I'm woken by a light tug that slides the October issue of JEM from my slack fingers. My hands are still a little stiff and awkward, though I'm glad to see the swelling has resolved and the marks on my wrists are already fading. "Petite peste! I was reading that!"
Cosima gives me a toothpaste-flavored kiss before she sets the journal deliberately out of my reach, turns off my lamp and saunters around to her side of the bed. "Through your eyelids by osmosis?"
"Very funny. It's a fascinating article, about transcriptional profiling of organ transplants in order to diagnose or predict reject — " A yawn that nearly dislocates my jaw undermines my protestations.
"Uh huh, that's what I thought." Chuckling softly, she slides under the covers, places her glasses on the nightstand and scoots over to tuck herself against me, comfortably slinging a firm, shapely leg between mine. Her head finds its place on the round of my shoulder, her dreads trailing behind her on the pillow; her hand lays claim to the curve of my ribcage just below my breast. My arm automatically wraps around her, holding her closely, her slender form radiating warmth. As ever, I marvel at how perfectly we fit together, at how absolutely right she feels in my embrace.
We have found that we both prefer to leave the blinds open even at night so that the twinkling lights of downtown can lend their subdued amber glow through the wide windows and balcony doors to the darkness of my bedroom.
"You don't think I'm being ridiculous about the bathroom thing?"
I smile and kiss the top of her head, nuzzling the varied textures of her hair, breathing in its scent. "Of course not, chérie. I grew up having to share a bathroom with two younger brothers, and then I went to boarding school. I didn't have my own bathroom until I was at Normale sup', living in a tiny studio apartment that would have fit inside the kitchen of this flat. The plumbing and fixtures were ancient and leaky and it had a shower like a coffin standing on end, but to me it was the ultimate in luxury. I certainly wouldn't mind sharing with you but believe me, I understand the need and desire for a bit of privacy."
"I'm not like squeamish about bodily functions or anything. I mean, I went down on you when you had your period."
"Which I greatly appreciated. I've never experienced a more effective remedy for cramps."
"And I have no hangups about peeing or pooping. I've studied Ayurveda, the analysis of poop is a big part of its philosophy. Though really I don't think anyone is more obsessed with poop than the French. One of my best friends in college wound up in an emergency room once during her exchange semester at the Sorbonne. The first thing the trauma resident asked her was if she had had a bowel movement that day. She was like, um, dude, I'm here because my bike got hit by a car. He still made her answer the poop question and describe the character of her stools in detail before he examined her."
"I solemnly swear that from now on I will do my utmost to suppress my French inclinations to ask you about your poop."
"Thank you. The point is that there are no mysteries hidden from me within your body. And it's not that there isn't enough space; we could hold ballroom dancing competitions in your bathroom. It's just... well, I've kinda had this night time ritual since I was a kid. I'm not, like, compulsive about it — depending on the circumstances I'll abbreviate it or skip it altogether — and maybe it's an only-child thing but it weirds me out a little if I do it with someone watching me."
"Tell me about your ritual."
"You're laughing at me."
" ... No, I'm not."
"I can hear it in your voice, like it's bubbling just under the surface."
"Okay, maybe I am. I'm imagining some rather interesting things."
"Perv."
"Your fault, chérie. You do seem to have, euh, stimulated my creativity lately." Sliding my hand up to the nape of her neck, I knead taut corded muscle and tendons beneath warm satin.
"Nngghhh." She burrows closer. "That is so not fair."
"Ve haff vays of making you talk."
Cosima erupts into giggles. "'Vays,' you say?"
"Jawohl, Fräulein Niehaus, vays. Aber wenn du einmal aus der Reihe tanzt — "
"Holy shit. You actually do speak German?"
"My boarding school was in Zurich. Most of our classes were conducted in German. It's a little rusty, though; I haven't had much occasion to speak it in quite some time. While I was there I studied Russian and Japanese for a few semesters. I picked up some Italian, too, mostly slang from other students."
"Jeez. A lot of people would say that I barely speak English. Say something dirty in Italian."
"Vorrei chiavare quella bella fica."
"Mmm, Dr. Cormier. Do I want to know what that means?"
"Considering that you've been saying one variation or another to me and then admirably suiting word to deed all weekend, I would think you already do."
I let my fingertips rove over her skin, tracing random patterns and the occasional word into the smooth long planes of her back. She makes a contented little sound against my throat. "Someday I'm going to find out what you're writing there."
"Nothing bad, I promise."
"It's probably 'Cosima Niehaus likes taking it up the ass,' or 'Cosima Niehaus has a smoking hot French girlfriend,' isn't it?"
Softly I kiss her forehead. "Am I?"
"Smoking hot? Dude, you're like totally babelicious, bangin', bodacious — "
"I meant, am I your girlfriend?"
"Well, that depends." She lifts her head from my shoulder to kiss me, her mouth infinitely tender on mine.
"On what?"
Her teeth flash in the semi-dark. "On whether or not your definition of 'girlfriend' means that you're the first person I want to see in the morning and the last person I want to see at night, and the one I want to kiss until we're both dizzy and on the verge of passing out for lack of air, and the one I make fun of because you insist on reading every word of the instruction manuals for your appliances, and the one I listen to when you tell me about your day at work with all the classified bits glossed over only I'm usually not paying attention because I get too distracted watching you get undressed, and the one I want to get kicked out with from every restaurant we go to because we can't keep our hands off each other — "
"One restaurant. We were asked to leave one restaurant, not every place we've been to."
"Don't be so pedantic, you're interrupting my flow." Rolling on top of me, she settles between my legs and braces her weight with her elbows on either side of my head as she leans in to kiss me.
Unable to find words adequate to express my feelings, I return the kiss fervently, wrapping my arms around her torso, my hands roaming freely over the expanse of her back, molding myself to her.
Cosima exhales on raggedly uneven breath as our bodies begin a gentle rocking of their own accord, languidly writhing in sinuous rhythm. I cannot believe that the simple contact and pressure of her swollen clit and the slippery gliding of her dripping sex against mine can feel so exquisitely sensual. Experimentally I tilt my pelvis upward. "Oh!"
"Fuck, that's good," she whispers hoarsely in my ear at the same time.
I wreath my legs about her waist and lock them at the ankles, opening myself to her as much as possible and bringing every fold and crevice to bear into the unceasing subtle gyrations that stroke and incite our mutual need, so different from but no less powerful than the raw ferocity that has consumed us for most of the past few days.
My clit is distended almost to bursting, already beginning to thrum as each motion of our conjoined hips brings it into contact with hers, sliding wetly in the pouring of our mingled desire. I thrust my hips upward as much as her weight grinding into me allows, urging her on, my lungs constricting in arousal building with every passing second. I cannot tell where my flesh ends and hers begins. No longer in conscious control of my body, I abandon myself to increasingly delicious disorder as all my senses blur into convulsive exhilarated bliss.
Her body arches and flexes helplessly as I keep moving against her, setting off tremors in her sex that ripple outward and trigger her own orgasm. Mesmerized by the taut curve of her body, the plaintive heave of her chest, I redouble the bucking and heaving of my hips and inadvertently impel myself into another wave of rolling release. Panting and writhing together, the least movement provokes acute vibrations that waver precariously on and then plummet over the knife-edge of pleasure, again and again until only sheer exhaustion brings us to a juddering halt.
"Assez, chérie," I gasp, letting my legs fall away from her waist to twine with hers, encouraging her to sprawl completely atop me, her head resting in the curve of my neck. "I don't think I can come any more."
"Wanna bet?" Cosima musters enough energy to swivel her hips, stealing the air from my lungs and making me fight the whimper that wants to bleed from my throat.
"Brat!" Tilting my head, I capture her mouth, sweeping the tip of my tongue just inside the curve of her lower lip.
"Oh, yeah, that's a great way to deter me," she murmurs, reaching to wind a hand in my hair and deepening our kiss.
The world has condensed so that the only things in my consciousness are the precious burden of her body collapsed on mine, the glide of sweat-slick skin, the heady perfume of sex, the shattered rhythm of her breath hot against my neck, the fluttering spasms of my clit and cunt.
"Everything's so up in the air right now," she says after a while. "I feel like I'm drifting, like everything that's going on, everything that's happening to me isn't even real. Except for you. Except for this."
I tighten my hold on her, softly exploring her mouth, tracing with my tongue the outline of her lips. "Would it help if you kept some things here?" I say hesitantly. "There's far too much space for just one person. You could bring your stuff from Minnesota, there's more than enough room to store it all in one of the spare bedrooms until you find a place of your own. And you're welcome to stay with me at any time. If you want."
Carefully she nibbles on my lower lip, then lazily tangles her tongue with mine. "I'd like that, I think. I love Felix but staying at his loft is a little like living in a frat house — there's people in and out at all hours, usually because they're looking for a place to fuck. And someone's always belching or scratching inappropriately or challenging you to farting competitions."
"Somehow I can't picture Felix, euh, doing that."
"I was talking about Sarah."
"Ah."
"When she gets going, she can say the entire alphabet through one long burp. It's actually kinda impressive in a gross way."
Laughing, I kiss her again, then carefully shift her so that she is once again tucked against my side. She gives a little sigh as I resume stroking her back, trailing the very tips of my nails up and down on either side of her spine. Before long her breath is deep and even, with the occasional dainty slurping snore that tells me she is sound asleep. It occurs to me that I haven't heard her cough almost all day.
The angry insistent buzzing of my phone drags me back to full consciousness. Mentally cursing whoever would text me at this time of night, I reach for the phone and hit the power button to silence it.
The message from Aldous is marked URGENT: Meeting with RD my office 7:00 am
No further details. Crossly I revise my morning plans, including setting my alarm for an hour and a half earlier than I'd intended to get up. My brain sluggish, my aching muscles feeling as though they are moving under water, I spare a few seconds wondering what Rachel Duncan could possibly have to say to me at that ungodly hour before thankfully giving in to the syrupy pull of sleep, reveling in the feel of Cosima softly heavy in my arms.
Leads almost immediately into the emotional buzzsaw of "I Think it Mercy, If Thou Wilt Forget." Thanks for sticking with me through this, and for all the kind words!