This is just a tiny Baxley drabble to apologise for the amount of time I've been away.
He hardly remembers what they say. But he remembers the look on her face; the dawning comprehension, the silent jump to a conclusion that he'd only meant to hint towards. A bite of her lower lip as she tried to hide her smile.
He had brought her red roses from his dad's garden. They had both had the afternoon off, and he had gone to the village, she had stayed up in her room. And he'd been seized by a fit of courage to go and take them up for her, without announcing that he was back first downstairs.
He remembers the look of surprise and pleasure as she opened her door and saw him standing there, and the swiftness with which she stood back and hurried him inside.
He had probably tried to explain that he hadn't meant to bring her red roses; flowers, yes, but he'd never normally dare to be that forward, but they had been so beautiful, they were in bloom and his dad had insisted.
She did not say anything in reply, just took out a wide-necked jar she had in the cupboard and filled it with some water from the jug by her basin, and rested it on the window sill by the open window.
He hardly remembered what they said to one another, but he remembered the look on her face. She seemed to be forcing back a grin all of the time. He knew he'd given himself away, with those flowers. She knew how he felt about her.
He remembered vividly how she'd had her hair down, for her day off. How it was dark, and shining, and how it tumbled downwards over her shoulder as she leant forwards to kiss him, sitting beside him on her bed. He turned in towards her body, his arms holding her gently. He could feel the underside of her shoulder blade through the thin fabric of her blouse as her lips ran gently across his. She was smiling against his mouth.
He remembered her pulling gently on the front of his shirt, making him lie over her as she sank backwards onto the bed. Her dark hair pooled around her face on the sheets. Her lips her red with kissing. She was breathless, and smiling.
"Phyllis."
She smiled up at him, drawing him back down for another kiss and he willingly complied. She was fantastically beautiful, the stuff of dreams, his dreams. And she was looking back up at him as if she damn well knew it and was damn well happy about it.
"I'm in love with you," he told her, his voice straining with emotion.
"I know," she kissed him again, "I love you too."
He knew that there were things they had to say to each other, things he wanted to say, but she was shifting gently beneath, allowing one of his legs to slot gently between hers, and he decided to leave the talking until later.
He remembered her hand at the bottom of his back, slipping into his trousers. He remembered her pushing her own blouse off her shoulders, eager to help him as his mouth travelled down over her collarbone and towards her breasts. The feeling of racing to be able to touch each other intimately. Touching her for the first time, slipping his fingers inside her, between the folds of her skirt, as she took him into her hand, stroking him firmly. Telling her, incoherently, over and over again, that he loved her, as if she could ever forget.
He remembered loving her with his mouth on top of her bedsheets, in the light of the evening coming in through the open window, her thighs clamping around his ears. Hurrying back up her body, allowing her to bury her cry in his shoulder as she rocked against him, holding her as she shook. Most of it was relief, for him as well as her, from the overpowering uncertainty. He'd never done that before, but she didn't seem to mind or particularly notice. She liked it a lot, and so did he.
He remembered being with her, there and then. Rocking each other into oblivion together, burying their cried in each others skin. He remembered their breathing slowing, calming down together, hands stroking absent-mindedly, soothing. Kissing her lazily, and breathing, again, that he was defiantly in love with her.
end.
Please let me know what you think.