[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.]
[She looks alarmed at his reply, of being told that he's injured elsewhere and still feels their sting, even though it must have been ages since they were first inflicted. But before she could be any more tactless, he raises his arms and removes his shirt, quite promptly changing the subject.
He begins to pull down the long skirt, heavy with pearls and diamonds sewn into the cloth, and she raises her hips slightly for him. With her stockings gone, there is only her intimates remaining underneath, just as white and fragile as the rest of her ensemble. When the dress finally comes off, tangled on the floor with their other clothing, it's then that she thinks the worst is over, except—
Well, she never thought anyone would have seen that one, as concealed as it was. Where it comes from seems like an obvious answer, already presenting itself—after all, her husband's temper and fondness of liquor is the hot topic of fierce gossip in many social circles. But that isn't what he asks, and for the first time, something worse than regret, more troubling than distress comes over her expression, the faint traces of a terror, revived by an old and awful memory.]
—Yes.
[She admits in a quiet murmur, the sweetness and clarity absent from her voice, sounding as bitter as she has ever sounded, sour and cynical and deeply upset, as if it is a new complication. It's still fresh, dark and not yet turning an ugly yellowish color as it heals. She can still feel the phantom throb of it when he touches it, even with how gentle he is.]
[Her admission doesn't necessarily come as any surprise to him, because it looks as though it would hurt, especially in a tender place like her hip, but he also knows that it would be incredibly rude -- not to mention a surefire way to ruin the mood -- to ask about it further. So there's really only one thing he can say.]
I'm sorry.
[He doesn't know what he's apologizing for, not really. It's not like he'd inflicted the bruise -- and he knows he never would, knows that for all the things about him that make him awful, that make him doomed to hell, that's one thing he won't do -- but he feels bad for it, anyway. Feels bad that she should have to suffer, that she should have to be in pain, and it just makes him resolve to make this night as good for her as it can be. It's not as though a momentarily evening of enjoyment with someone will take away her pain, he's not stupid enough to think that, but... maybe it will alleviate it for awhile?
He pulls his fingers back from her bruise, because he doesn't want to hurt it further, can't stand to hear that sad bitterness in her voice. And then, because it seems like the right thing to do, although it may be exactly the wrong thing to do, may be strange and unexpected and a little unnecessary (though to be fair, all of those things could easily describe everything else he's done this evening, too) he bends down and presses a very soft kiss to her hip, making sure not to put too much pressure on it, his lips just barely ghosting over her skin there.]
[She gives a little feeble shake of her head, refusing his apology. After all, it wasn't him who hurt her, who ought to be apologizing and asking for forgiveness. She is expecting him to allow the morbid topic to be quietly laid aside, to instead pursue other alluring, and unmarred, curves. But he does the very opposite, bewilderment seizing her when he bends low, giving way to an odd sort of gratitude when he presses his lips to the dark wound, as if it would heal from his innocent touch alone.
She is relieved when he seems satisfied with that act of kindness alone, deciding not to pursue it any further. Rather, there is something just as bittersweet they must address. She breathes out slowly, gathering the final vestiges of courage she can manage, her long fingers curling beneath the lace edging of her final article of unmentionables, and pulling them down with no small amount of prudent shame. The moment passes without speaking, her motions quick and desperate to finish undressing—until at last, the inevitable conclusion has been reached.
Fully revealed, she must appear distinctly petite and delicate beneath him, pale and smooth expect for the tender bruising. In certain places there may be beauty marks here and there, or patches of pink where she is the most easily agitated, her cheeks warm with a rosy blush. Laid out like a gift, she pauses for just a little longer, hesitating with what to do with her pose, or how he would like her to be presented. Ultimately, she doesn't do anything at all, not raising her arms nor bringing up her knees, unlike how the glamorous stars of the moving pictures do, or the heroines in love stories.
Because she wants this to feel genuine. More than anything, if there is one wish she can have granted tonight, she just wants to feel loved, in all her entirety.]
[He knows he shouldn't dwell on the topic of her bruise any longer, so he pulls away from it to focus on watching her instead, hoping that his gaze isn't too intense, that he's not making her feel uncomfortable from the way his eyes follow her every movement as she finally, finally removes the last of her clothes and is laid bare before him. To say that the sight of her takes his breath away would be undoubtedly cheesy and cliched, or at the very least, the mark of a true hopeless romantic, which he's not eager to reveal himself as, but it's true.
The fact that she doesn't strike a pose, that she doesn't do anything to try to make herself look glamorous -- as though she could possibly look any more glamorous -- is charming, to him. It bespeaks a certain innocence, maybe, or just a certain honesty that doesn't require any coquettish little poses or displays to be completely alluring. The genuineness in it matches the genuineness he's been trying to offer all night, and he likes that, is drawn in by it.
When he finally stops gazing at her, it's only to unbuckle his belt, to undo his pants, and he's absolutely certain that, as he lets them drop away, so he's standing before her in just his own underwear, she'll be looking at the scar on his thigh. The thought of her being horrified by it is too much to bear, so as soon as he's kicked his pants aside none too gracefully, he's back on the bed, pressed against her, practically lying on top of her, and this time, he's kissing her with very little hesitation. Why hesitate, now that she's completely naked and he's almost so, and he knows exactly where this is going?]
[She leans into his kiss, surrendering to the immediate, intense pace, her fingers delicately running along his scarred shoulders, the arch of his ribs, feeling warm skin and solid muscle. She remembers how much he seemed to enjoy his reckless kisses, dark and smothering—and she parts her lips for him without prompting, attempting to please him in the only way she knows how.
There is something about his demeanor, however: a sense of reluctance, although there is no hesitation in how he holds her, how he peppers her with eager kisses. For all of his bold posturing, once the undressing began, moving them into a fragile new stage of the evening, it is then that he had begun to act queerly. The thought of him being inexplicably reserved about his own appearance never strikes her—after all, he is a man. Particularly when it comes to new lovers, it is then that men are supposed to be at their pinnacle of masculine dominance, or so says the scandalized, drunken gossip overheard at parties.
May he be having reservations, after all? Or perhaps he cannot gather enough fondness in his heart for her, not even enough for the physical act—? It must be very hard to make love to a woman he finds unlovable, a wicked doubt whispers to her. He could love her: that's all he had promised. He could, but doesn't that also mean he couldn't? From how he's behaving, it certainly seems so.
With a little gasp, she breaks the kiss, the question pressing heavily in her throat. There is little point in asking if he would like to continue, if he even wants her for something as base as intercourse, not when her lips are still tingling from the force of his kisses.
The only genuine answer is in not his words, but...]
[If he were thinking about it, he'd never imagine that she had doubts about his interest in her, about whether he wanted to keep doing what he's been doing thus far. From his kisses, from the way his hands roam over her body, all of that would seem to say that he's very much enjoying himself, that he has no reservations about her, or about what they're about to do -- or what they have been doing. It's himself, of course, that he has reservations about, but he certainly won't say anything to that effect, and he'd be surprised that she found that odd.
So when she breaks the kiss, he isn't thinking about the doubts she might be having, about the way she might be questioning what he wants. He thinks it's obvious, anyway, especially from the way he finally pulls away from her for a moment for the sake of tugging his underwear off, too. There: they're both equally undressed.
And of course, of course, now that they're in this state, what is he supposed to do but lean down to plant another kiss on her collarbone, then begin to nudge her thighs apart, wondering if she'll really let him, wondering how she'll respond to all of it, wanting nothing more than to finally be inside of her, but wondering... Well, yes, wondering about all of it. That's why he pauses, just before going further, just before finally doing what he's been wanting to do all night, to ask...]
Is it okay?
[It seems right, somehow, to have her distinct permission, and, of course, a selfish and egotistical part of him wants to hear how much desire there is in her tone, if it's audible.]
[Her breath hitches, a little timid noise of pleasure catching in her throat when his hands press into the soft skin of her thighs, parting them with a surprisingly sweet amount of tenderness. In terms of experience, she knows well enough of the process—but in reality, it seems like ages since she has shivered and cried out beneath caresses as patient as his, since she has gone to the bed for anything more than an unpleasant interlude of friction, blood, and stinging pain.
His question initially fails to register, enraptured by the low tone of his voice, heavy and guttural with carnal hunger. Was it all right, he was asking—she should be the one asking, shouldn't she? His garbled messages and mixed signals are confusing her something awful, but—from how he hesitates, wanting to know her mind before proceeding any further, she wants to believe his answer would be—]
Yes.
[She confesses softly, in an almost lilting tone, her voice weak and wavering. Not from reluctance, but sheer shame of having to say it aloud, the color in her cheeks deepening. Finally, she gradually brings her knees up for him, revealing pink folds nestled amongst white skin.]
[That's really all he'd wanted to hear; a vocal desire for this, and he knows that it embarrasses her to say it, that admitting out loud that she wants this, too, is not the kind of thing that probably comes naturally to her, or ever would occur to her. But she's said it now, and she's made that little "oh" of pleasure, which encourages him almost as much as her words do.
So there's really only one thing left to do, and there's no way he can hide just how excited he is that he's finally getting to do it -- still, though, his movements are slow and gentle as he presses into her, not wanting to hurt her, not wanting any reason for this to be unpleasant for her.
And he certainly can't help the deep intake of breath he makes when he's finally buried deep inside of her, one of his hands braced on her hip -- though not the one with the bruise -- and his other hand cupping her cheek again, leaning down for a kiss even as he begins a leisurely, steady rhythm with his hips.
As always, in situations like these, when he feels so damn good and he wants to make the other person feel so damn good, he has the desire to babble, to say everything that comes to mind, but much of that would come out far too profane for her apparently delicate ears, so through some effort (and by quite literally biting his lip for a moment) he manages to stay quiet.]
[A shudder tears through her, her breath escaping her in a quiet mewl, tensing when he presses forward: not from pain, or from discomfort, but from the raw strain of feeling her flesh parting to accept him, for the first time in a long while. Still, as long as he takes it slowly, and gently, everything should be all right.]
J-ames—
[When he has gone as far as he could, his name escapes her as a whimper, her pale brows drawn together in fleeting tension, willing the sharp clench of her muscles to settle. She attempts to focus on the comforting press of his hand against the curve of her hip, but it is a fleeting distraction when she can feel every press and shift of him. She struggles to quiet her thoughts, hoping she has not already been betrayed by the traces of anxiety in her expression: he mustn't think she finds it unpleasant—that isn't it at all. It's simply—overwhelming, especially for her fragile and sensitive nerves, and a moment may be required to adjust.
She is relieved when his hand cups her cheek, coaxing her to soften into his touch, soothing the abrupt tension in her body. She matches his kiss with an anguished, feverish urgency, reluctant for it to end. When he begins to set a slow rhythm, she feels a sense of loss when he pulls his lips away, watching his face intently, how he appears to restrain himself.]
—A-ah, are you, all right?
[She can barely speak, her voice breaking into high notes. Perhaps her concern is unwanted, or even ruining the moment, but the look of almost painful constraint worries her. Is he holding back, for her sake?]
[It's almost strange, hearing her calling him James, because not many people do, but somehow, he finds that he doesn't mind it all that much. He'd thought it would be odd, maybe a little disquieting, but it's not -- his name sounds good coming out of her mouth, especially whimpered in that way. Of course, of course the fleeting anxiety on her face makes him a little worried, afraid that he's doing something wrong, somehow, or inadvertently hurting her; he's trying his best to be gentle, but maybe he isn't gentle enough.
And then she's asking that strange question, asking him if he's all right, which seems like what he should be asking her, especially now. It makes him smile, though, even as he leans in to kiss her again, once more, almost as a reassurance.]
Of course I'm okay. Better than okay.
[If there's any doubt of that, it should be erased by his tone, which is at once tight with excitement and soft with something very likely reverence. Of course, he is holding back, just a little, but it doesn't bother him, doesn't make the feelings of his slow movements any less pleasurable, doesn't make him want to cup her cheek any less, or run his fingers over her hip any less.]
You okay?
[He may be able to speak a little better than her, but the question still trails off into a low groan at the end.]
[A tiny smile, relieved, embarrassed, and perhaps a touch exhausted, lights up her face when he comforts her, answering her absurd little question with a kiss like a prince from a fairy tale. Of course, he isn't really—but with the air of brooding, stoic yet strangely sweet, mystery that he carries about him, she can let her imagination conjure up wild stories about who he is.
She nods, not trusting herself to speak, her honeyed voice petering off into an uneven, hitching sigh, answering him in spite of her efforts to muffle her words. She is almost convinced she is half-way to ecstasy when he gives another shallow motion of his hips, making her soft and pliant in his arms. From how he looks, in this moment—handsome and fresh-faced, the expression of teasing delight curling at the corner of his mouth, the patterns of light and shadow in the room casting him in darkness—she is overcome by affection for him, adoration welling up in her heart.
She releases one hand from its tight grasp on the sheets, raising it to lay over his hand against the white curve of her cheek. She would like it, very much, if he were to hold her hand of his own accord, or some other small romantic gesture, but she lacks the innate confidence to ask. He might not even be in as romantic as a mood as she, rather, he seems to be drunk on lust—the low echo of his groan is like a spark of heat, or the first embers of a flame, red blooming in her cheeks at the pure, animal sound of it.]
[As soon as she nods, his smile only grows, because that's what he always seeks, isn't it: reassurance. He may not know it, but her approval is just as important to him, in this moment, as anything else possibly could be. Right now, all he can think of is pleasing her, in whatever way possible -- physically, yes, but there's something deeper there, too. He doesn't particularly waste time thinking on it, he just knows that making her show more of those tiny smiles, more of those little sighs, is the best thing he could possibly imagine.
For a moment, he feels almost dizzy, but it's not the considerable amount of alcohol that he's had tonight making his head spin; it's the way she looks right now, lying below him, holding onto the sheets like that, that makes him feel completely intoxicated. For a moment, his rhythm stutters a little, just looking at her, but he resumes it quickly enough, maybe even speeding up a little, certain now that he's not going to hurt her.
And when she puts her hand over his, he does turn his hand to face hers, palm to palm, and then twines their fingers together on top of the sheets. It's holding hands, and it seems to be what she wanted, although he doesn't particularly see it as a romantic gesture so much as a natural extension of the way they've already been touching -- though he is, very much so, in a romantic mood. Strange, how easily that mood comes to him, even as he doesn't bother to try to stifle another long, deep groan.]
[He laces their fingers together, pushes a little quicker, and the flicker of heat burns a little brighter. As pleasing as she finds his voice, her demure disposition is almost ashamed of enjoying the masculine cadence of his murmurs and sharp, pleasured breaths. Her heart quickens in time with his rhythm, the smooth pattern of sweat-slick flesh pressing flush against her.
But even more than their physical union, it's the small reminders of his fondness for her which are the most exciting: the casual way he is willing to hold her hand, how he is careful to watch her expression for unease, the softness of his kisses.
He makes the melancholy night feel a little warmer—like this means something more than visceral satisfaction. It feels like a consummation between lovers after a lifetime of separation, and despite never having known who he was before now, it's as if they were meant to end up together, all their lives—]
I—
[A gasp is torn from her throat, a muttering of "Oh, God", and every repetition of his name she can utter, a powerful shudder seizing her, with more strength than she would have thought herself capable of. Electric desire, heady and vulgar, is filling her head with every sort of madness and thought, urged on by the sweet haze of ecstasy, the premature precipice of completion.]
Love—
[Desperate and drunk, she never manages an end to her sentence, her voice reaching a shrill crescendo, her pearlescent nails digging into the callused skin of his hand. For a moment, she thinks she is almost at the edge of euphoria—but no, not quite. She is denied that catharsis, at least momentarily.]
[Had that nearly been a declaration of love? He thinks it might have been, but then, it had been all swept up in the other noises she'd been making, and maybe that's not what it had been intended to be at all, maybe he'd just been hearing it wrong, hearing what he might have wanted to hear -- because, yes, he can admit to himself that that's the sort of thing that would make him feel very good indeed, even if he weren't quite sure he could return those feelings yet.
But with their fingers twined together and with the way she's gasping and with the way she feels, he's almost certain that that love could grow, and quickly. Is it dangerous? He's almost certain it is. And yet, he's never been known for thinking with his head when it comes to matters of the heart, and as he runs his free hand down her body again, slowly, searchingly, feeling every single one of those curves, wanting to trace over every inch of skin, he's absolutely not applying logic to any of this.
All he knows is that he feels good, that she feels good, that he doesn't want to stop, that it feels like, if not love, a pretty good imitation of it.]
Daisy...
[There might be something else there, too, something he'd say in return, maybe even something loving, but he just can't manage to get the words together, not when he's so busy concentrating on keeping a steady rhythm, not when he can feel the way her nails are digging into his hand. He wants to make this perfect for her, wants to make it memorable, wants to give her everything he possibly can, and that's the only thing his brain can possibly concentrate on. The question of feelings can come later.]
[It stings, a little more than it should, when she can't finish speaking what she yearns to say the most—worse, that he doesn't return the sentiment with an oath of his own. She tries her best to ward away those dark, troubling thoughts, pressing insistently to the forefront of her mind, encroaching in on the pleasure which keeps her tantalizingly on the edge, white sparks dancing before her eyes.
Her name slipping past his lips is as strong an aphrodisiac as any number of embraces and frenzied kisses they have shared, and she encourages him to speak more with the tilt of her white hips, but nothing else comes. His hand wanders from a plump breast to lower down, almost as if he were idolizing her, and the ache of denied completion makes her feel like a girl on the cusp of womanhood—a flower not yet in bloom, premature.
In spite of how his movements are steady, and strong, and what should be in every way satisfying—all the carnal delights she had reveled in just moments before are still not enough, to reach that elusive state of rapture. The sweat on her skin cools like dew, as if the magic hour is slipping away—she holds his hand tighter, her thighs tensing, receiving everything he offers her, and trying to give in return, but—
Something within her, some physical imperfection or flaw in her constitution, prevents her still.]
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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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He begins to pull down the long skirt, heavy with pearls and diamonds sewn into the cloth, and she raises her hips slightly for him. With her stockings gone, there is only her intimates remaining underneath, just as white and fragile as the rest of her ensemble. When the dress finally comes off, tangled on the floor with their other clothing, it's then that she thinks the worst is over, except—
Well, she never thought anyone would have seen that one, as concealed as it was. Where it comes from seems like an obvious answer, already presenting itself—after all, her husband's temper and fondness of liquor is the hot topic of fierce gossip in many social circles. But that isn't what he asks, and for the first time, something worse than regret, more troubling than distress comes over her expression, the faint traces of a terror, revived by an old and awful memory.]
—Yes.
[She admits in a quiet murmur, the sweetness and clarity absent from her voice, sounding as bitter as she has ever sounded, sour and cynical and deeply upset, as if it is a new complication. It's still fresh, dark and not yet turning an ugly yellowish color as it heals. She can still feel the phantom throb of it when he touches it, even with how gentle he is.]
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I'm sorry.
[He doesn't know what he's apologizing for, not really. It's not like he'd inflicted the bruise -- and he knows he never would, knows that for all the things about him that make him awful, that make him doomed to hell, that's one thing he won't do -- but he feels bad for it, anyway. Feels bad that she should have to suffer, that she should have to be in pain, and it just makes him resolve to make this night as good for her as it can be. It's not as though a momentarily evening of enjoyment with someone will take away her pain, he's not stupid enough to think that, but... maybe it will alleviate it for awhile?
He pulls his fingers back from her bruise, because he doesn't want to hurt it further, can't stand to hear that sad bitterness in her voice. And then, because it seems like the right thing to do, although it may be exactly the wrong thing to do, may be strange and unexpected and a little unnecessary (though to be fair, all of those things could easily describe everything else he's done this evening, too) he bends down and presses a very soft kiss to her hip, making sure not to put too much pressure on it, his lips just barely ghosting over her skin there.]
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She is relieved when he seems satisfied with that act of kindness alone, deciding not to pursue it any further. Rather, there is something just as bittersweet they must address. She breathes out slowly, gathering the final vestiges of courage she can manage, her long fingers curling beneath the lace edging of her final article of unmentionables, and pulling them down with no small amount of prudent shame. The moment passes without speaking, her motions quick and desperate to finish undressing—until at last, the inevitable conclusion has been reached.
Fully revealed, she must appear distinctly petite and delicate beneath him, pale and smooth expect for the tender bruising. In certain places there may be beauty marks here and there, or patches of pink where she is the most easily agitated, her cheeks warm with a rosy blush. Laid out like a gift, she pauses for just a little longer, hesitating with what to do with her pose, or how he would like her to be presented. Ultimately, she doesn't do anything at all, not raising her arms nor bringing up her knees, unlike how the glamorous stars of the moving pictures do, or the heroines in love stories.
Because she wants this to feel genuine. More than anything, if there is one wish she can have granted tonight, she just wants to feel loved, in all her entirety.]
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The fact that she doesn't strike a pose, that she doesn't do anything to try to make herself look glamorous -- as though she could possibly look any more glamorous -- is charming, to him. It bespeaks a certain innocence, maybe, or just a certain honesty that doesn't require any coquettish little poses or displays to be completely alluring. The genuineness in it matches the genuineness he's been trying to offer all night, and he likes that, is drawn in by it.
When he finally stops gazing at her, it's only to unbuckle his belt, to undo his pants, and he's absolutely certain that, as he lets them drop away, so he's standing before her in just his own underwear, she'll be looking at the scar on his thigh. The thought of her being horrified by it is too much to bear, so as soon as he's kicked his pants aside none too gracefully, he's back on the bed, pressed against her, practically lying on top of her, and this time, he's kissing her with very little hesitation. Why hesitate, now that she's completely naked and he's almost so, and he knows exactly where this is going?]
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There is something about his demeanor, however: a sense of reluctance, although there is no hesitation in how he holds her, how he peppers her with eager kisses. For all of his bold posturing, once the undressing began, moving them into a fragile new stage of the evening, it is then that he had begun to act queerly. The thought of him being inexplicably reserved about his own appearance never strikes her—after all, he is a man. Particularly when it comes to new lovers, it is then that men are supposed to be at their pinnacle of masculine dominance, or so says the scandalized, drunken gossip overheard at parties.
May he be having reservations, after all? Or perhaps he cannot gather enough fondness in his heart for her, not even enough for the physical act—? It must be very hard to make love to a woman he finds unlovable, a wicked doubt whispers to her. He could love her: that's all he had promised. He could, but doesn't that also mean he couldn't? From how he's behaving, it certainly seems so.
With a little gasp, she breaks the kiss, the question pressing heavily in her throat. There is little point in asking if he would like to continue, if he even wants her for something as base as intercourse, not when her lips are still tingling from the force of his kisses.
The only genuine answer is in not his words, but...]
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So when she breaks the kiss, he isn't thinking about the doubts she might be having, about the way she might be questioning what he wants. He thinks it's obvious, anyway, especially from the way he finally pulls away from her for a moment for the sake of tugging his underwear off, too. There: they're both equally undressed.
And of course, of course, now that they're in this state, what is he supposed to do but lean down to plant another kiss on her collarbone, then begin to nudge her thighs apart, wondering if she'll really let him, wondering how she'll respond to all of it, wanting nothing more than to finally be inside of her, but wondering... Well, yes, wondering about all of it. That's why he pauses, just before going further, just before finally doing what he's been wanting to do all night, to ask...]
Is it okay?
[It seems right, somehow, to have her distinct permission, and, of course, a selfish and egotistical part of him wants to hear how much desire there is in her tone, if it's audible.]
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[Her breath hitches, a little timid noise of pleasure catching in her throat when his hands press into the soft skin of her thighs, parting them with a surprisingly sweet amount of tenderness. In terms of experience, she knows well enough of the process—but in reality, it seems like ages since she has shivered and cried out beneath caresses as patient as his, since she has gone to the bed for anything more than an unpleasant interlude of friction, blood, and stinging pain.
His question initially fails to register, enraptured by the low tone of his voice, heavy and guttural with carnal hunger. Was it all right, he was asking—she should be the one asking, shouldn't she? His garbled messages and mixed signals are confusing her something awful, but—from how he hesitates, wanting to know her mind before proceeding any further, she wants to believe his answer would be—]
Yes.
[She confesses softly, in an almost lilting tone, her voice weak and wavering. Not from reluctance, but sheer shame of having to say it aloud, the color in her cheeks deepening. Finally, she gradually brings her knees up for him, revealing pink folds nestled amongst white skin.]
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So there's really only one thing left to do, and there's no way he can hide just how excited he is that he's finally getting to do it -- still, though, his movements are slow and gentle as he presses into her, not wanting to hurt her, not wanting any reason for this to be unpleasant for her.
And he certainly can't help the deep intake of breath he makes when he's finally buried deep inside of her, one of his hands braced on her hip -- though not the one with the bruise -- and his other hand cupping her cheek again, leaning down for a kiss even as he begins a leisurely, steady rhythm with his hips.
As always, in situations like these, when he feels so damn good and he wants to make the other person feel so damn good, he has the desire to babble, to say everything that comes to mind, but much of that would come out far too profane for her apparently delicate ears, so through some effort (and by quite literally biting his lip for a moment) he manages to stay quiet.]
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J-ames—
[When he has gone as far as he could, his name escapes her as a whimper, her pale brows drawn together in fleeting tension, willing the sharp clench of her muscles to settle. She attempts to focus on the comforting press of his hand against the curve of her hip, but it is a fleeting distraction when she can feel every press and shift of him. She struggles to quiet her thoughts, hoping she has not already been betrayed by the traces of anxiety in her expression: he mustn't think she finds it unpleasant—that isn't it at all. It's simply—overwhelming, especially for her fragile and sensitive nerves, and a moment may be required to adjust.
She is relieved when his hand cups her cheek, coaxing her to soften into his touch, soothing the abrupt tension in her body. She matches his kiss with an anguished, feverish urgency, reluctant for it to end. When he begins to set a slow rhythm, she feels a sense of loss when he pulls his lips away, watching his face intently, how he appears to restrain himself.]
—A-ah, are you, all right?
[She can barely speak, her voice breaking into high notes. Perhaps her concern is unwanted, or even ruining the moment, but the look of almost painful constraint worries her. Is he holding back, for her sake?]
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And then she's asking that strange question, asking him if he's all right, which seems like what he should be asking her, especially now. It makes him smile, though, even as he leans in to kiss her again, once more, almost as a reassurance.]
Of course I'm okay. Better than okay.
[If there's any doubt of that, it should be erased by his tone, which is at once tight with excitement and soft with something very likely reverence. Of course, he is holding back, just a little, but it doesn't bother him, doesn't make the feelings of his slow movements any less pleasurable, doesn't make him want to cup her cheek any less, or run his fingers over her hip any less.]
You okay?
[He may be able to speak a little better than her, but the question still trails off into a low groan at the end.]
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She nods, not trusting herself to speak, her honeyed voice petering off into an uneven, hitching sigh, answering him in spite of her efforts to muffle her words. She is almost convinced she is half-way to ecstasy when he gives another shallow motion of his hips, making her soft and pliant in his arms. From how he looks, in this moment—handsome and fresh-faced, the expression of teasing delight curling at the corner of his mouth, the patterns of light and shadow in the room casting him in darkness—she is overcome by affection for him, adoration welling up in her heart.
She releases one hand from its tight grasp on the sheets, raising it to lay over his hand against the white curve of her cheek. She would like it, very much, if he were to hold her hand of his own accord, or some other small romantic gesture, but she lacks the innate confidence to ask. He might not even be in as romantic as a mood as she, rather, he seems to be drunk on lust—the low echo of his groan is like a spark of heat, or the first embers of a flame, red blooming in her cheeks at the pure, animal sound of it.]
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For a moment, he feels almost dizzy, but it's not the considerable amount of alcohol that he's had tonight making his head spin; it's the way she looks right now, lying below him, holding onto the sheets like that, that makes him feel completely intoxicated. For a moment, his rhythm stutters a little, just looking at her, but he resumes it quickly enough, maybe even speeding up a little, certain now that he's not going to hurt her.
And when she puts her hand over his, he does turn his hand to face hers, palm to palm, and then twines their fingers together on top of the sheets. It's holding hands, and it seems to be what she wanted, although he doesn't particularly see it as a romantic gesture so much as a natural extension of the way they've already been touching -- though he is, very much so, in a romantic mood. Strange, how easily that mood comes to him, even as he doesn't bother to try to stifle another long, deep groan.]
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But even more than their physical union, it's the small reminders of his fondness for her which are the most exciting: the casual way he is willing to hold her hand, how he is careful to watch her expression for unease, the softness of his kisses.
He makes the melancholy night feel a little warmer—like this means something more than visceral satisfaction. It feels like a consummation between lovers after a lifetime of separation, and despite never having known who he was before now, it's as if they were meant to end up together, all their lives—]
I—
[A gasp is torn from her throat, a muttering of "Oh, God", and every repetition of his name she can utter, a powerful shudder seizing her, with more strength than she would have thought herself capable of. Electric desire, heady and vulgar, is filling her head with every sort of madness and thought, urged on by the sweet haze of ecstasy, the premature precipice of completion.]
Love—
[Desperate and drunk, she never manages an end to her sentence, her voice reaching a shrill crescendo, her pearlescent nails digging into the callused skin of his hand. For a moment, she thinks she is almost at the edge of euphoria—but no, not quite. She is denied that catharsis, at least momentarily.]
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But with their fingers twined together and with the way she's gasping and with the way she feels, he's almost certain that that love could grow, and quickly. Is it dangerous? He's almost certain it is. And yet, he's never been known for thinking with his head when it comes to matters of the heart, and as he runs his free hand down her body again, slowly, searchingly, feeling every single one of those curves, wanting to trace over every inch of skin, he's absolutely not applying logic to any of this.
All he knows is that he feels good, that she feels good, that he doesn't want to stop, that it feels like, if not love, a pretty good imitation of it.]
Daisy...
[There might be something else there, too, something he'd say in return, maybe even something loving, but he just can't manage to get the words together, not when he's so busy concentrating on keeping a steady rhythm, not when he can feel the way her nails are digging into his hand. He wants to make this perfect for her, wants to make it memorable, wants to give her everything he possibly can, and that's the only thing his brain can possibly concentrate on. The question of feelings can come later.]
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Her name slipping past his lips is as strong an aphrodisiac as any number of embraces and frenzied kisses they have shared, and she encourages him to speak more with the tilt of her white hips, but nothing else comes. His hand wanders from a plump breast to lower down, almost as if he were idolizing her, and the ache of denied completion makes her feel like a girl on the cusp of womanhood—a flower not yet in bloom, premature.
In spite of how his movements are steady, and strong, and what should be in every way satisfying—all the carnal delights she had reveled in just moments before are still not enough, to reach that elusive state of rapture. The sweat on her skin cools like dew, as if the magic hour is slipping away—she holds his hand tighter, her thighs tensing, receiving everything he offers her, and trying to give in return, but—
Something within her, some physical imperfection or flaw in her constitution, prevents her still.]
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