashfulness as strange, but simply unique to her, simply intriguing, just like every other part of her. That's why, for the moment, he abandons running his free hand over her body to unbutton his collar himself, tossing it aside, then starting on his own buttons. He, obviously, has no shame about undressing himself.
And, he sees, she doesn't seem to mind undressing herself, either, at least partway. She might have been timid in her explorations of his clothing, but she's slipping out of her sleeves and tugging her dress down slightly, though maybe not as far as he might like it, not far enough to expose her entirely. He'll just have to remedy that problem... but in a moment, no need to rush, and with their fingers laced together like this, he can give her hand a little squeeze, as though he's reassuring her of... of what? Something. It's unspoken, and maybe entirely unintentional, but it's there.
In the meantime, though, he can break away from her lips for a moment, but only for the sake of pressing kisses down her neck, onto her shoulders and the newly exposed skin of her collarbone. Any bare skin he can reach, he can kiss, and seem genuinely delighted by it, too, wanting to pepper every inch of her that he can find with those gentle presses of his mouth.]
[She averts her gaze when she sees him beginning to unfasten the row of buttons at the front his jacket, as if he is the one made bashful by nudity, not her. Even without uttering a word, her deepening blush betrays the faint traces of anxiety, terribly conscious of how his attentive gaze takes in her prone figure, wondering if he may be comparing her to previous lovers, if he may be thinking her too childlike of a girl, from how she fumbles and flusters.
But for the next moment, her worry, along with everything else, vanishes from her mind when his heated kisses begin trailing lower across unmarked skin, the soft arc of her exposed throat, the underside of her face. The brief squeeze of his hand is a small comfort, and she clutches at him with tangible desperation, as if seeking out some sense of stability, as if it is the last vestige of control she can have over her reactions. Her lips press together to muffle herself, to mild success, murmuring nonsense and the beginnings of his name.
In the sweltering summer night, she could trick herself into believing her artificial fever is induced from alcohol, or the thick air, or the constricting fabric of her dress. But it's futile to pretend the cloying heat, the light sweat gathering in the hollow of her throat, is caused by anything but the impassioned way he presses himself against her. If she is sufferingly hot, in her dress of airy silk, then he must be feeling unbearable. She could—she could, at least for his sake—
She leaves the top of her dress untouched, opting to reach low for the long skirt, its pearl-embroidered hem reaching down to her ankles, tangled up in her heels. With faltering fingers, the gold buckle of her shoes are undone, and afterwards—she manages the courage to raise her skirt just slightly past the knees, revealing Victorian-styled stockings, the lily-white skin of her thighs peeking through the thin, sheer material. This would please him, wouldn't it? It must, because otherwise, she feels as if she could collapse from the utter scandal of it all.]
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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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[It's a simple little word, but the happiness on his face is almost childlike, for a moment. He is genuinely delighted, completely pleased, and, yes, a little surprised, but only a little. He can hear that slight hesitation in her voice, certainly, but she's telling him yes, saying that 'just a short little arrangement' will be fine, maybe will be more than fine (it certainly will be, in his own mind) and that's enough, for the moment.]
Okay.
[He stands up, maybe a little unsteadily, already thinking of where they'll go, already ruling out hotels where he knows far too many people, places he might run into someone he does business with. It's not, necessarily, that he'd be ashamed of being seen with another woman -- because, frankly, he's been seen doing far worse things than having a romantic, drunken rendezvous with someone not his wife -- but he doesn't think Daisy would like it, wouldn't like them to be taken notice of.
All the same, as he brushes aside the curtains, he does offer her his arm. If it's possible to be at all chivalrous about this, considering what they're heading off to do, he'll try to make it so. The unsteadiness caused by his drunkenness isn't exactly a great combination with his already unsteady gait from his limp, but maybe she won't mind.
He'll just lead the way, then. He'll let that confidence -- cockiness? -- keep speaking for him.]
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It is already night, when they emerge from the dazzling lights and heady atmosphere of decadent merrymaking. Outside the club, a seaside breeze stirs the lace hem of her dress up around her stockinged knees, and she pushes it down with an indignant hand. There is no need to ask where they will go, not when he knows the city with obvious familiarity. Along the way, there are jewelry sellers and street florists and barkers for amusement park attractions, and as he guides her through the festival of activity, it is almost as if they are a proper couple.
The hotel he singled out is a mere few blocks down, with lavender wallpaper and silver accents (chosen for the lavish decorations purely for her benefit) and bellboys who ask no questions when unlocking the door to their suite. The interior is just as lavish and possesses as romantic an atmosphere as the rest of the hotel, an anonymous room where anyone at all could be seeking refuge. To the ignorant guest, they could be just a honeymooning pair, or a long married twosome celebrating a special event—not a man and his girl who had just barely met hours ago.
Looking at the streak of moonlight falling across the bed, it strikes her that he may be just toying with intimacy. She thought she had been assured when he first kissed her, when he showed enough control to be gentlemanly about her worries, but with the reality of the rented room and the heavy key upon the nightstand, she is seized with doubt. What proof has she that he loves her—and it has to be love, the pure, genuine article, or else she would not do this for anything else—or is there nothing to convince her but her own fervent imaginings? Is she so desperate for his adoration that she has conjured it from nothing more than a kiss and polite question?]
—James.
[She speaks his name very softly, and it's the first time it has touched her lips tonight.]
Are you in love with me?
[She punctuates the question with a bittersweet wisp of a smile, as if asking in good humor. He may feel inclined to lie to her, but the question still stands to be asked, spoken in too honest and too somber of a tone to be taken as any sort of jest. If the answer is no—she has received the truth, cruel as it is. If the answer is yes—
If it is, what will she do then?]
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Maybe it's just a certain sense of hopeless romance that makes him believe it, a sense that he shouldn't have, not after all these years, not after all the things he's seen, but that he oddly clings to all the same, but there is something about it that feels...
Right? Romantic? Affectionate, certainly. Fraught with sexual tension, certainly; he'd be crazy to think it wasn't, especially with what he's intending to do here, what they're both here to do. But there's something else to it, too, something that feels... right. Comfortable. And, yes, maybe a little loving.
So when she turns to him and asks that question, when he looks around the room and sees the beautiful decorations, the bed, the way the moonlight is coming in through the window, he just has to smile, mirroring that bittersweet expression on her face unintentionally.]
Not yet. But y'know, I think I could be. I really think I could be.
[And in this moment, it feels true. So of course he has to draw her close for another kiss.]
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Not yet, but he could come to love her—perhaps he just isn't sure. Protests stir in her mind, but they are silenced by the intoxicated haze of desire, the feverish desperation, almost a physical ache, to believe that he could love, in time. And if—if she meets his kiss, perhaps she could help him communicate his muddled thoughts.
She yields to another one of his overwhelming kisses with only a murmur, and if she had been in her right mind, she would never have surrendered with such simplicity. But she is not in her mind, and maybe it is the shimmering of the moon, or the odd sense of nostalgia which seems to cling to him, or the pale violet walls which color her mind with thoughts of a maddening sort, the urgency to know his mind, to make this night somehow right. The rhythm of her pulse at her wrist is beginning to pound with a fierce intensity, her heart still feeling heavy, but for the first time, she unskillfully tries to return his passion with her own small, sweet kisses, bashful and innocent.]
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And he likes to think that telling her he could love her is worth something. Something small, something relatively meaningless, in the big scheme of things, perhaps, but something, nevertheless. He knows that, given enough time, it wouldn't be hard to fall for her at all. He doesn't believe in love at first sight, because that's...
Well, is it ridiculous? Hasn't he thought he's felt it before?
He shouldn't dwell on it. Instead, he's kissing her fervently, moving her back a little, nudging her towards the bed. His movements are gentle, but firm, his intention clear -- at least, in his own mind. He knows why they're here, and, to his knowledge, so does she. She responds to his kiss sweetly, not particularly passionately, but then, it would be hard to match him for passion, when it comes right down to it.]
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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.
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[Her confusion and her sudden realization strike him as somewhere between oddly sweet and oddly sad, but no matter how he slices it, it's utterly incomprehensible. What had she thought they'd come here for? Had that been why she'd asked whether he loved her? Had she really thought they could love each other after so short of a period of time? He hadn't been lying when he'd said that he thought, given enough time, he could, because he can already feel that affection for her, something that goes beyond just sex, but...
She sounds so distressed, not as though she's feigning her upset, not as though she's teasing him, but as though she's really, truly horrified. And the way she draws her hands away from him, the burrow on her brow and the downturn to her lips, that all sums up something akin to... disappointment? Fear?
Her voice strikes him as almost heartbreaking, and he wants to comfort her, but he's not quite sure how.]
I thought we wanted the same thing.
[Because he'd really thought, when he'd brought her here, that they'd been on the same page. That, although she was somewhat shy, somewhat timid, somewhat naive, she had the same basic idea of what coming to a hotel like this meant, of what his kisses had meant. Apparently, he'd been wrong.
Still, he doesn't step away, not entirely. Instead, his hand reaches out to stroke her cheek again, and this time, he makes sure to keep the touch affectionate but not heated, gentle but not at all passionate. All it could be described as is, truly, 'romantic.' Maybe even 'loving,' if that's what someone wants to read into it.]
I don't wanna hurt you. I only wanna make you happy.
[That's true, too, but what will make each of them happy might be very different things, it seems.]
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Hurt her? Never did she think he would hurt her, never did she fear the blow of his fists or the power of his rages incited by alcohol, otherwise, she would not have come. Surely, he must know that? He must know, even now, that she does not detest him? He has hardly tricked her, not when she was so willingly fooled, and her despairing regret is only because she should have realized sooner. Her vague first impression had been correct, after all, but she had dismissed it as only her imagination running wild, a perversion brought about by devilish elixir. If she had known that she was wanted, but only for the services of her flesh, would she have come along so willingly?
Maybe she would have.
Because, presently, she can't bear to see the hurt flitting across his expression, making the soft angles of his handsome face look oddly vulnerable. She hears the anguish in his voice, the boyish confusion, and feels just as guilty for wounding him, in a sense. She cannot stifle the pangs of sympathy for him, any more than she can stop the delirious attraction which draws her inescapably towards him.
She can feel him frame her face with such delicate care, far more purer than the heated press of his hands from before, and she can imagine how simply she could surrender to him. The way he looks at her, how he treats her like a fragile glass which could shatter, is the very opposite of his feverish lust which had lured her in. It is a very convincing imitation of love—daresay, indistinguishable from the real thing.]
Did you mean it?
[When he said he could love her, that is. Even the smallest of chances is more merciful than absolute deception. It is a shallow comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. It seems like they were under opposite impressions before, but ultimately—what they both want is intimacy of a sort. Love, attraction, infatuation, lust—what-ever it may be, it has undoubtedly possessed the both of them, and she takes a tense step closer, her hands still folded over her heart.]
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[He looks almost offended -- no, that's not the right word, because it's not offense on his face, but something very like hurt, something somewhat similar to her own expression, truthfully -- that she'd even suggest that he didn't. All the same, he can see why she's asking: a guy getting a woman in a position like this, having the audacity to be so forward with her in a relatively public place, then taking her back to a secluded hotel room... of course it would seem as though the only thing he wanted was her body, and that he'd say anything to get it.]
'n y'know, if I just wanted...
[Well, he doesn't really need to finish that sentence. He doesn't want to make reference to anyone else, at the moment, and he doesn't particularly need to say that if the only thing he'd wanted was someone to fulfill some fleeting lust with, it would be perfectly easy to find plenty of willing women at Babette's. It would sound too much like bragging, and there's no reason to call up the spectre of other prospects simply to convince her that he'd been honest in saying he could love her. It would cheapen it, somehow.
It's one of those rare, rare times when he knows how to hold his tongue.]
I do think I could love you. I think it'd be awfully easy.
[It's a conscious effort not to swear around her, it really is, not to say what he really wants to say, which is that it'd be so goddamned easy for him to fall in love with her that he's half-convinced he's doing it already, but he remembers how she'd responded to that kind of language, and so he tries to hold himself back from letting it out. It's harder than it should be.
The fact that she's stepping closer is reassuring. That means he can wrap an arm around her again, doesn't it? That means he can pull her close for another kiss, a slow one, testing the waters more than anything else, finding out if she'll rebuff him now, after all of this confusion, after she realized that they might not be on the same page at all.]
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This kiss is slower, sweeter, the sort of kiss which is the stuff of dreams, fairy tales and fiction. It is the first one they have exchanged tonight which is not a frantic race for completion or a tangle of confusion passion, tender and careful. One she can, at long last, relax into, the tension in her delicate frame gradually being undone. His hand curled around her waist supports her, it doesn't trap her or keep her caged within his reach, and with his lips on hers, being held in his arms, it feels like there is more to be attained tonight than just plain intercourse.
It feels like they can make love—even fall in love.
Tentatively, her hands fall away from where they are clasped, reaching blindly out to smooth along the lapels of his suit, dark pinstripes which appear black in the long shadows of the room. From there, they settle around his shoulders, and there is no unspoken tension or efforts to restrain himself in his frame, at least that she can feel. Is this good for him too? Is this enough for him, at least for this moment? Or does he want more than the chaste pace of kissing, the elaborate coaxing, the almost virginal shyness she possesses?]
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And when she puts her arms around his shoulders, and lets herself be close to him, he's perfectly happy to take it slow, perfectly happy to let her by shy, to let her set the pace, because he can't think of anything else he'd rather be doing right now. Maybe that's the alcohol talking, making him slow and sentimental, or maybe it's just that he really does want her to enjoy herself, doesn't want to scare her, and, yes, sees her as a bit of a challenge, a bit of a puzzle to solve.
He's learned, from his previous attempts, that any quick movements with her, any sign of pushing too hard or too fast might startle her, might break the quiet reverie they have right here, and so he sticks to kissing her. His hand on her waist is firm, but he doesn't grip her with any kind of possessiveness, as he might with someone else; he's doing his best to mold himself into what she'll find appealing, into what she'll want to keep around, even if he's not consciously thinking about it.
All he wants to do is please her. It's not a thought he'd admit to out loud, or even to himself, but it's there, all right, behind all these deep, slow, affectionate kisses, behind all of these gently spoken words.]
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She breathes a sweet sigh, a delighted little smile curling at her lips, in startling contrast to her damp cheeks. He has charmed her, and if nothing else tells him, the languid, slow way she sinks down onto the bed should. She hesitates before proceeding any further, before at last unhooking her diamond earrings, slipping off her bracelet of braided pearls. Freed of her riches, there is only the white silk petals of her dress and the cream color of her skin for him to gaze upon.
Feeling barer, and at once lighter, than before, she allows him lean over her further and further, until she lies flat on her back, her sleek bob splayed out across the cushions, her breath high and shallow in her throat. Her arms limply return close to her, her wrists held high on either side of her slender shoulders. It's a submissive pose, open and vulnerable, the blossoming pink of her throat and face is made all the more pronounced by the pale moon.]
There—
[Her voice catches on a high note, a breathless whisper, uncertain what to say, how to present herself in a way which might be attractive. All she can say is, simply, is there she is for him.]
There.
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It's hard to know what to say in response to her, hard to know if he should be reassuring her somehow, if he should be showering her with compliments -- that wouldn't be hard to do; the way she looks right now is worthy of plenty -- or if he should be silent entirely, and just concentrate on kissing her, on touching her.
But he's never been good at staying silent.]
You're beautiful.
[Unoriginal, perhaps, but heartfelt. He leans in again, going for another kiss, and this time, one of his hands is sliding down the length of her body, tracing her curves, feeling her warmth. He'll try to remove her dress soon, and he's sure they both know it, but there's nothing wrong with going a little slowly, especially not now that he feels sure that she truly wants to be here, wants to have him close.]
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She had seen how he had discarded of his tie, and her free hand reaches out, almost wonderingly, to touch the dark buttons at the front of his crisp suit. Just then, the shivering tips of her fingers falter, abandoning the bold task of unbuttoning his collar for him, suddenly seized with an incommunicable sense of shame, as if this is her first lover, her first time being taken to bed.
Unable to help him undress, too overtaken by her own timid reservations, she is tempted to lose her nerve entirely, to continue on with another series of sugary kisses. But perhaps it is the champagne and the cigarettes urging her on, pulling back to catch her breath, and the hand which gracelessly lost in its attempt to disrobe him instead drifts down to her own clothing. The sleeves of flimsy, gauzy silk give no resistance when she slips them down, revealing the delicate frame of her shoulders, her exposed collarbone. Her dress is not so far down that she is entirely exposed, her modesty hidden by the opaque pattern of lace daisies.]
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And, he sees, she doesn't seem to mind undressing herself, either, at least partway. She might have been timid in her explorations of his clothing, but she's slipping out of her sleeves and tugging her dress down slightly, though maybe not as far as he might like it, not far enough to expose her entirely. He'll just have to remedy that problem... but in a moment, no need to rush, and with their fingers laced together like this, he can give her hand a little squeeze, as though he's reassuring her of... of what? Something. It's unspoken, and maybe entirely unintentional, but it's there.
In the meantime, though, he can break away from her lips for a moment, but only for the sake of pressing kisses down her neck, onto her shoulders and the newly exposed skin of her collarbone. Any bare skin he can reach, he can kiss, and seem genuinely delighted by it, too, wanting to pepper every inch of her that he can find with those gentle presses of his mouth.]
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But for the next moment, her worry, along with everything else, vanishes from her mind when his heated kisses begin trailing lower across unmarked skin, the soft arc of her exposed throat, the underside of her face. The brief squeeze of his hand is a small comfort, and she clutches at him with tangible desperation, as if seeking out some sense of stability, as if it is the last vestige of control she can have over her reactions. Her lips press together to muffle herself, to mild success, murmuring nonsense and the beginnings of his name.
In the sweltering summer night, she could trick herself into believing her artificial fever is induced from alcohol, or the thick air, or the constricting fabric of her dress. But it's futile to pretend the cloying heat, the light sweat gathering in the hollow of her throat, is caused by anything but the impassioned way he presses himself against her. If she is sufferingly hot, in her dress of airy silk, then he must be feeling unbearable. She could—she could, at least for his sake—
She leaves the top of her dress untouched, opting to reach low for the long skirt, its pearl-embroidered hem reaching down to her ankles, tangled up in her heels. With faltering fingers, the gold buckle of her shoes are undone, and afterwards—she manages the courage to raise her skirt just slightly past the knees, revealing Victorian-styled stockings, the lily-white skin of her thighs peeking through the thin, sheer material. This would please him, wouldn't it? It must, because otherwise, she feels as if she could collapse from the utter scandal of it all.]
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