Author's Note: I just wanted to say I'm grateful to those of you taking the time to review this story. It's kind of (very) demotivating to put a bunch of time into writing to a mostly silent audience (not that I don't appreciate my silent followers - I do - it's just difficult to know what I'm doing right/wrong/etc.)
That said, I know it's also incredibly demotivating to put the time into a review and receive no acknowledgement from the writer. So, to those of you still following: thank you. I appreciate everything you have to say – short, lengthy, good, bad – and look forward to hearing what you think of the remaining chapters. There aren't many left, but I'm trying my best to make them worth your while.
Also: Sorry for the possibly terrible Italian translation. And for the lengthiness of this chapter. And for the delay in updating. I think that is all... Enjoy! :)
Chapter Four
It takes longer than her body temperature is comfortable with to reach my apartment, and the second my front door is opened, my laugh echoes her path as she runs down the hall – the fastest I've ever seen a person run in heels – and drops to the ground somewhere in front of the fireplace.
It's adorable. She's adorable. She's… beautiful. I've always known that, but until tonight, I've struggled to place just what it is that sets her apart from most every other woman I've ever met. Now, I realize, it's because she's the exact middle ground of everything. She's sexy as hell, but she's also cute. She's a badass, a force to be reckoned with… but she's also incredibly compassionate and gentle. She's wildly intelligent, but she also has a delightfully goofy streak. She's perfection, but she doesn't flaunt it; doesn't, actually, even know it. She's-
My god, she's just JJ. There is no other word in the English language to describe her. She's just JJ. She's JJ, and I'm Emily – quite possibly her antonym. I drop my gaze and continue on down the hall, my sudden lack of self-certainty following me like a shadow.
As she warms up by the fire, my mind takes the moment of partial solace to slip away into those questions I found myself with twenty minutes ago. I ponder them as I make coffee - certain we don't need any more alcohol – and those ponderings only magnify when I realize it seems as though I'm going out of my way to keep her awake and active. Is that presumptuous? Is she just here to utilize my heating and possibly a jacket before heading home? Why is she here at all when, just two hours ago, she was seemingly besotted with a very handsome, very charming, very male detective?
And why, if that's so, is she currently slipping her arms around my waist and pressing her lips to the nape of my neck? What game is she trying to play?
"JJ…" I brace my hands almost fearfully at the lip of the counter even as my head leans forward in silent encouragement. I can feel the cold still radiating off of her, and somehow, it only heightens my arousal – I'm pretty certain I've never wanted someone so badly in my life. Because of that, I'm certain I've never been more terrified in my life – and, as neither her nor any member of the team are aware, I once danced with the devil himself.
My breathing comes in unsteady bouts as I attempt to string together just what it is that I want to ask – or whether I want to ask anything at all. She's here, isn't she? And apparently not just for the late-night caffeine fix. Shouldn't I just be grateful for that?
"I know you have questions." She whispers against the soft flesh of my neck, and I struggle to keep ahold of the words for the way her hand slides beneath the bottom of my shirt and splays low on my abdomen. "And I have answers for you. But I need you to request them. I need to know that I'm right in thinking you care enough to have those questions. I need to know I didn't fabricate that in my own mind."
Damn straight I have questions, pretty reasonable questions at that, but when I turn in her arms to meet her gaze, her eyes make every single one of them redundant. She looks so honest, so open and unguarded… She doesn't at all resemble someone who is going to tear out my heart.
God, this is JJ, I remind myself for the umpteenth time. JJ would never intentionally hurt anyone… And it's that rationale that means instead of spouting out insecurities in the form of questions, I place my hands against her hips and guide her back towards the kitchen island. Slowly, offering her the chance to back out.
To my apparent surprise, she doesn't. Instead, as the lip of the counter meets her back, she trails her fingers the whole length of my arms, her blue eyes looking up at me with such utter certainty and clarity that I'm envious. How can she be so clear, when I'm so conflicted? Perhaps because she holds all the cards… And I'm too cowardly to request a peek.
She runs her fingertips back down my arms, and when they reach my hands, she lifts them both, one at a time, to her lips. A chaste but deep kiss meets each palm in turn, and once she's done, she lowers them to ghost along the thigh-high hem of her dress, a silent reassurance that accompanies the most penetrating blue eyes I've ever seen. What possible arsenal could I – or anyone on the damn planet – have against that?
I'm certain I had morals and convictions two hours ago, but now all I'm left with is a loose sense of nobility that somewhat remembers just how many units of alcohol she consumed tonight, and rules and warnings that are elusive at best. They're an unworthy adversary when I consider what they're up against, and are barely a fading echo in the distance as I capture her lips and encourage her up onto the counter, my hands sliding more confidently beneath her skirt and, effectively, pushing the material up. I'm partially afraid that I'm going too fast, but as she parts her legs around my waist, my fingers slip higher still and an involuntary moan tumbles from my lips as I meet the telltale lace trimming her nylons.
She's wearing stockings… My god, she's wearing stockings. Even if my winter romance rule wasn't already in tatters, it still would have conceded defeat entirely at this point. I think she inadvertently found my kryptonite, because let's be honest, is there any sight comparable to a woman wearing stockings?
I pull back, push away the blue silk of her dress with one hand and follow the leisurely journey of my other with something of awe in my chest. My bottom lip slips naturally between my teeth as my fingertips meet the soft, exposed flesh of her upper thigh. "I know these weren't for me…" I whisper, and look back to her. "But I'm glad I'm the one who gets to appreciate the effort."
She smiles like I just handed her the whole world and leans into my ear- "I hoped they were for you." –before moving to the other ear with a little more seduction in her voice. "Would you believe me if I told you I thought of you as I slipped them on?"
I groan unashamedly, assuming it redundant to admit that no, I would not believe that, because I'm certain she already knows as much. But wouldn't that be something… if she had indeed thought such things? If she had indeed given me any kind of romantic thought prior to the point where the alcohol lowered her standards and/or preferences?
Greedily, I press my lips to hers as my hands meet her ass and pull her flush against me, and I swallow the delectable whimper that escapes her throat. She slips her tongue into my mouth, just like she did back in that alley, and I respond by hooking my fingers beneath the sides of her panties… Now I'm certain I'm moving too fast. Surely this is the point where she comes to her senses, realizes that she's about to cross a line with a female coworker, and stops me. But when she instead kisses me a little more urgently and pushes eagerly on my wrists to encourage the material away, I lose all sense of chivalry – if that's even what it is. I'm done questioning whether she truly wants this.
Black lace meets my kitchen floor and is forgotten sooner than that, her dress now bunched so high on her hips that I can see her arousal glistening along the upper portion of her inner thighs. "You're so wet…"
I hadn't intended to say it out loud, but genuine astonishment will do that to you. There's so much honesty in that wetness. Humans lie for many reasons, but the body doesn't lie. And all I can think is… I barely touched her. This arousal isn't the result of direct stimulation but of the mere anticipation of that. The mere anticipation of me… Could it be that she genuinely wants this? Wants me?
She doesn't say a word but, with her eyes seemingly purposely locked with mine, she takes my hand, uncurls my fingers and directs them, not just to that wetness, but inside her. A half-finished whimper, on her part, punctuates the moment that my fingers are enveloped in the most inviting wet, warmth, and short nails cut deep into the back of my neck as she tenses against me.
The pain is intoxicating… isn't it always? At any other time, in any other moment, someone would probably get – at the very least – yelled at for doing such a thing, and yet in this moment I encourage it: splay my hand against her lower back and push deeper inside her, solely to feel the short, sharp fingernails cutting little crescent-shaped indentations into my flesh. It's fucking addictive… about as addictive as the way my name rolls off of her tongue: breathy, and yet almost a plea. I'm certain it's never sounded so erotic, or beautiful, or elegant.
There's an intensity on her face that scares me, a soft furrow in her brow that both belies and validates the thunderous array of emotions flashing in the eyes that still, at this point, haven't left mine… and I can't look away. This is JJ, at her most unguarded, at her most uninhibited, at her most beautiful, perched upon my counter-top with my fingers inside her, and she's looking at me like I'm the sight to behold.
If only we could stay in this moment. This perfect, simple, intense but untainted moment… But as she adjusts to my invasion and her hips begin moving, sound returns to my mind and I watch with a heavy heart as the fragility crumbles and plummets into the depths of reality. My free hand shifts naturally from her lower back, to between her shoulder blades, where a zipper protrudes slightly from the material of her dress, and with one last glance to her, I pull, effectively freeing her breasts from the confines in which they're encased.
There's no hesitation from there, no more effort to keep ahold of a moment that I never really had the right to. This is what it is and it's not that, and I waste no time taking her nipple between my lips, my fingers now picking up a more determined pace. They have an end game in sight, and one that doesn't involve studying the varying array of exquisite intricacies that flash through Jennifer Jareau's eyes as she gets high.
I roll my tongue in time with each curl of my fingers, her broken whimpers blindly encouraging and dangerously enchanting. And when she slips away from me, her back arched beautifully against granite, I move lower, much lower, and let the fingers tangling tight in my hair guide me as I force her towards the finish line.
The profiler in me would analyze this so easily, if only I would let it. The way in which she's still partially dressed; the way in which I'm fully dressed. The way in which I'm no longer kissing her now that I'm inside her; the way in which I'm bypassing foreplay and pushing for a quick finish; the way in which I'm as disconnected from fucking her as I could possibly be without just not being there at all… But I'm not letting it. The sound of logic and reason and intellect and truth is blockaded perfectly by the tornado of whimpers and pants and pleas that I'm causing; by typically delicate fingers twisting exquisitely in my hair and thighs clamping tight around my cheeks. It's erased by each inward thrust, and each roll of my tongue…
But when her sounds fall to impeccable silence, and her body tenses impossibly, I almost lose my detached composure, almost move to kiss her and be close to her as she comes undone but I'm so afraid that that will make me fall in love with her. No longer lust, no longer stealthily-hidden, more-than-platonic affection… but love. Something it always truly was, but would be impossible to ignore should I make this reckless situation anything more than fucking. It has to be fucking… So I linger, play my role, keep my mouth latched onto her clit and my fingers moving steadily inside her as she shakes through her orgasm. But when her hand encourages me away, and I look up to find an expression of pure tranquility etched across every inch of her angelic face, I find nothing but love anyway.
That's a sight I'm never going to be able to relieve myself of, no matter how many dumb, fake Christmas traditions, or self-imposed rules I create.
Her bare chest is heaving and shining with the most beautiful glow, her left arm strewn over her eyes and her mouth slack and smiling. And when I withdraw my fingers from her and she pushes herself up onto her elbows to catch my gaze, I, strangely, feel like the exposed one. In the aftermath, I'm not sure of my role. I think this game of make-believe is over but I don't know who won. If I'm supposed to feel victorious, why do I instead feel like a criminal waiting for a jury to decide his fate?
She shifts herself forward, and I naturally take two steps back. Take two steps back and marvel in the way she, so damn confidently, slips off of the counter and allows her dress to fall to the ground. She's stood in nothing but her stockings, and I'm suddenly confronted with the fact that she has absolutely every right to be so confident. She's fucking perfect.
Like a magnet, my fingers are drawn to touch, but she shakes her head and clasps my hand, places a kiss to the knuckles and inflicts another chink in my armor. When she unexpectedly turns on her heel, I wonder briefly where she's taking me, and then feel ridiculous when she heads for the stairs. Of course, the bedroom – the place where most normal, unaffected-by-dumb-rules, human-beings have sex. Which is all it is.
It's just sex. Just sex. Just-
"Wow…" She chuckles breathily when we reach the threshold, and I have to cock my head slightly to the side to see what caused such a misplaced reaction.
Behind her, lurking in the shadows of my room, is a bed piled with pretty much every article of clothing I own, and instead of leaving me feeling instantly vulnerable for everything that it implies, it makes me think of Morgan. Of Morgan and the reason he requested my presence tonight. It makes me think of the love he holds for Garcia, and vice-versa, and makes me wish that I could fall that bravely and willingly and freely into something so deep and uncontrollable… It seems to have its rewards after you survive beyond the initial minefield of fear and adjustment. It makes me wish, regardless of what this is to her, that I hadn't wasted that opportunity downstairs to love her in the way I was once capable of – even if it's just for one night.
"I, uh…" I grimace and rub my hand against the back of my neck, before moving to scoop up the evidence of my indecision and toss them into the closet and out of sight. "I'm not used to going on dates, JJ. Especially dates that I didn't plan or have any real say in."
There's a smile on her face that is reassuring but still clearly amused, and clearly amused at my expense. More than that, there's something in her eyes that tells me, after our conversation back in that bar, she's very aware that the former part of my sentence was the most vital. How pathetic is that? I'm supposed to be Emily Elizabeth Prentiss: compartmentalizing, unshakeable, ass-kicking superhero. And now she knows it's a front… Now she knows that I can take on the evils of the world without blinking, but placed in a position where my heart is remotely at risk, I'm more likely to choose flight-mode. Beneath my mask, and my cape, and my herculean strength… I'm human.
She knows that, she's sees that - like I'm just another tragic romance novel and my every truth is laid out between the words for her scrutiny - and it leaves me certain that I should regain some semblance of control over this situation. Reclaim the dominant-detached role and give her the one thing she could possibly be here for. Because I feel dangerously submissive in this moment, like I'm standing on the edge, and I'm not afraid of being pushed, but of jumping willingly. She makes me want to jump.
"It's a good thing." She promises as she steps towards me. "It's a really good thing, Emily."
Her words stunt any lame efforts I make to withdraw into myself, and while I know she isn't talking about the mess on my bed specifically, I believe it. That messy bed validated any and every query she may have had downstairs about my feelings towards her, and I believe that that's a good thing.
She didn't fabricate a damn thing and now she knows it, and I'd be more concerned for the position that places me in if the delectable moan I'm offered in the exact instant she presses her mouth to mine wasn't so intoxicating. I know she can taste herself on me; I know it's turning her on as much as it is me just knowing that. But is it causing other similar stirrings within her? Does she see how intimate such a thing is? And, more importantly, does she relish in or regret such intimacy?
With a hand against my abdomen, she guides me towards the bed, and with little gentility, she pushes me backwards. I fall with a soft bounce, instinct pushing me to prop myself up on my elbows but she's already following me, her thighs parted around mine as she traces the curve of my jaw with her lips.
Between us, I can feel her fingers, deft and gentle, move against each button on my shirt, until the sharp chill of the air melding seamlessly with the soothing warmth of her bare skin marks the point that I'm partially rid of the material. I instinctively pull her closer, even as my mind fights to push her further away. And her kiss - deep and wet and needy - is the perfect incentive to stay put.
When she pulls back, she trails her middle finger in a single line, from my throat, between my breasts and along the abdomen that tenses beneath her touch – and her eyes narrow like she's cataloguing the reaction. Her fingers move against my flesh like they're studying me, trying to remember me, and, for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, her gaze meets mine in a manner that leaves me certain I'm being offered something profound and I'm just not catching it… But her palm, now sliding confidently up my torso, is distracting, and when the front clasp of my bra is released to a warm, wet mouth, the analytical part of my mind malfunctions.
My body naturally arches into her as she rolls her tongue much like I did downstairs - only, she's more gentle, more deliberate in her actions. There's method in her every move that tells me she's done this before, but cautiousness that makes me wonder just what it is she's cautious of. But I don't want to wonder. I just want that blissful second of silence back. I don't want to think. I don't want to analyze…
And yet I can't seem to stop. I can cling to her as tight as my strength will allow, but it won't stop my mind and my heart from boarding a plane to far-off lands where they're at a safe distance from this soon-to-be warzone. I know – I know – this can't possibly end well.
But when her teeth graze over my nipple right before she pulls it deeper into her mouth and sucks hard, I'm helpless to the guttural cry that bursts from my lips, or the needy hands that tangle in her hair and encourage her ministrations. My hips move like she's already inside me, searching for direct contact, and she responds by slipping her thigh between mine and pressing it without any kind of gentility against my pussy. The pressure causes something bright and cleansing to flash behind my eyes. The combining sensations of her every move is sensory overload, and my ability to think is a welcome casualty. I don't want her to stop. Ever. Because I want her, and I don't want my over-thinking tendencies to be the reason I deprive myself of her.
Please don't stop. Please.
But she does stop, and with a smirk on her lips too, and I'm certain it's longing that I feel radiating in my chest for that moment of authentic desperation. The sense of loss is terrifying, blares out as a warning in my mind. If she's capable of having that effect on me simply through physical touch, what disasters are yet to come? Playing with something as fragile as emotion is a dangerous thing – I've learnt that - and I'm so close to disentangling myself from her… But then she kisses me, softly, her hand pressed gently to my heart before she slides it slowly towards my belt.
She isn't quick to free the buckle. Instead, she runs her fingers leisurely along the leather until she reaches metal, tugs on it and smiles against my lips. "I always wondered… Why is your belt buckle permanently off-center?"
And I laugh. Fully, I laugh, and every inch of me relaxes as I'm reminded once again who this woman in my personal space is. I reach up and brush my thumb over her cheek. "Why do you think?"
"Welllll…" She tosses her hair over one shoulder, and right after swiping her tongue along my bottom lip, she tells me, "I think it's to distract thirty-four year old blonde agents who wish to taste what's underneath."
"Wow…" I laugh breathily – and, let's be honest, intensely aroused by the onslaught of imaginings such words provoke. "That wasn't the reason. But it sure as hell is now."
"You're going to think of me every time you shift it off-center, Emily Prentiss."
The words sound more like a promise, and it's just another to add to the pile of many she's made tonight that I – either bravely or recklessly – believe. She presses her lips to every inch of my abdomen as she moves to release my buckle, button, and zipper and shifts my jeans down over my thighs, and the memory sears across the walls of my mind, permanently etched there as a tattooed reminder of her promise.
I don't dare tell her that the only reason my seemingly infamous belt buckle is off-center is because I'm right-handed, and since I buckle it with one hand in my haste to leave for work each morning, it winds up remaining to the right. Nah… her reasoning is far more interesting, and probably, now, entirely truthful.
"I'll make sure of it."
She adds that final promise to the pile as she crawls over me once more, and I hold onto it. Just minutes ago, I was panicking over just how untypically submissive I felt beneath her touch, how I should probably stop her and regain control before I lost it entirely. But now, with a curtain of golden hair brushing against my cheeks, forming to create a world within a world, as she studies me with similar intensity to what she has been all night, I find the absurd notion is gone.
It got lost somewhere between that unexpected question, and the most adoring gaze I have ever been the victim of; and as she slips her hand between us to my panties, and we both realize just how wet I truly am for her, I find that I don't even want it back. Detachment isn't going to work now anyway… It's blatantly obvious how much I want her. It's blatantly obvious that this, this very moment, means more to me than she knows I'll ever say with words. What's strange is how easy that final transition was - from conflicted to totally-at-her-mercy. And I am. She could devour my heart and never even bother handing it back in a neat little bow… and I think that would be okay.
"For probably justified reasons..." She whispers into my ear as she moves her fingers slowly against me. "I think you're afraid to take your time with this." My panties are pushed aside and two fingers slide through my wetness, and my own grip in anticipation at her biceps as I part my thighs further around her. "So I'm going to make this quick, because I think, right now, that is what you need." Punctuating her point perfectly, the neediest sound I've ever heard myself make tumbles into the darkness as she pushes deep inside me, and the edges of my mind fade into a beautiful, ghostly reality that, welcomingly, relinquishes me of all control. "But then, Emily… You're going to trust me to take my time with you. Because you can trust me."
She doesn't say another word after that, and the ones she has said abandon me as she thrusts into me with skilled determination – seemingly indeed intent on making it quick. Every move she makes reaffirms to me that she's done this before, and every move she makes reduces my mind to such peace that I'm incapable of analyzing that – or anything.
Her body moving in perfect tandem with mine is all that matters; the heated breaths that fan against my lips and mirror my own are all that matters; the fingers of her free hand that tangle in my hair and force me to keep my eyes locked with hers are all that matters… and the sincerity in those dark blue eyes staring back at me matter more than all of that combined. I'm giving away my every secret in holding her gaze as she unravels me, and I don't care.
I'm so close already… I can feel it everywhere. I'm numb and yet so acute to everything. My mind is as silent, and warm, and blissful as a creek, and yet rushing by like a river… and as the swell rises within me, I'm kissing her again. Kissing her like I did in that alleyway; kissing her like I didn't downstairs. I'm clutching onto her like she's the only damn thing keeping me safe, as I storm through the most intense orgasm I've ever felt.
I always thought that line to be cliché… Now I realize an orgasm is far more intricate than being a result of the physical. A whole world opens behind your eyelids when you climax, just a split second to catch a glimpse of something so otherworldly enlightening and awe-inspiring. You can't place thought into it – thought warps it. You have to let go entirely, allow the high to take you where it wants to…
For the first time in far too long, I did. I didn't fight it, and I didn't allow the fear of someone seeing me at my most exposed drag me back prematurely from euphoria. More importantly, I didn't overthink the moment, overthink her, and as a result, I have never felt so blissfully at ease in my life. No questions, no what-ifs, no stale certainties… just the peaceful hum of our combined steadying breaths and the soothing caress of her lips tracing the curve of my brow.
Which is probably the reason that, despite myself, I do allow her to take her time with me. I even encourage her, let her see what I like and what I don't. I don't fuck her, but I make love to her, and beneath her flesh, I find pieces of the person I once was. I don't think; I just do. And I let her see my face when I come more times than I probably should - more times than is probably safe. But she didn't make it feel that way, dangerous. With every second of what I was convincing myself hours ago was just sex, I could tell she was there and absolutely nowhere else. She wasn't fucking me for fuckings sake; she wasn't fucking me because she was drunk; she wasn't fucking me in an effort to forget her feelings for someone else; she wasn't fucking me to hide deceit; she wasn't… fucking me at all.
How can that be so? When did my profiling skills start steering me wrong? If she's straight and not invested in this for more than tonight, why is my body and my mind and my heart telling me that this woman is exactly where she's supposed to be?
"You're so beautiful when you come…" I open my eyes to find hers are tinted with something akin to wonder, tremors present in her voice that mirror my own unsteady breaths. "So unguarded and calm. It's incredible to see."
She's smiling, but only in those beautiful blue eyes of hers, and the lips I ghost against hers are an attempt to fight my way back to logical ground – or, rather, safely-detached ground. Something that's considerably more difficult to do when every inch of me is so exquisitely exhausted, and when the sweat-slick flesh resting fully against mine feels like nothing less than heaven, and when the nose she brushes gently against my own reflects intimacy that I haven't allowed myself to experience in so long. I'm pretty certain that that safely-detached ground, quite simply, no longer exists, and I feel safe. I should feel defenseless but, god… I feel safe.
"You wear so many masks, Emily. You certainly went through a lot tonight…" She runs her fingers through my hair and then rests her forehead against mine, whispering like it's a secret no one else can know. "But it makes me wonder… How many of those masks do you use on me?"
Instantly, my heart breaks for reasons unknown to me. Actually, no, it breaks because for that brief moment, there is no 'unknown'. Everything is clear. Including the fact that her eyes, those eyes that haven't left mine all night, are a mirror-image of every ounce of vulnerability I've felt this evening. For that moment, I don't see a woman whom my feelings for terrifies me; I see a woman whom my feelings for have allowed me to leave her terrified. I didn't stop to consider that... that perhaps she took a leap into a minefield tonight too.
I take the little strength I have and lift my lips to her ear. "Tutti loro, Jennifer. Eppure nessuno di loro."
"What does that mask mean…" She grins, somehow still letting me have said mask even while picking it apart, and my eyes fall closed.
I, of course, chose a language that I knew she wasn't fluent in, but I think I genuinely thought – or hoped – that she'd let the answer be lost to the language barrier forever. Of course she didn't. Of course she didn't because we – she – crossed every barrier imaginable tonight, and, where she's been nothing but unguarded, I've yet to reassure her that the world is still spinning. I think because I've yet to allow myself to believe it.
Against my fears, and to quell hers, I repeat the English version of my response- "All of them, Jennifer. And yet none of them." -and when I open my eyes to find hers staring right through me, I want to run and I want to hide and I want to do anything that will force her to a safe distance and keep her there…
…but I realize I'd miss her. God, I'd miss her. I think I've always missed her. That's the problem with prisons: they keep you in, but they also keep others out. I've never truthfully wanted to keep her out, and now that's she's inside, I don't know that I'll ever want her to leave. I know, buried deep beneath the naïve stock I'm placing into this beautifully and deceptively clear moment, that I'll have to let her go, and I know that my compartmentalizing skills will allow me to easily do so, but I'm not grateful for that like I'm certain I should be. If anything, the prospect of returning to that emotionally deficient existence leaves me with an aching ball of emptiness in my gut.
"Thank you for allowing me to get close to you. For letting me see beyond the masks. Thank you for allowing me to see… you." Her words are whispers, somehow quieter than before, and the expression in her eyes has changed to something devastatingly final.
Encouraging her onto her side, I press my lips to her bare shoulder, envelope myself behind her and rest my hand against her tummy solely for its warmth. I'm not cold, but that gentle touch soothes me. Perhaps because I can feel her breathing… which, hopefully, when I wake will be what reassures me that this, even just for one night, was real. It did happen. I might not get to keep her – maybe I was never even supposed to have her in this capacity - but for one night, she was mine.
"I know you're certain you broke rule number one of the lesbian code, Emily… Don't date or sleep with a seemingly straight girl." I keep my face buried in her hair, but run my thumb over her tummy so that she knows I'm awake and listening. "But sometimes rules should be feared more than breaking them. I'll show you."
I want to tell her that any rules I've broken tonight are nothing to do with sexuality, and are more to do with something far more complex than that. But I let it lie. I don't need to hear a reassurance that will only make this harder – I don't want to read too much between gaping and yet blurred lines. Honestly, I don't care. The snow outside, the festive day that is already beginning, the burning naivety in my chest, can wait. Right now, the park is open. Right now, I'm letting myself enjoy the ride.
Tomorrow, I'll close it, and ensure it never opens to the public again.
Don't worry: She ain't gonna close the park, silly readers. ;)