When you love someone, you have no control. That's what love is… being powerless.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," she said, and it sounded like her heart was breaking.
As always when he sees her shatter and fall, he can't help himself. He reaches out, pulls her into the shelter of his body.
"There's nothing wrong with you." This close, the sweet scent of her is just too much, her tears too difficult to bear; he lets himself press his lips into her hair. "There's nothing wrong with you." He hates himself for being so weak.
Her body shudders in his arms, little jerks as she weeps softly into his shoulder. He hates to see her like this; perversely, he also loves it, treasures the moments when she lets her guard down all the way and allows him inside, like she trusts him, like she cares.
She sighs into him, and he rests his cheek on the top of her head, relishing the silky feel of her hair against his skin. He thinks he could stand her like this for hours, forever, with her in his arms. He focuses on breathing, calmly and deeply, trying to ease her into his rhythm, soothe her quiet sobs.
She gives a little hiccup, and he wants to kiss her again; hold her close and make her safe.
"Red?" Her voice is small in the empty hold, without much of its usual vibrant life. "Can I… I just… my motel is…"
He thrills a little at the thought of a chance to truly care for her.
"Say no more, Lizzie," he says gently. "Come home with me, sweetheart. I've got lots of room right now."
She sniffles appealingly. "Thank you," she murmurs. "I can't face being alone right now."
He keeps one arm around her as he turns to lead her off the derelict boat. If only, he thinks, a touch wistfully, if only he could have his way — she'd never be alone again.
BBBBBB
He sits on the low, plush sofa in the dim twilight, the only light the homey flickering of the fire Dembe had laid earlier. He stares into the flames as if mesmerized, tumbler of scotch dangling from his hand, his face a mask of inscrutability that hides the tumult inside.
She'd withdrawn completely on the drive here, curling into a corner of the car as if willing herself to disappear. She'd been so pale and strained when they arrived that he'd insisted that she lay down to rest. That she went without argument, allowing him to lead her upstairs and settle her in one of the smaller bedrooms without a word, was more alarming to him than the lost look on her face.
He sighs deeply and rolls his broad shoulders, trying to relax in the warmth of the fire. He leans back, taking a long belt from his glass. He thinks he should be trying to erase the memory of her pliant body cradled against his — just a few more moments, though, he thinks, just a few more moments to savour the sweetness of it.
The muffled thud of footsteps shake him from his reverie. He looks up in time to see her approach him, barefoot and a little disheveled in just her wrinkled blouse and trousers. She looks exhausted still, and gives him a querying look.
He smiles, and pats the seat beside him in invitation. She perches next to him and sighs.
"Are you all right, sweetheart?" he asks, unsure of his footing. "Did you sleep? Would you like something to eat?"
"I'm okay, Red," she replies. "I'm not hungry." She mirrors his previous stance, staring into the flames.
"Lizzie," he starts, not sure what to say, but not liking the emptiness in her gaze.
"Please, don't," she says, her voice choked and tight. "I can't… I don't want to talk. I don't want anything."
He starts to say something further, then stops, and reaches out to her instead. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and tugs her back against the cushions. They sit quietly, watching the flames. He feels strangely… content. If the world were a different place, he thinks, it's possible that life could be like this…
Gradually, he eases so much in the warmth of the fire, with the comfort of her slight body beside him, his eyelids start to droop and he can feel himself start to slip away. With effort, he rouses himself, and turns to her, thinking he should try to convince her to eat something before they retire.
But as he looks at her, his words fail again. She's so still, staring without looking, tears running silently down her cheeks. He doesn't think he can bear her sorrow, as well as her secrets.
"Oh, Lizzie," he breathes, "Don't, sweetheart." He reaches out to touch her face; strokes tears away with his thumb.
She feels the touch, so gentle it's barely there, and raises her eyes to look at him. The abject misery in her face cuts straight to his heart. He uses the arm still around her shoulders to urge her a little closer, and presses his cheek to hers.
"I'm here," he murmurs, stroking her hair with his free hand, light as a feather. Her hair smells of vanilla, her skin ever so faintly of lemons. The dampness of her face against his is strangely sweet.
He shifts his head slightly, just enough so he can kiss her cheek. To comfort, he tells himself, to reassure. She tastes lightly salty, and her skin is impossibly soft against his lips. His heart beats a little faster; he can't help it.
She's so close, warm, soft, Lizzie, and he can't stop himself from turning his head that little bit further to take mouth with his. Softly, softly, just a brush of tenderness. Then again, because it's so heart-rendingly sweet, firmer this time, longer. A shiver runs through him that he cannot hide, can only hope she doesn't notice.
"Red?" She says his name so quietly he's wouldn't be sure she had really spoken but for the whisper of breath on his face. "Is this real? Am I real? Or did you just imagine me one day, bring me to life…" Her voice trails away, sounding as lost as he feels in the flickering light of the fire.
"Lizzie," he says, low and gentle against her lips. "You're real, as real as this, as me." He takes her hand and places it on his chest, against his heart. "Can you feel it?" he asks, "Can you feel my heartbeat?"
"It's so fast," she murmurs, sounding almost… wistful. "Is that for me?"
"Yes," he breathes, "Yes, it's for you …"
And he kisses her again, because the memory of the feel of her is only just enough to make him want more. His hands tighten a little, holding her closer; is she trembling under them? Is she leaning in? He can't tell; it's a blur, a heady swirl of touch and taste and smell. He lets his tongue graze across her lower lip, just a little, just to know. But, but, she opens to him, responds with a brush of her tongue to his, and he's dizzy — dizzy and elated and amazed.
He just falls into her, thought disappearing completely, one hand pressing on her back, the other tangling in her hair. Tentative at first, she's responding in earnest now, lips moving eagerly with his, tongue sliding against his in sensuous rhythm. Her hands come up to clutch at his vest, gripping fiercely, helping him pull their bodies together.
Through the haze, he vaguely remembers who they both are. He puts all his effort into breaking away from her — it's one of the most difficult things he has ever done.
"Lizzie," he rasps, barely able to speak. "Sweetheart, it's late."
She's breathing fast, her eyes wide and pupils huge and dark as she stares at him, their faces still barely an inch apart. "No," she says softly, "No, it's not that late. You started this, Red; don't stop it now. Don't take this from me, too."
"You don't know what you're saying," he tries. "You've had an impossibly difficult time. You need…"
"No," she says again, more forcefully. "It's not for you to tell me what I need. I'm a grown woman now; I don't need you to protect me, not in this. I need you to touch me, show me love, if you can. Make me real again…"
Her voice trails off, and she looks lost again, for a moment. She hesitates, then lets go of his clothes. She stands, not breaking her gaze, then strips off her blouse, unbuttons and kicks off her pants in a few simple movements. She stands before him, in simple and somewhat utilitarian black bra and panties; she takes his breath away.
Desire uncurls inside him like a waking panther, stretching through his limbs, long and lean and dangerous. He moves, in a blink, to the edge of the couch to grasp her hips and bury his face in her stomach, kissing and tasting her soft, warm skin. She's like ambrosia under his mouth, like everything he has ever wanted, and he couldn't stop now if you put a gun to his head. He feels, her hands on his head and lets his own hands slide down the outside of her thighs, then start to travel back up the sides of her body; her nails dig into his scalp, just a little.
"Red," she breathes, "God, that feels so good. Your hands…"
She loses words in a gasp as his hands reach her breasts; he covers them with his large palms in a caress, massaging with his fingers, smoothing over the silky fabric of her bra. She moans, long and low, pushing further into his hands, hips twitching a little.
"Red," she says again, "Red, I want…"
He growls into her belly, the vibrations making her quiver. "What, Lizzie?" he answers, "What do you want?"
"Your mouth," she whispers. "Put your mouth on me."
He shudders with lust, and wastes no time unhooking her bra and yanking her panties down her legs. He bends his head a little, strokes her legs with his hands. "Open for me, then, sweetheart," he rumbles, "Let me in."
She moves her feet apart, unhesitating, hands back on his head, gently rubbing at his shorn hair. "Beautiful," he murmurs, "So beautiful, sweetheart." And then he does as she asked, and puts his mouth on her, going right for her clit and sucking it her into his mouth, hard and hot.
She gasps, in shock and relief, hips thrusting involuntarily into him. "Oh," she says, "Oh, yes, like that…" And her nails are digging into his scalp again, harder this time. He holds her steady with one hand on her hip, and reaches with the other to rub at a nipple, tugging gently, pinching, just a little. His mouth never stops moving, his lips fastened to her sweet core; her probes at her with his tongue as he scrapes lightly over her clit with his top teeth.
She cries out, a shuddering moan, and her wetness fills his mouth. He laps at her, loving it; he's hard as marble, now, pressing uncomfortably against his zipper. She's shuddering, partly in pleasure, partly in aftershock, clutching at him. He moves away, reluctantly, to start undressing; as he rips off his vest and starts unbuttoning his shirt, she drops in front of him to flick open his belt.
His fingers falter on his buttons at the feeling of her hands brushing against him; then he redoubles his efforts. By the time his torso is bare, she's unzipped him and slipped a hand into his boxers; taken his hot, hard length into her hand. He groans at the feel of her slender fingers wrapped around him; it's almost too much, almost more than he can take.
He puts his hands down; lifts himself up enough that she can pull his pants off him; his boxers follow quickly, and she's grasping him again, face eager. She licks her lips, and he hardens further, impossibly. "Lizzie," he grinds out, "No, not this time, not now, I can't."
She laughs a little, deep, flush with her power over him. She pushes him back into the couch cushions with her free hand — pushes into his shoulder to support herself as she straddles his lap. She wastes no time, positioning the tip of him against her core, she slides down in a single smooth movement, engulfing him in a rush, with a gasp of pleasure.
She stills at the root, ass flush against his thighs, to rest her forehead against his and wrap her arms around his neck. He hums quietly, luxuriating in the feel of her wrapped around him, in the wet heat of her surrounding him. He tips his head back to kiss her, again and again. He murmurs her name against her mouth and thinks he can feel her smile.
She starts to move, slowly, planting her knees on either side of him so she can rise up until only the barest tip of him remains inside, then sliding back down his length in a slick rush. Over and over, until his kisses are erratic, his tongue licking at her desperately rather than with skill. Then she speeds her rhythm, grinding against his hips, making small circles as she rises and falls.
Her breath is gasping and he is moaning; he has one hand wrapped around the back of her neck, the other cupping a breast, fingers digging in. His thighs stiffen as he nears the edge; she's mewling a litany of words that he thinks might make sense without the ringing in his ears. She throws back her head and cries out as her insides quicken, muscles clenching at him and pushing him the rest of the way over. He comes in hot spurts inside her, pulsing, twitching, aching with relief.
She collapses into him, their sweaty bodies sliding against each other in warm communion. They breathe together for precious minutes, her face turned into his neck, his cheek resting on her hair. All too soon, she sighs, and shifts to sit up. Her face is more peaceful than he has ever seen it.
"Powerless," she says thoughtfully, "I'm not sure I see what you mean."
He laughs and hugs her fiercely. "You will," he says. "Just give me a few minutes, and I'll take you upstairs and show you."