that which keeps us from flying
This story contains heavy implications of mature themes, so consider it a high-T rating.
The bottle empties, the last of the alcohol burning down her throat, further clouding her mind, her thoughts, as it hits her stomach. She blinks against its effects, against the droop of her eyelids and the fog drifting through her memories.
He throws back the last drops of his drink, and sets his glass on the end table next to him. His gaze is locked on hers, singing in its heat, his eyes, terrifying in their love, even behind the haze of alcohol. It takes him some effort to stand, a moment to steady himself on his feet, and then he's reaching for her, his fingers outstretched in a silent invitation.
Silent, because they're still not talking.
But she reaches for him too, lets him draw her to her feet, sway them both back as her body presses against his. The smile that spreads across his face is slow, tentative, and she smudges the corners with her thumbs, her eyes falling shut. When they slide back open, he's not smiling anymore.
And no amount of alcohol can cloud the guilt that wells in her stomach, threatens to burst through her tight pressed lips.
But there's no talking.
So she kisses him. And he twists her, presses her against the shelves between his office and their bedroom, sipping from her lips with sloppy slides of his tongue against hers. Reminding her of the hope that keeps his heart pounding with every drift of his hands under the cotton of her shirt, with the reverence in his touch, even now.
Her hands drift down his body, draws his shirt from his pants, try to whisper that same love without saying a word as she leans into him, and lets him lead her to their bed.
Her eyes are still closed as he presses her into the mattress, her lips parted around unspoken words, haunting silence laced with uncertainty and regret, with unanswered questions.
He takes his time drawing her shirt over her head, cradling her frame in his arms, breathing his love into the space between them as his lips dust across the ladder of her ribs, press to the puckered skin at her sternum, taste the sharp lines of her collarbones.
Her hands whisper across his skin, holding him in place and drawing him closer and telling him things he can't understand, even where her eyes drift open and her lips open wider, but words stay unspoken.
Always unspoken.
She's beautiful, even like this, even angry and confused, her gaze dark with it all, but gleaming with something happy, something gorgeous, something perfect.
But her eyes drift closed as his lips slant over hers, his hands cradling her jaw, thumbs tracing the lines of her cheekbones, the journey of unshed tears.
He breathes his apologies into her mouth, swallows her responding groans with every slick of his tongue against hers, with every breath he takes when he pulls away.
And her eyes are still shining when she opens them into his, when she lets herself see the apology she won't permit herself to hear.
Her fingers comb through his hair, drift along his neck as her thigh hitches around his hip and she rolls him to his back, presses her lips to his skin in something that feels too much like a confession he never asked her to make.
He's warm and he's comforting and his arms stay wrapped around her like he's scared she'll run if he lets go. If only she could tell him that leaving him, losing him is the last thing she wants, that such fear is the very thing that has her here tonight, silent to keep from shattering the fragility that is their marriage.
She tugs his shirt from his shoulders, her lips pressed against his chest, branding him with her promises, letting the ring that sealed them drift across his skin. Her legs stay tight around his hips, her knees pressed against the mattress, against him.
Holding him just as reverently as he holds her.
The tears come without warning, burning at her eyes as they fall closed against the twist of her vision, the evidence of the flood of emotion filling her chest. She presses her lips against his to hide it all, lets him draw moans of physical pleasure and emotional pain from her chest with the drift of his hands down her body, the knowing squeeze at her hips that has her rocking against him, begging him.
She blinks back the tears, her heart pounding in her chest as her gaze meets his, the darkness of his eyes, the love always so bright in the sea of his irises, the desire so evident in the black of his pupils.
He wants to speak. He always wants to speak, but her hand drifts across his chest, stealing the words from him as her fingers trail across his stomach, to the buckle of his belt.
She takes what she needs, and he gives it to her. He always gives it to her, even when it's not what she wants.
Even when it means protecting her from herself.
And she jerks against him, fumbling with his belt as his hands drift too, warming her, soothing her, washing away her tears as he traces the dip of her spine, the waistband of her pants.
One hand slides into the front of her pants, the other tightening around her back. He circles, she rocks, her hands failing on their mission as he distracts her with his touch, with his kiss.
The silence breaks as she shatters, the words that tumble from her lips, as broken as the hearts that brought them here.
He rolls her onto her back, smiling into the kiss she smudges to his mouth, his fingers still locked in her hair, holding her steady. She sinks into the pillows, into the bed, beautifully, still limber and weak with pleasure when his lips coast across the planes of her skin.
The slow drag of her pants down her legs has her shifting, twisting under his touch, as his lips trail down her thighs, to her knees, peppering her skin with assurances of his love.
He can give her the time to process, give her tonight. Can give her anything she needs, because, above all, he needs her.
She regains her strength slowly, her hands curling around his shoulders and pulling him back up just as the fabric pools on the floor. Her eyes are wide open, clouded and shining, dark and gleaming with emotions he can't read and she doesn't speak.
But she's bare before him, her skin prickling under his touch, her love on display for him to see.
Her lips press against his, her legs winding around his waist, drawing him closer, welcoming him into her arms, into her embrace. Her kisses feel like promises, like assurances that, no matter what, they'll be okay. That everything that brought them here, the love that burns between them, still stands, as strong as ever, pounding in her chest as much as it races within his.
She draws the belt from around his hips, humming her happiness against his lips, and grinning in satisfaction as she pulls way to taste the skin over his clavicle instead.
And his hands drift up her sides, over the soft, bare expanses of skin, over the lace of her bra so he can cradle her in his arms and press his kiss to her hair, to seal a promise of love even in a moment of passion, as she shoves his pants down his legs and cants towards him.
She draws back, and her gaze meets his. She lets him see her widened eyes, the part of her lips, the need shining in her pupils. The need for tonight, for his touch in the silence of the night, of their bedroom, of this moment.
And he whispers his assurance that he'll give her anything she needs with the press of his mouth to hers.
She burns for him, aches for this moment, for the relief, the overwhelming flood of emotion at the sensation of being filled by him. Her hips press against his, her teeth catching his lips in silent demand, her nails scoring down his back, branding him as hers with the glide of her fingers, of the cool metal of her ring over his skin.
The haze of alcohol has faded, his touch electrifying, his kiss reminding her of everything she was afraid of losing, their story told without a word in the slant of his mouth over hers.
The reminder of why she left, why she lied. Why he did the exact same thing, melting the anger that had been hold in her chest, strengthening her resolve to forgive and recover and learn and love. Driving the movement of her hips against his.
She draws back just long enough to break the silence she asked for, to breath his name on a stuttering breath, to ask for the fullness she craves so desperately.
And he gives it to her, with a smooth thrust of his hips against hers that has the silence shattering with her sob of relief, his groan of pleasure that he muffles against her throat.
The rock of his body against hers is like heavy reassurance, lifting a weight off her shoulders and replacing it with the way he surrounds her, with the warm embrace she once vowed she wanted to live her life in. The one she still needs so desperately in moments like these when tears well in her eyes and there's nothing she can do to stop them.
And he holds her.
His hands frame her face, his gaze locking on hers, steady and sure of a future that was once concrete, and now threatens to collapse at any moment, with the simplest of wrong moves, with just a tad too much pressure. It could send her world toppling around her, turn her life to shambles, to ash, in a split second that terrifies her more than she ever fought possible.
But his kiss is reassuring, his mouth sweet and familiar and as sure as ever and despite it all, he sends her floating, flying, the fears of reality disappearing, clouded by the drug that is his touch.
He sends her flying, makes her shatter once more with broken pleas that cannot be answered. He soars with her, carries her with him.
Protects her from herself, protects them both from everything that threatens to tear them apart.
And when her eyes drift open, he's staring down at her, and the anger is gone, replaced with contentment that draws a sleepy smile to her face, that's mirrored in the upturn of his lips.
She kisses him this time, breathing her thank you past his lips without saying a word, feels him swallow the words, whisper an equally silent promise into the final brush of her mouth over his.
He rolls onto his side, drawing her with him, still refusing to let her go even though leaving is the last thing she wants, even though her heart races with love for him in the serenity of the moment.
She asked him not to speak, and he doesn't. It's her that breaks the rule, her hand sliding across his stomach, pressing herself tighter against him, breathing reassurance against his chest.
"I love you."
His relief is almost tangible in the breath he releases, his the collapse of his chest, the loosening of his muscles. He turns his head to dusk a kiss to her crown, and reaches down to wrap his fingers around hers, squeezing her hand to echo the words with which he responds.
"I love you, too."
And she sinks into him, lets herself forget, just for a moment, about the threat of reality, the fragility of this peace, focusing instead on the strength of this love, until she falls asleep in his arms.
"Lack of communication has a way of clipping our wings, which keeps us from flying. When things are left unspoken, we forget that everyone is destined to share the sky together." ― Shannon L. Alder
As always, a huge that you goes to Lindsey for beta-ing this for me, and especially for her help with finding a title. And thank you for reading. I hope you all enjoyed.