[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.]
[At this point, anything she does, any move she makes, no matter how shy and timid, no matter how slow and flustered, is going to please him. He's finding himself more and more enamored of her with every passing moment, wondering if he should say something to that effect, then choosing to stay silent, because anything that would come out of his mouth at this point would almost certainly involve a profanity or two, and she's made her feelings on those quite clear.
As she lifts her skirt a little, showing her stockings, he smiles a little, wondering if she reads encouragement in his grin or just lustful intent. Truthfully, either would be accurate. He wants to make her feel comfortable, but he'd be lying to both of them if he didn't admit that he also simply wants to see her with considerably less on than she has at the moment. Maybe that's why he's running a hand up the smooth surface of her leg, tugging at her stockings a little -- gently, because he doesn't want to rip them -- indicating wordlessly that they should come off, too.
It's his own clothes that he's most concerned about now, because it's very warm in here, warmer still because of the way their bodies are pressed together and the alcohol and the desire that's surging through him. His tie and collar are out of the way, and his jacket goes next, unceremonious tossed aside quickly so that he can remove his vest, next. Within almost no time at all, he's down to his shirt -- which is already somewhat unbuttoned at the top, from where he'd removed his collar -- and his suspenders. It'll all have to come off eventually, but spending this much time on his own clothes has deprived him the opportunity of focusing on her, and he's desperate to have as much contact as he can.
And so his hands return to hers, nudging her skirt up just a little more, wondering if he should move to remove her dress entirely, wondering if it's just a little too soon -- she does seem so flustered, after all, and yet, the way she's clutching at him indicates to him that she's enjoying herself, too. It's strange for him to be so concerned about how quickly he's moving, about whether he's doing everything right, because he rarely doubts himself in this regard, but around her... well, maybe it simply comes back to being oddly enamored of her.]
[She never thought about how many layers upon layers of cream cloth, and lace, and frills she wore, but his firm, insistent gesture at her stockings tells her it is all too much, especially from how unbearably flushed she is. She watches from beneath her lashes as he hastily rids himself of his own layers, the room feeling far too small and compact for them to be dressed with such overbearing formality.
As she watches how brazenly he reveals himself to her, it makes her feel all the more ridiculous for hesitating, fussing like a newlywed who has never had lessons in carnality. Her hands slipping beneath her skirt, her stockings are gently tugged to not ruin the delicate material, eased down from her hips to her ankles, finally discarded at her bare feet in a tangle of cloth.
But she barely has a moment to savor the freedom of exposing her legs, when he returns to press over her, feeling small in his shadow. Her new lover is hinting heavily to his desires, from the lift he gives her skirt, coming dangerously close to the junction of her thighs. She inhales sharply, both of her hands pressing over his, clasping over his wandering fingers to stop him from advancing any further.]
Ah—...
[She looks up to him, pleadingly, her lips opening and parting as if to speak. The dreamlike atmosphere they have between them is as brittle as the stutter in her voice, and she struggles to make herself coherent for him.]
—Darling, not there.
[The term of endearment slips out before she means it to, warm and intimate in her syrupy Southern drawl, growing more pronounced with the worse her nerves become. Her pale hands take his, trying to guide it back to the comfortable territory of her shoulders.]
[As soon as she tells him not to, as soon as she speaks those simple words not there -- although there's that other word, too, that 'darling,' which he finds unspeakably charming, which makes him smile a little -- he stops, pulls his hand back, retreating to the relative safety of her shoulder, where she's guided it. If that's what she wants, that's what she'll have.]
Okay.
[It's a simple enough statement, but he feels like there should be more, especially in light of that darling, the intimate way she says it, the completely affectionate tone in her voice, even though he can tell she's nervous, too. There should be something he can say to alleviate that nervousness, shouldn't there?]
What d'you want?
[It's always better to ask, isn't it? Although he doesn't know that she'll be able to articulate exactly what she wants, or maybe she isn't even aware, herself. If she doesn't want him sliding his hand up her skirt, if she doesn't feel that they can be that intimate, what does she want? Maybe she'll be able to guide him, even if she can't say it aloud. Maybe all it requires is more kisses, more time spent making her comfortable. He can do that, he thinks.]
[If only he had asked anything but that, the most direct and blunt question of all which makes her fall silent. She can't possibly say it! In any case, how could she hope to express that what she wants is not the absence of his touch, but just a more gradual pace? It would sound too vulgar, too unbecoming to say aloud.
Slowly sitting up, cautiously assured that he hasn't been discouraged by her refusal, she turns around, revealing the vulnerable back of her neck and the curve of her hips. But more than the sight of her flesh, she shows him the line of bone and ivory buttons lining all the way down her dress, looking almost translucent in the starlight. On the other side of the frosted glass, she could make out the shadows of automobiles and thinning crowds in the distance, and she is acutely aware that this moment, their moment of peace, is just as temporary as the passing hours.
She reaches up, one hand curling, skimming over the buttons but unable to loosen their fastenings herself. Even without speaking, he should understand what she needs from him.]
[He realizes it, immediately after he's asked it, that maybe it leaves things far too open-ended, that maybe she can't possibly express what she wants, even if she does know, because it would come out sounding far too inappropriate, in her mind. He, of course, wouldn't mind hearing any of it, but he's already recognized that she doesn't talk that way.
When she sits up, all he can do is watch her, somehow fascinated by the sight of her delicate curves, by the color and translucency of the dress, by how perfect she looks right now, illuminated in the moonlight as she is.]
Yeah, of course.
[That's one thing he knows how to do -- he has talented hands, after all, when it comes to just about everything, and undoing buttons is something he thinks he could practically do in his sleep. But as easy as it may be for him, as tempting as it may be to do it quickly and one-handed, he doesn't rush it. No, he takes it slow, reaching out to undo each button, one after the other, very gently, letting his fingers trail across each bit of newly showing skin as it's revealed.]
[One by one, her buttons are undone, revealing the line of her spine, his rhythm unbroken by the absence of any underlying intimate garments. She tries not to shiver from how lightly his fingers stroke each new inch of skin, until the top of her dress is open entirely, with only the skirt in place. With her back exposed, the narrow shoulder blades are visibly tight with tension as she folds her arms modestly over her front.
Abashed, she turns to face him, the fine, white features of her face positively pink, her teeth worrying with her plump bottom lip, her hands clutching at her ribs to hide the subtle curve of breasts. Uncertain if he would be amused or angered at her audacity of being so prudent in the bedroom, she cannot meet his eyes directly for a long moment. She has nothing to say, no words to articulate what she wants, lost as to how she could suggest it any more directly to him.
Perhaps it's because she can't stand to look down at her crumpled dress, but she tips her head up to look at him, still not accepting his gaze. She focuses instead on his mouth, remembering the raw vigor of his kisses, the praise he has spoken for her. She would quite like another, but to cup his jaw means to reveal herself fully, so she sits in imposed self-restraint.]
[It seems to take an eternity, but finally, the top of her dress is undone, and her back is bared to him, and he has to run his fingers across it again, practically reverently, before she turns around to face him again.
And the way she covers up her breasts when she turns around again, the way she looks so nervous, so... is it scared, or is it simply modest? All of that makes him smile, too, though he hopes his smile doesn't look at all mocking, at all like he's making fun of her. He wants it to be a smile of genuine encouragement, of genuine appreciation, the fact that he's sitting here before her and regarding her and finding her completely perfect -- though, of course, he wouldn't be opposed to her dropping her hands away and letting him see her fully, if that were what she wanted to do.
As soon as she tilts her head up, he's pressing his lips to her own again, catching her chin in his hand, pulling her close, and maybe the kiss is slightly more passionate this time, but there's still something careful about it, as though he's trying to let her know just how much he wants her without scaring her away.]
[He kisses her as if stealing the breath from her, not quite as controlled and refined as before, edging closer and closer to the intense sort of deep kisses he had given her when they first met. She find herself swept up in the passion, her hands falling away to run along his sides, tangling in his suspenders, wrapping around his waist. She clings to him, unable to restrain herself any more than the moonlight could stop shining over her, framing them in white.
She pulls back just for a scant moment of air, before pressing forward again of her own volition, grateful that he hasn't been disappointed in her after all, grateful for how tender and sweet he is making an effort to be, grateful for how much he loves her—
No, how much he appears to love her—the cynical thought comes unbidden, emerging from a dark corner of her mind lurks like a vicious specter. True love or not, there is still the plausibility of it, and with how he gazes upon her with such reverence—why, he might even love her already. Because if this is anything less than a romantic consummation, it would be just intercourse, just a physical act, no better than her husband's disloyal sprees. She has to remind herself of that.
Does that mean, then, that she loves him—?]
I—
[The sound of her voice surprises her, already halfway to answering her own silent question. Although it had been barely audible, little more than a mutter, she realizes he might take it as further reluctance. Putting an end to her attempts at making sense of her muddled thoughts, she pulls him closer, into an embrace.]
[He doesn't take it as further reluctance so much as he assumes that there's something she wants to say, something that's on the tip of her tongue that she isn't quite sure she's able to spit out, and he's curious as to what it is, but not so curious that he's willing to press her for it, not when there are so many more important things to do with his mouth other than talk.
It feels romantic, though, although he's not sure whether he's just making that up in his mind or whether they both truly believe that there's romance here, that after knowing each other for such a brief period of time they could really have feelings for each other. But it's undeniable that he feels something, something intense and almost surprising when he looks at her.
And, certainly, when she tangles her hands up in his suspenders, when she pulls him closer, he's already reaching a hand between them to unbutton his shirt the rest of the way, to shrug off his suspenders, to get down to just his undershirt so that they're almost equally undressed. The warmth of her pressing against him is almost more intoxicating than the alcohol he's had so much of tonight has been.
His fingers twine into her hair, not tugging at it, not pulling at it, just running his fingers through it soothingly, as he kisses her.]
[She is only too glad he doesn't inquire further, occupying himself with taking off even more clothing, just as she is shortly busied with the sensation of his fingers slipping through sleek blonde sections of her hair. Yet eventually, one of them must pull back for breath, and she shies away first, lashes fluttering to see him standing in just an undershirt. His shoulders are broader than she thought, seeing the lean muscle beneath the sleeves of his suit, and his complexion is a shade mildly darker than hers, and—
Her arms release him, one curious hand reaching out to trace the faint white flesh, a different color than new skin, scars of some wound healed over, a stark and unpleasant sight. She looks up to him, concern and pity written in her gaze. Perhaps he thinks her meddling, undeserving to comment on his private past, but she can't help the fierce rush of sympathy which threatens to have tears in her eyes.]
Does it hurt terribly?
[She regrets asking immediately, not wanting to be seen as a busybody or a prying gossip, guilt weighing heavily in her gaze, as if the sins of the man who inflicted those wounds were hers. This is meant to be a joyous occasion, and she wills the burning of tears away, the bed creaking beneath her as she lies back once again. With her in just her skirt, her dress halfway undone, and him in little more than his trousers, there is absolutely no mistaking what they have set out to do—no more chances for second thoughts, for excuses to leave, for doubts of any kind.
Her hands lie at her sides, taking fistfuls of the bedspread each, hoping to still their anxious quiver. What is there to say now, other than something trite, the sort of thing found in a romance novel that costs a penny? There is no use in asking him to be slow, to be gentle, because it's not as if tonight is her first. So she opts for quiet, with only her ragged, high breathing in the silence.]
[When she runs her fingers over his scars, he stops for a moment, worried that maybe she'll be bothered by them, that she'll find them unattractive somehow -- the ones on his arms and shoulders aren't so bad, but that doesn't always mean they're pleasant to look at, either -- and it almost startles him when she's asking whether they hurt. Most people don't notice, or they don't care.]
Not really. I barely even notice 'em anymore. The ones on my leg hurt a lot worse.
[There's no sense in pretending that he's not covered in scars elsewhere. She's seen the way he limps, of course, and it's only a matter of time, with the way things are progressing, before she sees just how badly scarred his leg is. He hopes she's not disgusted by it, because he knows that, unlike the faint, white scars on his torso and arms, the ones on his leg will never stop being dark, purple, almost angry looking. They bother some people. They bother him, if he looks too closely at them for too long.
Then, to distract from his scars, maybe, or to make her look a little less... is that guilt in her eyes? What should she feel guilty for? he tugs off his undershirt, too. It's not as though it had been concealing much, really, and at this point, the less clothes either of them has, the more comfortable he'll feel.
The same may not hold true for her, though, and that's why, as he reaches for her dress to tug it the rest of the way off, he's very slow in his movements, leaving no doubt that, if at any time she wants him to stop, she can say so. As he tugs it down, though, he notes a discoloration on her hip, a dark splotch on her otherwise pale, perfect skin, and he recognizes it as a bruise almost immediately, even with only the illumination of the moonlight to cast a glow on it. His fingers trace over it very, very gently, and he doesn't want to ask where it came from, because he thinks, somehow, that that question can't possibly lead to anything good, but he does ask...]
Does this hurt real bad?
[A clumsy mirroring of the question she'd asked him, maybe, but there is concern in his eyes, all the same.]
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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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As she lifts her skirt a little, showing her stockings, he smiles a little, wondering if she reads encouragement in his grin or just lustful intent. Truthfully, either would be accurate. He wants to make her feel comfortable, but he'd be lying to both of them if he didn't admit that he also simply wants to see her with considerably less on than she has at the moment. Maybe that's why he's running a hand up the smooth surface of her leg, tugging at her stockings a little -- gently, because he doesn't want to rip them -- indicating wordlessly that they should come off, too.
It's his own clothes that he's most concerned about now, because it's very warm in here, warmer still because of the way their bodies are pressed together and the alcohol and the desire that's surging through him. His tie and collar are out of the way, and his jacket goes next, unceremonious tossed aside quickly so that he can remove his vest, next. Within almost no time at all, he's down to his shirt -- which is already somewhat unbuttoned at the top, from where he'd removed his collar -- and his suspenders. It'll all have to come off eventually, but spending this much time on his own clothes has deprived him the opportunity of focusing on her, and he's desperate to have as much contact as he can.
And so his hands return to hers, nudging her skirt up just a little more, wondering if he should move to remove her dress entirely, wondering if it's just a little too soon -- she does seem so flustered, after all, and yet, the way she's clutching at him indicates to him that she's enjoying herself, too. It's strange for him to be so concerned about how quickly he's moving, about whether he's doing everything right, because he rarely doubts himself in this regard, but around her... well, maybe it simply comes back to being oddly enamored of her.]
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As she watches how brazenly he reveals himself to her, it makes her feel all the more ridiculous for hesitating, fussing like a newlywed who has never had lessons in carnality. Her hands slipping beneath her skirt, her stockings are gently tugged to not ruin the delicate material, eased down from her hips to her ankles, finally discarded at her bare feet in a tangle of cloth.
But she barely has a moment to savor the freedom of exposing her legs, when he returns to press over her, feeling small in his shadow. Her new lover is hinting heavily to his desires, from the lift he gives her skirt, coming dangerously close to the junction of her thighs. She inhales sharply, both of her hands pressing over his, clasping over his wandering fingers to stop him from advancing any further.]
Ah—...
[She looks up to him, pleadingly, her lips opening and parting as if to speak. The dreamlike atmosphere they have between them is as brittle as the stutter in her voice, and she struggles to make herself coherent for him.]
—Darling, not there.
[The term of endearment slips out before she means it to, warm and intimate in her syrupy Southern drawl, growing more pronounced with the worse her nerves become. Her pale hands take his, trying to guide it back to the comfortable territory of her shoulders.]
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Okay.
[It's a simple enough statement, but he feels like there should be more, especially in light of that darling, the intimate way she says it, the completely affectionate tone in her voice, even though he can tell she's nervous, too. There should be something he can say to alleviate that nervousness, shouldn't there?]
What d'you want?
[It's always better to ask, isn't it? Although he doesn't know that she'll be able to articulate exactly what she wants, or maybe she isn't even aware, herself. If she doesn't want him sliding his hand up her skirt, if she doesn't feel that they can be that intimate, what does she want? Maybe she'll be able to guide him, even if she can't say it aloud. Maybe all it requires is more kisses, more time spent making her comfortable. He can do that, he thinks.]
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Slowly sitting up, cautiously assured that he hasn't been discouraged by her refusal, she turns around, revealing the vulnerable back of her neck and the curve of her hips. But more than the sight of her flesh, she shows him the line of bone and ivory buttons lining all the way down her dress, looking almost translucent in the starlight. On the other side of the frosted glass, she could make out the shadows of automobiles and thinning crowds in the distance, and she is acutely aware that this moment, their moment of peace, is just as temporary as the passing hours.
She reaches up, one hand curling, skimming over the buttons but unable to loosen their fastenings herself. Even without speaking, he should understand what she needs from him.]
Would you?
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When she sits up, all he can do is watch her, somehow fascinated by the sight of her delicate curves, by the color and translucency of the dress, by how perfect she looks right now, illuminated in the moonlight as she is.]
Yeah, of course.
[That's one thing he knows how to do -- he has talented hands, after all, when it comes to just about everything, and undoing buttons is something he thinks he could practically do in his sleep. But as easy as it may be for him, as tempting as it may be to do it quickly and one-handed, he doesn't rush it. No, he takes it slow, reaching out to undo each button, one after the other, very gently, letting his fingers trail across each bit of newly showing skin as it's revealed.]
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Abashed, she turns to face him, the fine, white features of her face positively pink, her teeth worrying with her plump bottom lip, her hands clutching at her ribs to hide the subtle curve of breasts. Uncertain if he would be amused or angered at her audacity of being so prudent in the bedroom, she cannot meet his eyes directly for a long moment. She has nothing to say, no words to articulate what she wants, lost as to how she could suggest it any more directly to him.
Perhaps it's because she can't stand to look down at her crumpled dress, but she tips her head up to look at him, still not accepting his gaze. She focuses instead on his mouth, remembering the raw vigor of his kisses, the praise he has spoken for her. She would quite like another, but to cup his jaw means to reveal herself fully, so she sits in imposed self-restraint.]
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And the way she covers up her breasts when she turns around again, the way she looks so nervous, so... is it scared, or is it simply modest? All of that makes him smile, too, though he hopes his smile doesn't look at all mocking, at all like he's making fun of her. He wants it to be a smile of genuine encouragement, of genuine appreciation, the fact that he's sitting here before her and regarding her and finding her completely perfect -- though, of course, he wouldn't be opposed to her dropping her hands away and letting him see her fully, if that were what she wanted to do.
As soon as she tilts her head up, he's pressing his lips to her own again, catching her chin in his hand, pulling her close, and maybe the kiss is slightly more passionate this time, but there's still something careful about it, as though he's trying to let her know just how much he wants her without scaring her away.]
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She pulls back just for a scant moment of air, before pressing forward again of her own volition, grateful that he hasn't been disappointed in her after all, grateful for how tender and sweet he is making an effort to be, grateful for how much he loves her—
No, how much he appears to love her—the cynical thought comes unbidden, emerging from a dark corner of her mind lurks like a vicious specter. True love or not, there is still the plausibility of it, and with how he gazes upon her with such reverence—why, he might even love her already. Because if this is anything less than a romantic consummation, it would be just intercourse, just a physical act, no better than her husband's disloyal sprees. She has to remind herself of that.
Does that mean, then, that she loves him—?]
I—
[The sound of her voice surprises her, already halfway to answering her own silent question. Although it had been barely audible, little more than a mutter, she realizes he might take it as further reluctance. Putting an end to her attempts at making sense of her muddled thoughts, she pulls him closer, into an embrace.]
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It feels romantic, though, although he's not sure whether he's just making that up in his mind or whether they both truly believe that there's romance here, that after knowing each other for such a brief period of time they could really have feelings for each other. But it's undeniable that he feels something, something intense and almost surprising when he looks at her.
And, certainly, when she tangles her hands up in his suspenders, when she pulls him closer, he's already reaching a hand between them to unbutton his shirt the rest of the way, to shrug off his suspenders, to get down to just his undershirt so that they're almost equally undressed. The warmth of her pressing against him is almost more intoxicating than the alcohol he's had so much of tonight has been.
His fingers twine into her hair, not tugging at it, not pulling at it, just running his fingers through it soothingly, as he kisses her.]
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Her arms release him, one curious hand reaching out to trace the faint white flesh, a different color than new skin, scars of some wound healed over, a stark and unpleasant sight. She looks up to him, concern and pity written in her gaze. Perhaps he thinks her meddling, undeserving to comment on his private past, but she can't help the fierce rush of sympathy which threatens to have tears in her eyes.]
Does it hurt terribly?
[She regrets asking immediately, not wanting to be seen as a busybody or a prying gossip, guilt weighing heavily in her gaze, as if the sins of the man who inflicted those wounds were hers. This is meant to be a joyous occasion, and she wills the burning of tears away, the bed creaking beneath her as she lies back once again. With her in just her skirt, her dress halfway undone, and him in little more than his trousers, there is absolutely no mistaking what they have set out to do—no more chances for second thoughts, for excuses to leave, for doubts of any kind.
Her hands lie at her sides, taking fistfuls of the bedspread each, hoping to still their anxious quiver. What is there to say now, other than something trite, the sort of thing found in a romance novel that costs a penny? There is no use in asking him to be slow, to be gentle, because it's not as if tonight is her first. So she opts for quiet, with only her ragged, high breathing in the silence.]
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Not really. I barely even notice 'em anymore. The ones on my leg hurt a lot worse.
[There's no sense in pretending that he's not covered in scars elsewhere. She's seen the way he limps, of course, and it's only a matter of time, with the way things are progressing, before she sees just how badly scarred his leg is. He hopes she's not disgusted by it, because he knows that, unlike the faint, white scars on his torso and arms, the ones on his leg will never stop being dark, purple, almost angry looking. They bother some people. They bother him, if he looks too closely at them for too long.
Then, to distract from his scars, maybe, or to make her look a little less... is that guilt in her eyes? What should she feel guilty for? he tugs off his undershirt, too. It's not as though it had been concealing much, really, and at this point, the less clothes either of them has, the more comfortable he'll feel.
The same may not hold true for her, though, and that's why, as he reaches for her dress to tug it the rest of the way off, he's very slow in his movements, leaving no doubt that, if at any time she wants him to stop, she can say so. As he tugs it down, though, he notes a discoloration on her hip, a dark splotch on her otherwise pale, perfect skin, and he recognizes it as a bruise almost immediately, even with only the illumination of the moonlight to cast a glow on it. His fingers trace over it very, very gently, and he doesn't want to ask where it came from, because he thinks, somehow, that that question can't possibly lead to anything good, but he does ask...]
Does this hurt real bad?
[A clumsy mirroring of the question she'd asked him, maybe, but there is concern in his eyes, all the same.]
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