Hi there again. First of all I want to thank everyone who reviewed my first story; your words meant a lot to me and they really inspired me to continue. Secondly, this story is also PWP, though it probably won't be what you had expected. It goes without saying that there's no copyright infringement intended here.
Something someone said in a review to the other story began to tickle my brain as I was working on a second round for "that night". Their words were "it's hard to imagine [Scarlett] letting go" and, long story short, they somehow inspired this smutty piece (with an emphasis on one particular word in the quote) As a result, Scarlett's OOC-ness is intentional, and I hope that by the end of this, you will get to buy it; it's there with a purpose.
So, besides T. that these smutty one shots will always be dedicated to, this story is also dedicated to Casual Reader. Here we go.
She came towards him like a vision in white. Soft, virginal white, irradiating eerily from the folds of her delicate nightgown. She came towards him like she had that night at the National, their first night together, when his heart had stilled for a second and he knew that he had been born for that moment alone, just to see Scarlett walk daintily out of their dressing room and approach the bed with all the shyness of a new bride. It had been her third wedding night and one of his countless nights in bed with a woman; but that didn't stop him, the blasé, from reveling in the solemnity of the moment as one would in the guiltiest of pleasures. Like it was truly their first—he the happy, eager groom, she his virgin bride—like it was truly sacred. Who knew clichés could hide such bliss?
She walked towards him just as she had that night, only that they had come such a long way from it. She wasn't hiding in the drape of her modesty anymore, the nightgown she was wearing proof enough of that, for it was almost translucent and clinging to her every form. He felt his desire soaring painfully at the promise of her flesh, half hiding demurely, half enticing sinfully from under the flimsy fabric. But what pinned him in place and made a small empty bubble expand in his chest was something even more powerful. The look on her face as she approached him.
Her lips were curved into a smile that was meant to be mysterious in its sly softness, but to him it was revealing and clear, for he had seen it before. Scarlett was planning something, and that something gave her feverish anticipatory thrills. She had always been easy to read, and eagerness shone from her now, no matter how hard she tried to disguise it. And he knew.
She was going to tell him tonight, just like he had hoped for all these months since he married her. His alcohol-imbued mind went a little ahead of itself and wanted to hasten the moment—he could take her in his arms and wildly swirl her around until she breathlessly confessed—but he reined it in; he would savor every second of this. They would go at the pace Scarlett chose.
She came in front of him as he was sitting on the edge of the bed and the delicate, sweet perfume of her hair enveloped him like a warm rain of the senses. And he waited for her to say something, while he briefly wondered, like many times before, what smell that was. He'd asked her during their honeymoon, when he was striving to learn every little detail about her, but Scarlett had smiled and refused to tell him. And he loved her for that too, because she was so ridiculously endearing as to confide her darkest secrets to him without flinching, and still think that her age or the soap she used on her hair were things to be religiously hidden.
She rested silent in front of him, so he reached for her and drew her to his lap, and Scarlett went willingly, her legs on either side of his form. They could go without words, for her glowing eyes were telling enough, but tonight was the night and his mind wouldn't find peace until he heard her say it. But instead of that, she merely smiled and stroked his cheek with her fingertips, the lightest touch, following his jaw line to his chin and then trailing up to his lips, her face the picture of genuine, almost childish concentration, like she had nothing else in mind. She playfully traced the contour of his mouth with her index finger, giggling when he nipped it lightly.
He wanted to retain it longer between his lips, but she serenely withdrew, her hand drifting down his neck to nestle slow fire in the hollow of his throat. His small groan reverberated against her fingertips, and he could see her shiver delicately, before she moved her hand lower to roam across his bare chest, her fingers making little swirls in his wiry hair.
This was his perfect, exquisite moment, with Scarlett here in his arms, looking at him with that unmistakable light in her eyes, caressing him of her own accord. It was almost too good to be true, and his heart swelled with mounting need for her. He claimed her lips and she opened her mouth for him; she allowed him to taste her hard and deep, to drink from her; she kissed him back, softly, shyly like it was her custom and even more enticingly for that. He felt her tongue brush lightly, fugitively against his lips, her playful reticence lost in the warm vertigo of this moment, her arms going around his neck, pulling him closer.
But he resisted, keeping her at sweet distance so he could lower his lips to the smooth, pale flesh of her chest. He started to kiss his way down her throat, one of his hands slipping beneath the silk at her thighs, brushing firmly along her hip and up the slow curve of her waist to her ribcage, the cool folds of her nightgown rising along with his steady movement and caressing her warm skin in his trail. Scarlett shivered lightly at the play of sensations, pressing into his touch with a small sigh when he finally found her breast. He stroked it slowly, gently, his fingers merely whispering against her flesh. They had all night ahead of them for more.
With equal leisure his lips made their warm descent to her bosom, to search and fasten on her other breast through the fabric. She arched her back abruptly, as he brushed his tongue around the tight nipple, suckling her through the thin material, his firm hand between her shoulder blades keeping her in place for his hungry mouth. Scarlett moaned and threaded her fingers through his hair, urgently pulling him up.
He reluctantly stopped his ministrations, inhaling sharply as he saw the darker color of her peak shining through the white silk, now transparently wet from his caress, and finally diverted his eyes to his wife's face. Her expression made him smile; she was worried that she had allowed things to go this far, out of her control. She would never fully accept that these things had their own rhythm, outside reason and will's confines.
"Rhett, stop. I need to tell you something." Her voice came raspy, panting; this was clearly not going the way she had planned, and he felt a brief surge of triumph at the thought that his kisses had swept her off her feet entirely.
"Can't it wait?" he teasingly drawled. When they were finally spoken, her words would be his greatest reward, but delaying that reward would only give it greater potency. After all these years of wait, the prospect of Scarlett confessing as he made love to her, of her sealing their mutual climax with those words held a sort of ineffable, refined attraction to his mind.
But her face was so determined as she shook her head, much like a stubborn child would, that he could only nod his assent. They would come now, at his signal—the three words he would have sold his soul for a few short months ago.
"We're going to have a baby."
He drew a sharp breath, torn between frustrated expectation and wonder. Their child, their first child. He was going to be a father. It was an unexpected path, but his mind embraced it willingly, letting delicious surprise fill his chest and heal old, poisonous wounds. That expectant, soft light in Scarlett's eyes, her smile—she was happy for this. And she was waiting for his happiness as well; she had been eager to see his reaction.
His hand fell from her breast to rest on her abdomen, and, in the intense, warm silence flowing between them, another man's plea to time rose to his mind, "Stay a while, you are so beautiful". Yes, he wanted this precious moment to stay, he couldn't let it slip through his fingers yet; he wanted to relive it again and again. And Scarlett—his Scarlett—repeated her news so he could have that.
"We're going to have a baby."
She was hauntingly beautiful as she said the words, with the sort of calm, timeless beauty only opium fantasies can sometimes attain. And this moment had the fragile, delicate texture of a fantasy, so much so that he feared it couldn't possibly last, that something, someone would rob him of it, and moved by unfathomable emotions he clutched Scarlett to his chest, as he stood from the bed.
It was with quiet reverence that he disrobed her and laid her down again. He took off his trousers with blind movements, his eyes never leaving Scarlett's naked form on the bed, settling in sweet pause on her swollen breasts, waiting for his touch, on her stomach, where his mind added a soft growing curve, on the dark curls between her legs. And then his gaze met hers, and her eyes were filled with liquid fever; he couldn't remember ever seeing them so luminous.
He smiled at her as he joined her on the bed. A smile she didn't return, for she was still staring at him, as if waiting for his answer. He knew he should say something, but nothing came to his mind. His words were not important here, no matter how eloquent. What mattered was Scarlett and the way she clung to him as he slowly lowered his mouth to hers, the way she subtly arched her back, lifting his breasts towards him, the small friction between their bodies demanding his attention. His fingers made their way down her chest bone, straying from the path to trace every contour of her bosom, to tease and grant relief as his lips muffled her small sounds of passion.
And then they roamed together, his mouth and hands, over her breasts and lower, over the soft, smooth expanse of her stomach to her abdomen. His lips lingered there, on the pale flesh that sheltered their baby, while his fingers traced down, in the singeing heat between her legs. He stroked her soft folds, his fingers moist with her desire, gradually increasing the tempo of his movements until the gentle trembling of Scarlett's body escalated into uncontrollable spasms, and she was pushing hard against his hand, her nails digging painfully and branding his shoulders.
He looked up to meet her gaze, but her eyes were closed to him; he didn't have access to the limpid brightness that had moved him before. The breath was coming in rapid gasps from between her parted lips; she was lost in the world of carnal sensations his touch had created. He withdrew his hand from her rich warmth and shifted on his knees to bring his hips over her, hovering in the valley between her legs closer and closer, but without entering her.
And for one frozen moment something like cheap perfume assaulted his senses and his heart clenched in uneasiness, as the room surrounding them seemed to swirl and dissolve its contours. The arms that supported his weight tensed and quivered briefly. It would be in vain. She wouldn't say it. She would torture him again.
But then, with her eyes still closed, Scarlett granted him access, opening her legs wider, slightly lifting her hips to meet him. He only pushed lightly against her, sliding over a knot of sensitive nerves at her center, and sending shivers through her entire being. The sight of her beneath him, her body taut like a bowstring awaiting his impulse, was almost enough to make him thrust into her. Just one second longer.
Finally, at his continued delay, Scarlett opened her eyes to stare at him, in mute request. And they both remained motionless for a second, frozen in place on the glorious brink of merging, as it traveled between them—the still unspoken feeling, spreading over their bodies and wrapping them tighter and tighter until they yielded and entwined.
In one long stroke he was inside her fully, reveling in her warmth and softness. And then a frantic heat coursed through him, and his body rose over hers, again and again. His mouth traveled over her face, over her eyelids and cheeks before melting over her lips, and they welcomed him, delicate, delicious. Scarlett was meeting his every thrust, bucking upward against his body, her thighs tight around his hips, and he slowed his rhythm, forcing himself to taste this pleasure fully, to savor every second as if it was the only crumb of a starving man.
Her hands were on his shoulders, bruising hard; her eyes downcast, fixed on his chest, as if she were hypnotized by his motions and unable to move her gaze. He could feel the pressure coiling in her body; they were near now, so he trailed his hands along her length, his fingers kneading her flesh as they slowly made their way up her legs, her waist, coming to squeeze the softness of her breasts and cup her shoulders. And then his hand moved up, suddenly, roughly to force her chin up, to force her to look at him.
Scarlett gasped and closed her eyes for a second and he dipped his head to run his tongue up her neck, closing his burning mouth over her skin. She shuddered violently, as he moved up to her chin, which he gently bit, before silencing her moans with his mouth. She met his kisses with her own; her green eyes shining fervently, saying all that there was to say, and it was still not enough.
As he was approaching his final thrusts, he broke the kiss, his upper body tensing to resist the pressure of Scarlett's hands that were trying to lock him in place. He allowed her to bring him down only for a brief second that he used to nip teasingly at her bottom lip, before he withdrew again. She groaned in frustration, as he lingered close to her, his breath burning the skin that his lips refused to touch.
"Say it. Say it now," he panted near her mouth.
She looked at him with wide, haunting eyes, and she had never been more beautiful than she was now, trembling under his assault and the pressure of unspoken words. She would say it; he knew she would. She parted her lips and started, even as her body was tensing suddenly in the jolt of her release.
"I—I …"
And he tried to hold on to it, to preserve the moment just a little while longer so he could finally hear those words that he thirsted and hungered for. Stay a while; you are so beautiful…
But it was useless—his inexorable release shattered and dissipated Scarlett's words. It shattered and dissipated Scarlett herself and he closed his eyes, as the woman beneath him writhed and trembled beyond what his money had bought.
And when it was finally over, the contemptible wave his treacherous mind had built for his body during an entire evening of drinking, only that it could torture itself even in the throes of passion, he rolled off her, welcoming the coldness of the sheets like a relief. He would have to go home soon; he wanted to be there when Bonnie woke up in the morning.
He searched for a cigar on the bedside table, blindly, knowing the woman would be quick to produce a box of matches from under her pillow. A whore's bed offered all sorts of cheap accommodations.
Her red hair and painted face shone grotesquely in the brief halo of the match, and it was only a sense of pride, and the row of nights to come branded on his mind, what kept him from shuddering with desolation.
Damn her to hell for all eternity.
Infidelity was harder than he had expected.
Okay, throw your tomatoes here; I am sitting duck. Sorry for this. If you didn't catch on from the title, it was probably a very unpleasant surprise. This is not the sort of thing I would usually write, only that this story forced its way out. I will do better in the future. Thanks for reading, G.