Cosima's voice filters through to me as though from a great distance. As I gradually come awake, I realize I am clutching her pillow. Her side of the vast bed is empty and cool. Slowly I open my eyes.
The intoxicating scent of her lingers on my hands, on my lips, in my hair. I roll over onto my back, stretching from my toes up to the utmost reach of my arms as I grasp the wrought iron bars of the headboard, culminating in a huge yawn that ends in a stupid smile.
I inspect my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Every molecule of my being reverberates with the sense memory of her touch, but there are numerous physical manifestations in the aches and small injuries decorating my body as well: semi-circular marks of her teeth, faded now from scarlet to dull red, on the undersides of my breasts and around my nipples; the burning muscles of my thighs, previously underused and now overtaxed in ways and to an extent that I would not have thought possible before; the imprint of her fingers recorded in the shape of little bruises dotting the hollows of my hipbones, where her hands dug into me when she took me from behind.
Despite the carnal excesses of the past couple of days and the subsequent heavy languor drugging my limbs, I feel the stirrings of desire rekindling within me again.
Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say still. I cannot recall ever being in such a constant haze of arousal, so satiated without being entirely quenched.
Watching as my fingers lazily visit the swollen folds of my sex, marinated in my come and hers, my hips move as if of their own volition. I marvel that, as rough as we were with each other last night, there is only a little residual soreness.
The sun is just peeking over the horizon. I can see Cosima through the French doors that open out to the balcony off my bedroom. A blanket that I recognize as one from a pile in the linen closet is wrapped like a thick fluffy cape around her shoulders. She is pacing, one hand describing swirls and ellipses in the air with the joint tucked between her first two fingers, the other clasping her phone to her ear as she talks animatedly.
Her phone.
"Putain!"
Hurriedly flinging on my dressing gown, I half sprint to the kitchen. My purse is on top of the pile of boxes where I had dropped it last night. I pull out my phone and jab at the power button.
The battery is dead, of course. Plugging the phone into its charging cable, I swear under my breath until it finally boots up. The voicemail counter indicates several dozen missed calls, but I ignore them in favor of the text messages. Seventeen increasingly wordy and emphatically punctuated missives from Aldous, one terse line from Nealon. Quickly I scroll through them, skimming faster and faster with growing dismay.
I leave the phone face down on the counter to finish charging. Digging through my purse, I find a packet of Gitanes at the bottom. Shaking out a slightly crushed cigarette, I palm it and my lighter and go join Cosima out on the balcony.
She is leaning on the railing, watching the dog walkers and joggers wend their way through ravine paths toward the boardwalks around the ponds of Rosedale Park. I slide my arms around her blanket-draped waist and fit myself to the curve of her body, kissing the back of her neck and inhaling deeply. "Good morning, chérie."
"Yes, it is." Straightening, she leans back into me. "Everything okay?"
Her skin is incredibly silky and warm against my lips. "Mmm?"
She runs her fingers along my forearm until she reaches my lightly curled hand, tapping it. "I thought you were trying to quit. You haven't smoked in days. Is something wrong?"
"There's an unexpected delay in the delivery of the electrophoresis system and the thermal cyclers are on backorder for at least a week," I find myself saying. It's not exactly a lie — among my messages was an update from the requisitions manager on the equipment checklist for Cosima's lab — except by omission. I'm a little appalled by how easily I sidestep the devastating news I've just received and sequester it into a dark corner of my mind, to be examined and gnawed at later.
A small shrug. "Given all the shit you're dealing with to get everything in place, I'd think it would be more astonishing if there weren't a few hiccups in the process."
"Cosima..."
I can feel her tensing at the change in my tone. "What is it?"
The desire to tell her wars with the even stronger desire not to burst the gossamer bubble we have created around us for the space of this weekend.
In the end, the bubble wins. "The sofa you wanted was sold out." Coward!, says the tiny voice in the back of my conscience. Telling her now will accomplish nothing other than making her worry and fret needlessly, says cold logic and reason. She will find out soon enough, and at this point there is nothing either of us can do about it.
She relaxes, taking my words at face value. "Now that's unforgivable. Bastards."
"They did have a loveseat in the same line that they're sending instead, conditional on your approval. I think it will fit better than the sofa in your 'chill zone,' but we can always find something else if you don't like it."
"I'm sure it'll be fine." Turning in the circle of my embrace, she smiles as she drapes her arms around my neck and pulls me into a heated kiss. "Sorry, dude," she says when I am unable to hide my grimace. "These high-THC OG hybrids are effective as hell, but they kinda taste like gasoline and old tires."
I sigh dramatically and roll my eyes. "I knew it. You only want me for my ability to write you scripts for medical marijuana." Holding her tightly, snugging her hips against mine, I resume my leisurely exploration of her mouth and decide that either the stench of her joint is fading or my taste buds have been stunned into submission. Her tongue answers my every move, parry and riposte, invading and retreating playfully.
"Yes, that's it exactly. You've discovered my ulterior motive. Flavor aside, this is some seriously good shit." Catching my lower lip in careful teeth, she tugs at it and nibbles gently. "Can't believe I never thought of fucking my doctor before."
"Fichu gosse. Wait till I amend your prescription in favor of CBD capsules and a cannabis oil vaporizer."
"Wait till I pull a Lysistrata on you and leave you high and dry." Cosima slips a thigh between mine; I part my legs, exhaling a breathy moan when flexing muscle settles more firmly against my center. She quirks an eyebrow. "Figuratively speaking."
I capture her mouth in a long tender kiss. "I wouldn't last half an hour before giving in."
"Why, you're just a bee charmer, Delphine Cormier," she drawls in what I think is supposed to be a southern American accent. She grins as I incline my head toward her in puzzlement. "Another gap to fill in your pop culture education." Rubbing my back through the thin material of my dressing gown, she frowns. "You're freezing."
"A little." I take her by the hand and lead her over to one of a pair of chaises longues. Like all the rest of the furniture in the flat, it's upholstered in white fabiric in a vaguely Art Deco style. It's comfortable, though, especially when I pull Cosima down onto my lap and secure the blanket around both of us. I leave my unlit cigarette on the edge of the ashtray that holds the burnt crumbled corpse of her joint — how she manages to smoke them down to the crutch without singeing her lips is a mystery to me — and let my hands roam at will over her torso beneath our little tent.
She moans softly, kissing me as I stroke her from her ribcage to the smooth softness just below her navel, where I allow my hand to press briefly, reveling in the involuntary clench of her abdominal muscles. Shifting to lie on her side against me, her head comes to rest on the round of my shoulder, her mouth finding my neck and kissing and nibbling every bit of skin within reach.
I tuck my arm around her and bury my mouth in her hair. Her dreads are soft-rough against my lips, fragrant with the trace of her favorite tea tree and eucalyptus shampoo. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on the shapes and textures and scents of her, the quiet sounds of breath on breath and skin on skin audible above the background noises beginning to arise from the neighborhood below.
Undoing the sash of her robe, I run the fingertips of my free hand up and down the length of her torso, lingering along the soft curve of her breast, teasing the deep indent of her waist, drawing little patterns over the generous swell of her hip. Cosima murmurs wordlessly in welcome and bends her head to kiss her way down my chest. I gasp as she tugs lightly at one nipple with her teeth, sending a jolt of arousal straight to my already pulsing cunt. In answer, I slip my hand between her legs to tease at her own simmering desire.
Her pelvis jerks, her folds turgid and slick under my touch. Still suckling and biting at my nipple, she slides her hand to brush my clit with the barest hint of pressure. "Don't you think we should go inside?" I say, my voice sounding strangled.
"Why, are you cold?" She looks up at me, mischief lighting her eyes as we plague each other with unceasing fingers.
Far from it. My body shimmers with heat, as does hers; the air beneath the blanket must be steaming by now. "I just don't think we should be putting on a peep show for the neighbors."
Grinning ferally, she gently traps my clit between her thumb and first two fingers and rubs it back and forth while moving it in tiny circles. I groan, mirroring her action and letting the sensations play over me in waves. "You want me to stop?"
"Fuck, no!" I manage to croak.
She increases the pressure; I do the same, moving with her, our bodies undulating in perfect synchrony. Bending to capture her mouth, I moan and whimper into our kiss, fighting the urge to grab her by the hand and plunge it into me to relieve the pressure that is rapidly becoming unbearable.
Her face flushes and she breathes jaggedly. Sweat is pouring off us now, every movement of mine provoking an echoing response from her. I feel her beginning to clench and ripple just as I do, our bodies arching and flexing helplessly, fingers never stopping, milking each convulsion as we come again and again, writhing together less frantically with each passing second, until at last we are at rest, listening to the rasp of our labored breathing.
Little tremors thread through every nerve and fiber of my being. I still my fingers against her clit, which like mine is come-glazed into throbbing rigidity.
"I think I've created a monster," she says, smiling blurrily up at me.
"Entirely your fault," I agree, panting. Fingers parting from their heated slippery embrace, I raise my hand to cup her face. I play my thumb over her lips, then watch as she sucks my fingers into her mouth one by one, licking them clean.
When she is done, I reach over to the side table for my lighter. She raises an eyebrow; I kiss it at the top of its arc. "I'm not going to smoke it. I just want to smell it burning, like incense." There is enough of a breeze swirling around the balcony to set the end of the cigarette glowing without my having to puff on it. Closing my eyes, I sniff the sweet and spicy aroma, the wisp of smoke evoking the taste of honey and raisins.
Holding her tightly, I try desperately not to think of the image of her clone now lying cold and stiff on a metal slab, ravaged by the same disease that is slowly consuming the solid warmth of the small body that clings so fervently to me.
Question for the room: has it been established on the show that Delphine is also an M. D.? I'm working under the assumption that she is, because otherwise it really doesn't make sense for her to be directing Cosima's treatment, among other things. If someone can point me to a line or screencap that confirms this, I would be extremely grateful. Enquiring minds want to know!