Oh, my dear Mr. Canon. That is the operative word, is not it? “This is what you told me to wear.”
He winces slightly at my words. “I also told you to sit beside me, but you left.”
“You told me to.” I step closer.
“For someone who seems to pride herself upon knowing what I want, why did you pick tonight to insist upon acting to the contrary?”
Good question. “Why are your wants so contradictory?”
“They are not…” He wavers.
“You are quite the contrarian.” Closer. More.
“To the contrary, my wants are not contradictory.”
“That is a tongue twister. Did you reward Ms. Fralin for her efforts to get me out of the way tonight? She get your tongue all limbered up?”
His head pulls back, stunned. “What are you insinuating?”
I’m silent. I move again. Close.
“Answer me.” He tries to huff, rakes his fingers through his hair.
“You need clarification?” I’m in his dance space. Breathing in his breaths.
His hands go out as if he is going to touch my shoulders—but he hovers there. Hands fold inward and skim above my arms and down, brush my skin.
“If I wanted her, I would be with her,” he breathes. I press my hands to his shoulders. Warm.
“So…if you want someone, you would be with them.” Sliding down his arms, I bring them to me, to my waist.
His voice is nearly inaudible. “Yes.”
“You are with me,” I say against his neck.
Beside my ear: “Yes.”
Whoa. Hold up there, Buttercup. No fun storming the castle yet.
We need to talk.
I need to clear my head. I step away. To the balcony window.
The lightest of snow falls. A thin layer of white. Reflected lights.
He moves the curtain out of the way. “Why do you always do that?”
We both watch the snow fall.
“Do what?” The bare glass is cool under my hand.
“Leave.”
A car cuts through the fresh snow.
“When I was little, one Christmas, a cottontail visited our yard every day over break. Big, fat, gray. I would watch as it hopped through the snow, finding whatever little treats and treasures others overlooked. Some uncovered grass behind the bench. Last night’s dinner in the compost.
“After a few days, it felt like my own. My pet. I looked forward to it every day. Its fat footprints in the overnight snow. Then I made the mistake of trying to pet it.”
I turn to him, his arm still braced on the glass.
“Well,” I say, “you can imagine what happened. I never saw it again.”
He looks to me then returns to study the night. “But you know you are not you in this scenario.”
His words shock. Can he know? Does he realize I’m not acting like myself?
“You are not the little girl.” He drops the curtain. “Knowing how you felt then, why do you choose to be the rabbit now? Is it because the rabbit has all the power?”
He has a point.
Damn it.
1:18 a.m.
“PLEASE.”
I hear myself repeat the word as I wake. No idea how many times I have said it asleep.
His troubled eyes lock onto mine, and he reaches for my hand. I don’t have the will to keep it from him, to keep anything from him.
I think he’s going to tuck blankets back around us, but he bends my hand to his face and presses his cheek to my palm. My whole being hums at the contact. He’s so warm and real, the realest thing I’ve ever known.
I know I must be gaping at him, but he’s unfazed. He hums into my skin and brushes stray hairs from my face.
He’s actually very sweet.
I’ve been attempting to come to grips with that for days. Now, it seems, without reason.
He runs his lips up past my wrist and along my arm. He traces the faint blue veins. Half kiss, half taste. When he reaches my neck, he looks up, smiles.
And I recall why I care about this man in the first place. It’s because he isn’t changing to impress me; he’s just letting me in. Letting me know him.
He isn’t asking me to be any different, either. I’m doing that to myself.
He smiles, and I can see the best of me reflected in his bright eyes.
“Emma…”
Those same eyes that danced with light a moment ago shift, searing hunger surges in their depths.
I don’t know when he grabbed my shirt, but if there were buttons instead of snaps, the floor would be littered with broken half circles. He pulls it open and free of my pants. He’s tugging and pulling and pushing me to the bed, and it’s all I can do not to step on his feet as they move near mine. My knees hit the mattress, and I fall back to sit on the bed.
He straddles me and wraps his arms around my chest, cocooned between my ribs and bedding.
Holy…should we do this right now…I was trying to take a night off. Get some perspective. Do I want it to happen like this?
Then he tears his sleep shirt over his head, pushing his chest into me. Arms high and bent. Looking like a classic Bowflex advertisement. And I don’t care if that dates me, as long as this man does.
His arms come down around my shoulders. Slide and skim and skin.
Um, yeah. I sure do.
And I won’t think about how we don’t have a future, that there will be no more times for tender reflection. This trip will end, and there will not be nights for exploring and days for memorizing and, I think my heart momentarily stops at the thought, afternoon sessions in the copy room for come-what-may.
But this? This moment, this right here is about desire and claiming.
Mine.
He lifts my head. I hadn’t realized I’d fallen forward, melancholy moment held at bay. He weaves fingers within my hair. Slowly. Like spinning gold.
I don’t know who moves first, or if we move together, but we are kissing, and I pledge I will remember him every moment of every day.
The rest of our night clothes hit the floor.
In another life, I must’ve been a Romanian gymnast because I flip and push him back on the bed in one motion. I waste a second wondering if his hair or the silk comforter feels smoother.
I hover over him, hair a shield, a shelter from anything but us.
I run my hands along his sides, across his ribs. He cups my breasts. Tongue. Lave. Mark.
I lean, move over, and run my tongue along his jaw. Stubble catches. Pulls. Drags.
Lower myself onto him.
He grunts, pushes forward. Holds my waist.
Moves and slides, and though the air outside is frigid, I’m sure not. It’s like a sauna around us. The surface of the sun is nothing compared to here. Inside. Us. We pull apart, slowly, and nothing feels the same; it’s a different, departing kind of pull. He leans up and claims my lips.
I arch back and stretch, and he meets me again.
We kiss. Deep and full, full as ever. He cups my face between his hands, somehow gentle in this moment. I feel safe. Never safer. Like I never knew I needed protection before and will never be this peaceful, feel this safe again. Not unless we’re together.
Another move and a moan escapes him. “Emma…” His voice. My name. Midnight velvet. Deep strum. Acoustic guitar.
I am lost.
I pull back, and he scoops me up. Picks me up as if I weigh nothing. Keeps us together. Never part. Never apart.
Flips me over. Reseats and resumes. The way my flesh grips, the way his length surges, it sears, it brands, it claims. I sigh long and low, a lament for whenever he is not deep within.
His hips go forward and pound against mine again, again. His chin drops down and near silent words pass across his lips.
He murmurs, looking down at my face. “Ung, is this how…you want it?”
He can give me more, if he wants. Not sure there’s any room down there for more, if ya know what I mean (and I think ya do).
I want to give him more, too, if that’s what he wants; I want him, however he will give himself to me.
I want to quit having these Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey moments when I’m in the middle of having as nice a time as is humanly possible.