[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.]
[He can feel the way she's tensing, the way she's clutching at him, and he feels certain she must be close to the edge, must be so close to reaching that pinnacle of pleasure, and he's glad for it, both because he wants her to feel good, wants her to feel as perfect as she seems to him, and because he's reaching that point himself, too. He knows he's past the point of no return, now, that he couldn't very likely stop if he wanted to, and he can only hope that she's being swept along with him.
It only takes a few more movements, hand gripping on her hip again, tightening as the rush of pleasure washes over him, leaving him gasping out her name rapturously, reverently, eyes squeezed shut, movements stilling as he just concentrates on how perfect that sense of release feels. And, yes, maybe there's a curse or two gasped out amongst his other noises, but they're so garbled with pleasure as to be almost indistinguishable from anything else.
And yet, and yet, as his senses start to return to him, as he opens his eyes and looks down at her, breathing hard, not pulling away quite yet, but knowing that he'll have to soon enough, he thinks that perhaps she never reached that point herself. There's the possibility that she's simply quiet, that she'd felt amazing things that she'd never expressed, but if she had, he hadn't known it.
He feels all at once ashamed. He should be making her feel just as good as she'd made him feel. His fingers slide across her hip, down her thigh, just tracing lazy patterns now.]
You... okay?
[How else is he supposed to ask if she'd been satisfied? It isn't a question he's had much experience phrasing before.]
[It should be, it should be, she should be—and yet, she can feel him seizing up, can hear how he repeats her name in a state of bliss, watching his boyish face grow rigid, for a time, while he spends his pale pleasure. Everything essential is there, for the essential finish of either man or woman: heat, friction, emotion, and all other manner of indecent things she cannot bear to name, the sort of words found in tawdry books she was never supposed to read, and was scolded for if she dared to mention, in the garden of her girlhood youth.
But the matter was, even as a bride, even as a wife, the crux of ecstatic joy eluded her most often, very often, in actuality. And it seems to have eluded her once more, tonight—perhaps, she wonders morbidly, if not as punishment. But why should she deserve punishment, for loving another man in this manner, if he loves her as she loves him? If this is no summer interlude, but something true, and wonderful, and pure, then—why?
The breath rushes from her lips, drinking shallow sips of warm air, remembering his gaze on her, and a wan smile curling at her lips. She leans up, pressing a languid kiss to his mouth, sweet and demure.]
Perfectly.
[She lies, but the language of deception or slight darkening of the truth comes as natural to her as being moneyed and pampered—after all, learning to flatter in any condition is essential, if she is to survive in the smothering metropolis of New York.]
[Finally, after she leans up to kiss him and he kisses her back, he pulls away from her, but only for a moment, only long enough to rearrange himself, flopping down on the bed beside her none too gracefully, muscles feeling tired out -- but pleasantly so -- after all of that. He feels fuzzy, now, a little sleepy, but certainly satisfied. Yet he's still wondering if she's satisfied, even given her answer.
That's why, as he lies beside her, very close, not wanting to get up, not wanting to move, certainly not wanting to put clothes on, he thinks that perhaps there's more he could do for her. It seems only right, only desirable, that she should enjoy herself just as much as he had. She'd been so timid, after all, so shy about the whole thing, and to think that he's leaving her unsatisfied somehow is almost an unbearable thought.
And so that's why his hand makes its way up her thigh again, and his intent to slide his hand between her legs is completely clear. He knows he can do things with his hands that'll have her gasping out his name again, and he only hopes that she'll give him the chance, that she's not entirely disappointed in him.]
I can make it even better.
[It's just a quiet murmur, really, because it's hard to stir up the energy for any more than that, but she'll certain hear it.]
[Her smiles grows a little more thinner, wavering and slightly less convincing, her unfulfilled flesh still reacting to the light wandering touch of his hand. She tries to soothe him, to convince him that she is more than all right, to flatter him enough that he could forget the whole scandalous, ludicrous idea. Yet her words are becoming increasingly transparent, when there is still a hot slickness between her thighs, swollen pink and unsatisfied.
When she feels his thumb brush close to forbidden heat, she startles once, shuddering strongly from just the barest pressure. His drowsy, affected manner of speech sounds adorably humble, and she couldn't bear the thought of rousing him from his peace because of her own unbecoming lack of pleasure, because she lacks the knowledge that every young and vivacious young girl should have every experience in. And what sort of a woman does that make her?
Her hands clasp fast over his, fastening over his wrist with a wary refusal.]
You'll spoil me rotten, if you try—
[She attempts to speak in a light, teasing tone, but it sounds more frayed and fragile than she would like.]
[If it were just teasing, if it were just a slightly embarrassed refusal with the secret desire of him pressing further, he'd keep going, keep trying to satisfy her, but he can hear in her tone that she really doesn't want him to. It's hard to tell why, and maybe he'd understand better if he weren't so fuzzy and dizzy and pleasantly worn out, but the last thing he wants to do is turn the night sour. Her grip on his wrist is sign enough that he shouldn't progress further, that he should let things stand where they are.
So he draws his hand back, smiling at her a little, setting his hand on the sheets between them, somewhere safe where she can't possibly think he'll try anything more.]
Okay, if you say so.
[There's still that dangling offer in his tone, of course, the indication that if she wants anything at all, he's more than willing to provide. But, more importantly, he wants her to know that he listens to what she wants, that he doesn't simply do as he pleases. That seems important to impart to her, when she has such a fragile tone, when she's been so shy all night.]
[She watches his hand drift away, laid down to rest between them, realizing with utter finality that the opportunity to reclaim a pleasure once denied would not come twice—that tonight would be their first and last night together, at least, for a very long while.
Soon, he would return down to the bright beaches of Atlantic City, and she would be swept off to Chicago, or perhaps to New York, as her husband had discussed to be their next destination—the phantom city where a figure from her past departed forever, with only a paper trail of infrequent letters left in his absence. He will return to his mysterious line of business, and she will be taken up again to the martial bed whenever her spouse craves a Southern spice, and this budding adoration and affection will be nothing, but a bittersweet memory by the sea.
She leans in, not for another impassioned kiss, but to rest the curve of her cheek against his collarbone, listening to the drumming of his heart and the faint rhythm of his evening breaths.]
I wish...
[Her own physical dissatisfaction with their consummation is but a trifle, in comparison to the knowledge that they can never again steal off for a secret rendezvous beneath the moonlight, that she is just an interlude to him in the bustle of life, and that her heart is almost bursting with unrequited affection for him, in its every beat.]
I wish we could've met, before tonight.
[She murmurs with a melancholy sigh, tilting her chin up to look at his face.]
[He smiles when she moves close, when she rests her cheek against his collarbone, but it's a melancholy smile, because he's thinking exactly the same thing. They can prolong this night as long as they want to, but of course morning will come soon enough. It's not as though they can stop time, though at the moment, he'd certainly like to. He's not always one to think about the future, almost always prefers to live in the moment, but he can't help but think about it now -- how she's going to go back to that awful husband of hers, and he'll have to go back to...
Well. It's different. He loves his wife, but that's not a situation he can bear to think about right now, not with Daisy lying here, pressed against his chest. His arm wraps around her shoulders, pulls her closer, greedy for any kind of physical intimacy he can still draw out of the night. It's not over yet, not until one of them leaves.
Her words strike him as exactly what he'd been thinking, exactly what he'd been about to say, and he nods sleepily, trying to come up with some response that doesn't sound trite or sad, but that also promises some kind of hope for the future.]
Yeah, me too. But maybe...
[Maybe what? He knows she doesn't belong in Atlantic City, and he's partially glad for it, because he doesn't think she'd like it much. As he's always thought, it's an alright place to visit, when you don't see the decay and rot so close beneath the surface. She deserves better than that.]
[Her heart flutters feebly, a brief sunspot of hope stirring at the mention of meeting again, stretching across states and time for one brief, shining moment of bliss—imagine them, being able to stroll along the boardwalk arm in arm, or sharing coffee and sweet tea at an open café in the warm spring sunlight, or exchanging kisses as innocently as any untroubled couple might.
Yet just as quickly, the illusion is filled with cracks and flaws, the thin veneer of the fantasy as flimsy and fragile as silk thread. No city will feel as comfortable or welcoming as this little hotel room, not while she still wears a diamond upon her finger and a bruise upon her skin, not while he still remains an enigma to her.]
If it's not terribly forward—
[She nods meekly, her eyes bright with tears, a telltale dampness having clung to her lashes. She presses drowsily into the secure warmth of his arms, and just when it seems as if the silence will stretch on into an eternity, she drawls out in a hesitant, but quite serious tone:]
May I have a good bye?
[Let him take it as he will, let him devise the meaning behind her words. What-ever he may give as a departing gift, she wants, so desperately, some sweet ending to the night. She smiles as if holding together the fragments of her heart, to prevent it from breaking.]
[He could take that in many ways, could take it as a completely sexual desire, could take it as something entirely sweet, and he knows it's up for him to interpret it as he will. He can also tell that there're tears in her eyes, that she's feeling sad about their parting, and recognizes that he is, too.
It's hard to imagine that he could develop feelings for someone quite so quickly after meeting them, but he hadn't been lying when he'd said that he could come to love her. Maybe he even is beginning to love her, in some sense. It's not necessarily a wise choice, and he knows it, but that doesn't matter, not nearly as much as the affection he feels for her.
So he pulls her even closer still, pressing another kiss to her lips, just as passionate and just as filled with affection as the previous ones had been.]
You can stay here, y'know. We can both stay here.
[Another bad idea? She has a husband to get back to. He has... well, that doesn't matter. That doesn't stop him from wanting to make the night last longer, though.]
[It's a mad idea, but when he hold her so close, his kiss as intoxicating as any amount of champagne or cigarettes, how could she refuse? If just for now, if just for tonight, she wants to believe that they could escape the confines of their own lives. That, for once, he may see her as more than the world sees her—as more than just the dreamy darling wife of an esteemed empire, as more than just a golden girl who wants for nothing, who longs for nothing, and certainly is not vulnerable to the ache of heartbreak.]
I want to stay.
[She confesses, soft but resolute. If she could, she would rather spend not just tonight, but tomorrow, and perhaps even the day after, with him in this private hotel, this room where everything else beyond him and his ecstatic touch seems to no longer exist.
She entwines her arms around his shoulders, pressing one, two, then three chaste kisses to his mouth in succession, each with increasing desperation, a combination of grief and longing with eroticism and romance, equal parts sweet and bitter.]
[It seems that simple to him, although he knows it isn't. He knows there could be all kinds of consequences, especially because she has a husband who might be looking for her, one who might suspect something like this if she stays out all night. But his desires overwhelm his ability to think logically about it, and though he knows there are all kinds of reasons they shouldn't do this...
Well, the way she kisses back, the way she expresses her desire to stay, that's enough to outweigh anything else. And though he can feel the sadness in her kiss, he can feel the desire, too, and he likes it, wants to encourage it.
So he just holds her close, kissing her back, squeezing her tightly, as though he doesn't want to let go at all.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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.]
no subject
It only takes a few more movements, hand gripping on her hip again, tightening as the rush of pleasure washes over him, leaving him gasping out her name rapturously, reverently, eyes squeezed shut, movements stilling as he just concentrates on how perfect that sense of release feels. And, yes, maybe there's a curse or two gasped out amongst his other noises, but they're so garbled with pleasure as to be almost indistinguishable from anything else.
And yet, and yet, as his senses start to return to him, as he opens his eyes and looks down at her, breathing hard, not pulling away quite yet, but knowing that he'll have to soon enough, he thinks that perhaps she never reached that point herself. There's the possibility that she's simply quiet, that she'd felt amazing things that she'd never expressed, but if she had, he hadn't known it.
He feels all at once ashamed. He should be making her feel just as good as she'd made him feel. His fingers slide across her hip, down her thigh, just tracing lazy patterns now.]
You... okay?
[How else is he supposed to ask if she'd been satisfied? It isn't a question he's had much experience phrasing before.]
no subject
But the matter was, even as a bride, even as a wife, the crux of ecstatic joy eluded her most often, very often, in actuality. And it seems to have eluded her once more, tonight—perhaps, she wonders morbidly, if not as punishment. But why should she deserve punishment, for loving another man in this manner, if he loves her as she loves him? If this is no summer interlude, but something true, and wonderful, and pure, then—why?
The breath rushes from her lips, drinking shallow sips of warm air, remembering his gaze on her, and a wan smile curling at her lips. She leans up, pressing a languid kiss to his mouth, sweet and demure.]
Perfectly.
[She lies, but the language of deception or slight darkening of the truth comes as natural to her as being moneyed and pampered—after all, learning to flatter in any condition is essential, if she is to survive in the smothering metropolis of New York.]
no subject
That's why, as he lies beside her, very close, not wanting to get up, not wanting to move, certainly not wanting to put clothes on, he thinks that perhaps there's more he could do for her. It seems only right, only desirable, that she should enjoy herself just as much as he had. She'd been so timid, after all, so shy about the whole thing, and to think that he's leaving her unsatisfied somehow is almost an unbearable thought.
And so that's why his hand makes its way up her thigh again, and his intent to slide his hand between her legs is completely clear. He knows he can do things with his hands that'll have her gasping out his name again, and he only hopes that she'll give him the chance, that she's not entirely disappointed in him.]
I can make it even better.
[It's just a quiet murmur, really, because it's hard to stir up the energy for any more than that, but she'll certain hear it.]
no subject
[Her smiles grows a little more thinner, wavering and slightly less convincing, her unfulfilled flesh still reacting to the light wandering touch of his hand. She tries to soothe him, to convince him that she is more than all right, to flatter him enough that he could forget the whole scandalous, ludicrous idea. Yet her words are becoming increasingly transparent, when there is still a hot slickness between her thighs, swollen pink and unsatisfied.
When she feels his thumb brush close to forbidden heat, she startles once, shuddering strongly from just the barest pressure. His drowsy, affected manner of speech sounds adorably humble, and she couldn't bear the thought of rousing him from his peace because of her own unbecoming lack of pleasure, because she lacks the knowledge that every young and vivacious young girl should have every experience in. And what sort of a woman does that make her?
Her hands clasp fast over his, fastening over his wrist with a wary refusal.]
You'll spoil me rotten, if you try—
[She attempts to speak in a light, teasing tone, but it sounds more frayed and fragile than she would like.]
no subject
So he draws his hand back, smiling at her a little, setting his hand on the sheets between them, somewhere safe where she can't possibly think he'll try anything more.]
Okay, if you say so.
[There's still that dangling offer in his tone, of course, the indication that if she wants anything at all, he's more than willing to provide. But, more importantly, he wants her to know that he listens to what she wants, that he doesn't simply do as he pleases. That seems important to impart to her, when she has such a fragile tone, when she's been so shy all night.]
no subject
Soon, he would return down to the bright beaches of Atlantic City, and she would be swept off to Chicago, or perhaps to New York, as her husband had discussed to be their next destination—the phantom city where a figure from her past departed forever, with only a paper trail of infrequent letters left in his absence. He will return to his mysterious line of business, and she will be taken up again to the martial bed whenever her spouse craves a Southern spice, and this budding adoration and affection will be nothing, but a bittersweet memory by the sea.
She leans in, not for another impassioned kiss, but to rest the curve of her cheek against his collarbone, listening to the drumming of his heart and the faint rhythm of his evening breaths.]
I wish...
[Her own physical dissatisfaction with their consummation is but a trifle, in comparison to the knowledge that they can never again steal off for a secret rendezvous beneath the moonlight, that she is just an interlude to him in the bustle of life, and that her heart is almost bursting with unrequited affection for him, in its every beat.]
I wish we could've met, before tonight.
[She murmurs with a melancholy sigh, tilting her chin up to look at his face.]
no subject
Well. It's different. He loves his wife, but that's not a situation he can bear to think about right now, not with Daisy lying here, pressed against his chest. His arm wraps around her shoulders, pulls her closer, greedy for any kind of physical intimacy he can still draw out of the night. It's not over yet, not until one of them leaves.
Her words strike him as exactly what he'd been thinking, exactly what he'd been about to say, and he nods sleepily, trying to come up with some response that doesn't sound trite or sad, but that also promises some kind of hope for the future.]
Yeah, me too. But maybe...
[Maybe what? He knows she doesn't belong in Atlantic City, and he's partially glad for it, because he doesn't think she'd like it much. As he's always thought, it's an alright place to visit, when you don't see the decay and rot so close beneath the surface. She deserves better than that.]
Maybe we'll meet again, y'know? I'd like to.
no subject
Yet just as quickly, the illusion is filled with cracks and flaws, the thin veneer of the fantasy as flimsy and fragile as silk thread. No city will feel as comfortable or welcoming as this little hotel room, not while she still wears a diamond upon her finger and a bruise upon her skin, not while he still remains an enigma to her.]
If it's not terribly forward—
[She nods meekly, her eyes bright with tears, a telltale dampness having clung to her lashes. She presses drowsily into the secure warmth of his arms, and just when it seems as if the silence will stretch on into an eternity, she drawls out in a hesitant, but quite serious tone:]
May I have a good bye?
[Let him take it as he will, let him devise the meaning behind her words. What-ever he may give as a departing gift, she wants, so desperately, some sweet ending to the night. She smiles as if holding together the fragments of her heart, to prevent it from breaking.]
no subject
It's hard to imagine that he could develop feelings for someone quite so quickly after meeting them, but he hadn't been lying when he'd said that he could come to love her. Maybe he even is beginning to love her, in some sense. It's not necessarily a wise choice, and he knows it, but that doesn't matter, not nearly as much as the affection he feels for her.
So he pulls her even closer still, pressing another kiss to her lips, just as passionate and just as filled with affection as the previous ones had been.]
You can stay here, y'know. We can both stay here.
[Another bad idea? She has a husband to get back to. He has... well, that doesn't matter. That doesn't stop him from wanting to make the night last longer, though.]
no subject
[It's a mad idea, but when he hold her so close, his kiss as intoxicating as any amount of champagne or cigarettes, how could she refuse? If just for now, if just for tonight, she wants to believe that they could escape the confines of their own lives. That, for once, he may see her as more than the world sees her—as more than just the dreamy darling wife of an esteemed empire, as more than just a golden girl who wants for nothing, who longs for nothing, and certainly is not vulnerable to the ache of heartbreak.]
I want to stay.
[She confesses, soft but resolute. If she could, she would rather spend not just tonight, but tomorrow, and perhaps even the day after, with him in this private hotel, this room where everything else beyond him and his ecstatic touch seems to no longer exist.
She entwines her arms around his shoulders, pressing one, two, then three chaste kisses to his mouth in succession, each with increasing desperation, a combination of grief and longing with eroticism and romance, equal parts sweet and bitter.]
no subject
[It seems that simple to him, although he knows it isn't. He knows there could be all kinds of consequences, especially because she has a husband who might be looking for her, one who might suspect something like this if she stays out all night. But his desires overwhelm his ability to think logically about it, and though he knows there are all kinds of reasons they shouldn't do this...
Well, the way she kisses back, the way she expresses her desire to stay, that's enough to outweigh anything else. And though he can feel the sadness in her kiss, he can feel the desire, too, and he likes it, wants to encourage it.
So he just holds her close, kissing her back, squeezing her tightly, as though he doesn't want to let go at all.]