The house remained untouched since the last time they had reason to stay here. Six months have elapsed. Six long months spent searching, waiting, picking up, and then moving again. It has been nearly a third of a year since she stood in front of this very door. Except on that day, when she looked through the open space, she saw him. She saw him, and in that moment she saw, with immediate clarity, into her past.
Today, today she just sees varnished wood and a tarnished doorknob staring back at her.
For reasons she tells herself she can't begin to understand, or more honestly, doesn't try too hard to examine, she finds herself hesitating at the same door again, standing in the same place, feeling the same things, well sort of the same anyway.
Same carpet, same bare feet, same late hour. Some unnamed magnetic pull.
Downstairs the gentle hum of the dishwasher drones upward, and it is in that pedestrian sound that somehow her fluttering nerves quiet and drive her forward.
Carefully, she reaches her hand down to the doorknob and gives it a gentle turn. Her fingers cool and shaking the slightest bit.
The movement of her hand causes the heavy ring on her finger to turn, landing stone side down under her middle finger, and it reminds her of that day spent in Istanbul two months back. All she had said was that she liked Turkish jade – it was everywhere, on the women, on the men, in storefronts and vendor blankets. That's all it had taken and the ring had appeared over dinner.
That's how he operates, she has learned, extreme attention to detail, extreme attention to her, and all that.
The knob in her hand moves the attached door forward with ease, less sound, and she can see him, much like he was that night many nights ago, standing by the window half undressed and staring out at nothing. His back, bare before, is covered this time with an ordinary white undershirt. From her intentionally unintentional vantage point she can see that his hands are resting in his trouser pockets and he appears at ease.
His observational stance, she thinks, recognizing it now after months being, well, being whatever they are to each other. Partners maybe? Comrades? Neither seems right.
She adjusts her eyes to follow his gaze out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever it is out in the nothingness beyond that has captured his attention, but the light outside has set and, as far as she can tell, only darkness resides behind the glass.
She takes another step further into the space, the rigidity of the wood bedroom floor disappearing into the sumptuousness of the wool rug, withholding the sound of each footfall as she approaches him.
The magnetic pull strong and causing her to ignore any immediate analysis of the situation. What she is doing. What she will do.
A movement in the window, a flash of light followed by dark followed by light again, beyond where he stands, catches her eye and she arrests her forward movement to look further. Letting her eyes adjust to the dim glow of the room she peers at the glass and sees her own form staring back at her – the smooth surface capturing and holding her reflection.
A startled gasp threatens her lips and she moves her hand up to stifle it.
She sees the corners of his mouth turn up, tempered a bit by the fleeting tick under his left eye, and she knows the he has been watching her the entire time. He wasn't alone, lost, or staring at nothing…he was watching her. The knowledge raising goosebumps on her arms.
She looks down to see what he is seeing, blushing, realizing in her haste to get inside the room, to do whatever it is that she is doing, that her robe hangs open and what little she wears underneath it is clearly reflected in the glass.
The window seems to illuminate more than just her form, and his eyes begin to twinkle and stare and it's like he can see her thoughts twisting and turning in her head as well. The smile now playing on his lips is genuine and she's surprised to see herself return it in the window.
Now standing just a few feet behind him she closes the distance and wraps her arms around him from behind, enjoying the image of her hands crossing his body in the glass in front of them. She feels him inhale deeply and she takes that as an invitation to run her hands underneath the hemline of his shirt.
He inhales further, but makes no move to pull her hands away, so she creeps her fingers up farther, running over the roughness of an old scar and his matted chest hair. She wonders briefly what has gotten into her but then dismisses the thought, as this perhaps seems more purposeful, more right, than any intentional action she's taken in a long while. Maybe ever.
His hands remain firmly in his pockets and he holds the rest of his body so still that she would think that he intends to tell her to stop, tell her to leave, if it weren't for the indescribable look playing across his face – it's definitely not the look of someone wanting to walk away.
She moves her hands up and down, up and down, still playing with the hair on his chest and moving higher so that the warm fabric of his shirt bunches under his arms and impedes the progression of her hands to his shoulders. She stops there, hands tangled in his undergarment, holding onto him and resting her head against his back.
Feels the significance of the moment, how everything seems to be tilting in the same direction, and that direction seems so right and so good.
He must feel the same way for, after taking a moment to look at her further in the glass, he removes his hands from his pockets and, gripping the shirt firmly in his fingers, pulls it up and over his head.
She still faces his back and the scars, the one that threw her so much before, the one that changed the course of everything and the backstory of her past, are illuminated in the low light of the room. She leans forward, her breathing even and calm, and kisses the place were the raised flesh meets the smooth skin of his neck.
She feels his sharp intake of breath and she thinks that now he will most certainly turn, but he doesn't, and she moves her lips across his shoulder. Just a ghost of a kiss coming from a place deep inside that has started to burn.
Taking his larger hand in hers she steps forward towards the rear of the room and leads him along behind her. The bed, small for the large space, sits squarely against the wall and the customary blankets, the one's she's come to associate with Red and something soft and as for now unnamed, lie folded across the foot.
Moving slowly she crosses the remaining distance and can feel him walking with her but not trying to overcome her pace. His hand, gripping hers gently, tightens as they near the end of the room and she turns to look up at him.
"Lizzie," his voice beautiful in this moment, "Lizzie," he says her name again, more for himself than for her he thinks, and lowers his lips so softly to hers.
She expects that he will move to the bed then, her intentions screaming out into the room but he doesn't. Instead he stops and tilts her chin up further so he can look into her eyes.
"Lizzie," he says her name softly for the third time and the feelings welling up inside her chest are so strong that she's afraid she might just come apart before this even gets started and then he continues to speak. His words are low and rough and she realizes that he is working as hard as she is to keep himself in check and –
"This isn't insignificant to me – you can't come into my bed – and then leave." The tone of his voice honest and low.
He continues to look at her steadily, expectantly (his eyes are so clear), the gravity of the moment palpable in the room.
She nods her head up and down. A slight gesture that represents an enormous shift. With that he stills for a moment and then comes forward.
Red's mouth lands on hers with a force unlike anything she has ever experienced. His kiss strong and passionate and full of unabashed intensity. She feels the muscles of his upper legs press into her and move her backwards into the darkness. A few steps later and she feels the edge of the mattress cutting into her backside.
He groans and she feels exhilaration pulsing through her veins. He's becoming undone and it's because of her. Because of her. She is doing this to him and the feeling – oh this feeling, it's powerful and erotic and somehow painfully tender.
His hands move down her back to her waist, reaching and grasping and pulling her flimsy camisole free of the lace waistband of her pants. His grip stuttering and matching his breath.
Before she falls backward onto the soft surface he frees the fabric from its restraints and pulls the thin top up and over her head, discarding it to the side of the bed.
She sees him take her in – his gaze starting at her lips, her throat and moving down over her shoulders, the dip in her clavicle, over her exposed breasts. He stops there and takes her in, not moving for several ticks of the clock on the desk, and she inhales, suddenly feeling self-conscious. The look on his face so…amazed.
The rise and fall of her breath seems to bring him back to the moment and he leans down to kiss her lips again. So gently. So perfectly. His hands running down her sides to the top of her thighs.
She sighs and pulls him down to her.
Xxx
The sunlight filters through the sheer curtains and she stretches, aware of his hands on her body and, although this is the first morning waking up to him like this, it already seems familiar.
She feels his hand caress her back and then wrap around to her front. How long he's been awake she's not sure.
A thought, playing below the surface of her consciousness, makes its way up and she needs to speak. Needs to let him know the significance of last night. That this is more than just, just some one night stand. That it means something, maybe everything, to her.
"There was only Tom." The words leave her lips and travel out in front of her.
His hands, making lazy circles on her belly, the graceful dip of her side, her hip, still and she can feel the question but the he stays silent.
"I have trust issues, what can I say?" She tries to bring humor to a situation that doesn't need it. He already understands and the understanding takes him over the edge.
He rolls her to him and kisses her so softly, so sweetly, she thinks she'll break. The intensity of his actions so poignant, so true. The expression in his eyes, the movements of his mouth, relaying the words not yet ready to be spoken.
She's falling. Maybe she's already fallen. The thought whispering in her heart. His arms around her in the light.
…and then they begin again.
XXX
For whatever reason I have ridiculous writer's block right now…I just can't seem to get anything out. I'm trying to update Intentions, but it just won't come (I have an outline but can't find the words). Anyway, this is what happened when I tried to make that happen. Hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think! Good or bad feedback always appreciated.