NOTE: THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN REWORKED AND EXPANDED AS OF JULY 13. WASN'T HAPPY WITH THE LAST ONE, SORRY, WON'T HAPPEN AGAIN :-)
FRANCO and ELIZABETH: PORTRAITS
by Tessaray
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Previously:
"Mine…," she gasps… and she realizes that she's been saying it for some time…
Mine… mine…
When has she ever been able to truly say that about anyone?
"Yours," he moans, rock-hard but motionless as a statue inside her, hot hands clamped on her hips. Buzzing with tiny aftershocks, she caresses his face with trembling fingers, drinks in his helpless beauty… his mouth, so close… and she needs that mouth, slips her tongue between his parted lips. He stiffens, muscles straining, but he doesn't respond… and it occurs to her that he's waiting for something…
To test her theory, she rhythmically squeezes him again, bringing him right the edge of orgasm... but still, slick with sweat, teeth gritted, he holds on, holds back… until she presses her lips to his ear and whispers,
"I want you to come."
With a groan of absolute release, he collapses then into a series of long, shuddering waves... and his body seems to fall away from her in slow motion… far, far away...
And she smiles as she lets him go...
And Franco stays away... silent, immobile, lost and floating in bliss... if Elizabeth knows her sub-spaces. Her own mind is crystal-clear, her body humming with the feel of him, still snug inside her. And though she's dazed by recent events — stunned, in fact — there are things that need doing...
He seems vulnerable as a newborn, and it's triggered her fiercely protective instincts, compelling her to care for him as tenderly as he'd cared for her. She checks his breathing — slow and steady. Checks his face for signs of distress and notes the small, enigmatic smile on his lips. Sweat is drying on his skin and he's shivering in the cool air, so she drapes herself over him, finds the edge of the blanket, pulls it around them both and holds him close. As she listens to the gentle rhythm of his beloved heart beat, she's able to exhale a long-held breath... and try to rest.
Her chest is tight, ears are ringing... yet they seem foreign, like they don't quite belong to her. She feels like she's been on a speeding, pitching roller-coaster, like parts of herself were left behind at the hair-pin turns and haven't quite caught up. A strange joy is bubbling in her heart, threatening to spill out... but she keeps it inside and lets it spread through her instead. With the exception of her children, she's never felt so profoundly connected to anyone, so high with discovery, wide open and raw... and she barely recognizes this newly-minted version of herself — this person who would dare to create the exact scenario she'd imagined:
Making him fall, watching him explode into bliss... holding him close afterward, pressing a cup of cool water to his lips… caring for him, loving him…
Water.
You should stay hydrated, he'd said...
She sees the yellow mug glowing on the shadowy floor nearby and starts to reach for it... stops when his arms slide heavily around her.
"Stay," he breathes.
She tingles at the sound and stays, tries to clear her busy mind and simply be there with him. But soon he's the one moving... sluggishly lifting and pressing her hand to his cool forehead and saying, voice is thick as honey...
"So quiet in here."
He sags for a moment as though the effort exhausted him, then he slides her hand down between them and presses it over his heart.
"So full in here," he murmurs... and adds, with a sleepy smile, "You're holding my heart in the palm of your hand."
#
Inevitably, tragically, time passes, euphoria fades... and doubts emerge...
She's still draped over him, but is growing restless. He slipped away again, hasn't moved a muscle since he spoke, isn't responding to his name or to gentle nudges. He's awake, but his energy is so subdued, so drastically different from anything she's ever felt from him that, despite his sweet words, she can't help but worry something's wrong. And all she can focus on is the fact that he never wanted this... that he warned her, resisted her at every turn...
I'm sorry, I can't... I don't want this shit anywhere near you... Oh fuck, don't...
A wave of nausea washes over her — she coerced him. She did. She pushed him too far. In trying to free him, maybe she broke him somehow... broke his will, the way a horse is broken... drove him into unbearable memories, made him relive trauma. And who the hell does she think she is to take such risks and liberties... and is it possible that, on some level, she enjoyed inflicting pain on him…?
Her inner nurse demands to check his throat for damage, for blood... but she can't bring herself to raise her eyes and see what she's capable of.
Mercifully, he begins to stir... and right away she senses the familiar distancing he sometimes does, the psychic withdrawal. And he makes it a reality by grasping her hips, lifting her and easing himself from inside her body...
The loss of him hurts, both physically and emotionally. It confirms her fears, feels like an outright rejection... but he doesn't move away — he tucks her into his side and wraps a heavy arm around her. And though she lays her head on his shoulder, her mind is busy with the hundred questions she should and shouldn't ask... with the tender, reassuring words perched on the tip of her tongue... but until she knows his state of mind, she decides it's best to remain silent.
It's not long before he draws a shaky breath...
"So…," he says quietly. "You saw... that happen."
His shame is palpable, and she whispers her fingertips over his chest to soothe him.
"I did," she says. "And Franco—"
"—Correction," he interjects, voice so rough she flinches. "You made that happen."
A thrill of danger surges through her as he suddenly wraps her in a paralyzing bear hug and presses his mouth to her hair. "You had me, Elizabeth. Completely. You were—," he breaks off, shaking, and seems to struggle for control. "Nobody's done that to me… for years. Not for years."
She's stunned — is he praising her, reproaching her... something else? There must be a perfect way to respond, perfect words in a perfect tone… but her intuitive understanding of what he needs is long gone, as is most of her bold, newly-minted self… and all she can do is return his savage hug and ask the obvious:
"Are you all right…?"
His breathing is fast and shallow, and he swallows hard, arms slackening around her...
"I don't know," he says like gravel. "I don't know how to feel yet."
And then he sinks into a heavy, very private silence.
She waits, torn... she longs to enter the silence and say, Tell me what you're going through, share it with me...
But it's unyielding, as though he's shared enough with her for one day and doing so was a tragic mistake... as though the intense pleasure they created together was a perversion, not to be discussed... and the connection they shared is lying around them in tatters.
Or maybe it's all intact, perfect and miraculous and he's just reeling, needs time to process...
Maybe they both do.
So she waits and replays his words, trying to read the best into them...
You had me, Elizabeth... completely... nobody's done that to me for years...
She did have him... and it was glorious. But she can't think about that until she knows if it's a good thing... so instead she focuses on his warm, masculine presence beside her, the now-familiar groans and creaks of the building, the wind picking up outside, making shadows of tree limbs dance on the drapes...
They haven't left this studio all day, but they've taken a hell of a journey together — from a failed, ill-conceived seduction, to this epic development... whose outcome is yet-to-be-determined. They've found love here, no doubt about it — surprising in its swiftness, depth and power — but now she's seen something she wasn't meant to see, took him to a place he didn't want to go. And whether that binds them or breaks them, she realizes with a stab of pain, is up to him...
She tunes in to him... to his subtle sounds and movements as he deals with that inner circus of his. She tries to envision its contents — the years of frenzied art-making and whirlwind of fame, the vivid ghosts, the madness... hazy concepts like dominance, submission, pain... and all those pesky newly-acquired emotions — what they are, what they mean, are they too much to feel, too difficult to navigate — and wouldn't it be better to abandon this whole doomed enterprise of connection, healing and redemption and just go it alone...
And what to do about this Elizabeth person...
What to do, indeed.
She knows that if she were to watch his face, even in these shadows, she would see his kaleidoscope shifting as he works his way through it all — expressions crystallizing then dissolving... one after another after another. She knows them all so well now that she can't help but smile...
He must feel the tiny movement against his chest — or maybe he feels her wave of joyful love splashing him — and he weaves his fingers into her hair, lifts her head and looks deeply into her face. His gaze is soft, wary... haunted.
"So...," he says thickly, clears his throat and tries again. "So, I haven't asked... are you okay? Are you freaked out?"
She locks into his eyes and slowly shakes her head, touched that he's placing her right smack in the center ring of his crowded circus.
"Absolutely not freaked out," she says. "Just a little… out of my element."
Clouds of apprehension gather in his face, and she quickly dispels them with a touch to his cheek. "I do know one thing for sure," she says, hot tears coming. "I'm more in love with you than ever."
His eyes slam shut, evicting her, and she feels a harsh spasm ripple through his body. She expects him to withdraw again, to deflect or deny the words as he has so many times before... but he pulls a deep breath, holds it... releases it slowly through rounded lips... and he lets the words stand. When he opens his eyes to her again, they're dazed, wet... and grateful. He nods once.
"Okay," he says softly.
Elated, she leans up, slips her hand into his hair and kisses him tenderly. His lips part and his body eases, melting back in an attitude of surrender that inflames her all over again, returns her to the intoxicating beauty of his pleasure... her control over it... over him...
A fierce clarity flares inside her then, burning away her crippling doubts and insecurities and replacing them with that strange, serene confidence she's felt off and on throughout the day. His open trust reminds her that she's worthy of trust... his surrender reminds her that she's capable of caring for him, of intuiting and giving him what he needs... and she chastises herself for waiting so long...
"I'm sorry," she whispers against his lips. "I should have said I love you right away, before you had a chance to make things up in that head of yours... and you did, didn't you?"
His eyes dart away.
"What did you tell yourself?"
"That... I'm a freak," he says with quiet disgust. "That I never should have let you see... that. That you can't wait to get the hell away from me."
"Okay, clearly you're wrong, and you have to stop that right now. Hey," she says, cupping his chin firmly in her hand when he won't meet her eyes. "For the billionth time, I'm not going anywhere. I love what happened between us. I love the way you were with me… the way you opened up and trusted me. I love that you shared something so private and intimate. You have nothing to regret, Franco, nothing to be ashamed of. You were beautiful... you are beautiful."
She watches the words land... and renewed doubt darken his eyes. It seems that for every step forward, there's an equal step back...
"I. Love. You. Everything you are." She squeezes his chin, gives him a tenderly impatient smile. "You have got to learn to live with that. Okay?"
He tries and fails to smile back. "It's so complicated, Elizabeth."
"I know it is." And she does know... from what he's confessed to her, from all she's witnessed today — the twisted violence of his past, his vicious self-loathing — but they've also forged a connection she never dreamed was possible, and there's no way she's letting that go.
"And there's something else I know," she says. "We'll work through it all, whatever comes up. We will. Together."
He looks at her with cautious wonder, and takes her hand. Once, he might have responded by kissing her palm in a gently dismissive way that implied,
No, you couldn't possibly know, but thanks for trying…
But now he watches as she very deliberately interlaces her fingers with his, joining their hands together. He slides his eyes to hers, looks deeply, and sees something that seems to make him melt with profound relief.
"All right," he breathes, like the fight has gone out of him once and for all, like his demons have packed up in disgust and gone home. "Yes. Please."
He touches her lips with his other hand, kisses her reverently, then very gently tucks her into his side again, wraps his arm around her, arranges her head on his shoulder, strokes her hair... all without disengaging their hands.
"So...," he says. "You really do love me."
"I really do love you." She lets the tears come then, feels them pool on the warm skin beneath her cheek...
"Okay. Okay," he says with a long, ragged sigh.
And he finally sounds like he accepts it.
"Can we just be for a while, Elizabeth?"
She settles deeply into the comfort of his embrace. It's fine by her.
#
They drift together, as they have so many times today. She's drowsy, but captivated by their still-joined hands resting on his chest, by how small her fingers are, nestled between his... how easily he could have stopped her earlier and taken control. She chuckles at the revelation that when it comes to power, size doesn't always matter...
"Hmm... what is it?" he breathes, energy hovering just above zero.
"I just... I didn't know I had that in me," she murmurs.
He draws her closer. "Mmm... I did."
"Since when?!" she says, alarmed by the notion that everyone but her spied some sort of leather-clad dominatrix lurking beneath her scrubs...
He laughs, low and warm. "Don't worry… just since today. I saw a gleam in your eye...,"
"A gleam, huh?"
"Well... maybe more of a glint. A hint… a glint that hinted."
"A glint," she repeats... thinks back...
And yes, there were moments her eyes would most definitely have been glinting — when she had him at her mercy, with her hands, with her mouth, her will... and the memories spark a tingling low in her belly...
"So… how do you feel about that," he says, and though he's lazily playing with the ends of her hair, there's a note of tension in his voice. "Do you enjoy that... role?"
Her body flushes with heat, embarrassment… deep pleasure. "What do you think?"
He rouses himself and languidly rolls on top of her, his weight making her feel fragile and wonderfully smothered.
"I think I want to hear you say it," he purrs, cradling her head in his large hands, eyes moving over her face like a caress. He kisses her then… sinking sensuously into her mouth, tongue so soft and skilled... teasing, then withdrawing...
"Do you enjoy doing that to me," he murmurs against her lips. "Do you enjoy controlling me…? Tell me…,"
"Yes," she breathes, instantly wet and wanting him, barely able to think. But there's no need for thought… it's simply true.
"How does it make you feel?"
And again, the truth comes with no effort, no shame. "Strong... confident."
He smiles, smooths her hair from her forehead with gentle thumbs. "What else?"
"Powerful," she says, marveling at her audacity as the word slips out.
His eyes sparkle with pride and he gives her head an affectionate wiggle. "Of course. Because — all those things — that's who you are."
Her breath catches and she gapes up at him, wants to respond but can't. It's one thing to temporarily feel those things in a very unusual situation. It's another thing entirely to claim them as part of her identity, to be seen that way, loved for it... celebrated...
She starts to protest, but he brushes his lips over hers...
"Anything else?" he says.
And suddenly she's struck dumb as it hits her that there is something — a notion that's been growing all day, one she barely recognizes and can't believe is justified, given how often in her life she's been rejected. But still, it's there...
"I feel like, maybe...," she begins, and halts, feeling ridiculous. But he's so loving and expectant, and he's trusted her with so much today, so much more than this...
She decides to just plunge ahead. "I feel like maybe I really am... enough."
He draws back and looks down at her, eyes wide with disbelief. "Enough? My God, Elizabeth...," he gasps. "You're everything. How could you doubt that?"
The tenderness she'd seen in his face and tried to capture in charcoal, her first inkling of his love for her — it pours from him now, envelops her — a nourishing, healing warmth that sinks deep into the injured, lonely places she's been ignoring for years... and she's shocked to find that she's begun weeping uncontrollably, like the abandoned child that she was... that she is...
"You're everything," he whispers, kissing her lips, her wet cheeks... and with a broken cry, she wraps herself around him, clings to him, desperately wishing away flesh and bone, separate minds and identities, everything that's keeping them apart — so she'll never be alone again...
And even as she longs to dissolve with him, she understands what's happening — with this simple gift of love, he's exposed a core wound in her that has never healed... that she simply pushed so far down she couldn't feel the pain of it anymore. But it seems wrong to explore it now. Selfish. And with a shock, she realizes that she's stepped almost effortlessly into the role of his savior... that she's made today about his pain, his healing...
It hadn't occurred to her that the healing could be mutual...
He's holding her in strong, unrelenting arms, purring sweet, soothing words... but it's suddenly much too much. She stiffens, unwinds her limbs from around him and drops back. No, now is not the time to delve into her little issues...
"Wow." She rolls her eyes and laughs dismissively. "What the hell was that...?"
He's watching her with gentle concern. "I love you," he says.
She nods, sniffles, wipes her nose, not quite able to look at him. He takes her chin in his hand, waits until she meets his eyes. "I love you. You deserve to be loved. You deserve to be cherished, Elizabeth. You deserve everything."
"Okay," she says, shifting beneath him, desperate now to catapult herself away from this place and be anywhere else. "What time is it?"
"Oh no. No you don't. You turned me inside out today, and now we get close to something of yours... and you want to run away?"
"I'm not running away, Franco. I have obligations. I have to get the boys from Grams'." Her voice is deliberately cool, reasonable — the voice of a good mom.
"Elizabeth," he says, frustration laced with pain. "What are you doing...? Please... don't you hide from me."
"I'm not. We're fine." She pushes him off and sits up too quickly, goes dizzy as she swivels her head around the darkened room, trying to locate her clothes. She feels her chest constricting, a sheen of sweat rising, can't get a breath... and she quite rationally concludes that she's on the verge of a panic attack.
"Elizabeth," he's saying from far away, his large hand poised on her back. "What's happening?"
"Fine. I'm fine," she says into thin, elusive air, and slides away to put distance between them. She presses trembling fingers to her wrist — elevated heart rate — and steels herself, breathes in as deeply as she can... two, three, four... out, two, three, four... in, two, three, four... out, two, three, four...
She feels his eyes hard on her, knows he's watching her with a mix of worry and hurt, hand still suspended, reaching...
But she recoils, even as she recognizes this feeling — it's the same overwhelming fear that made her leave him last week, the wail of I CAN'T surging up from the ancient wreckage inside. Grief slams her — she should be over this, past it, can't be back here at square one... not after everything that's happened here, not after getting a glimpse of the bold, newly-minted Elizabeth. She won't go back... she won't...
She's hunched over, rocking herself, arms clasped tight around her upraised knees...
"It's nothing," she manages. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're a mess. You're terrified." He starts to move toward her, then jerks and freezes. "Of... me?" he gasps, so plaintive and haunted it hurts her heart...
But she can't let him in, and defensively summons her inner bitch. "It's not always about you," she snaps.
There's a long, cold pause, into which she could slip any number of apologies and explanations, but she holds her ground, hoping he'll just let her gather her wits along with her clothes and leave quietly until she can figure this out...
"Well," he says at last. "That was... really really mean."
His voice is so small and sulky it's absurd. She glances at him, sees his comically exaggerated pout... and realizes it's supposed to be absurd.
"Mean, maybe," she says, struggling to stay defended, not to laugh. "But also true."
He squints heavenward, appearing to ponder as he pushes up on his fists and slowly swings his body toward her. "I have yet to encounter anything I can't somehow make about myself," he says with a lopsided grin.
"Why doesn't that surprise me," she grumbles, but lets him pull her between his legs to his chest, wrap his arms around her and rest his chin on her head.
"So... can you be brave and tell me what's going on?"
She can, but she's not sure herself, so she shakes her head... oddly enjoying the sensation of his chin rubbing her scalp.
"Okay," he says. "But you can't just leave, remember? You have to talk to me. We promised."
She remembers... but needs time alone to reflect, to go to her mental attic and open up this particularly dusty box...
"Nothing is too small, Elizabeth. If it hurts you, it hurts me."
She believes him — it's the same for her. Instinctively, she nestles into huge, strong arms that make her feel so swaddled, so known and protected... so like a fiercely beloved child that she has to stifle a sob. She's never experienced anything like it... and one day she'll understand what it means to her and why it's such a difficult and scary thing to trust. And she'll tell him, she will. But not now, not today.
Instead, she lifts her eyes and finally forces herself to examine his throat. In the dim light she can make out a half dozen deep crescent marks, dark and angry on his pale flesh. It all floods back to her... his shuddering cries and yelps of pain, his thin, warm skin caught between her teeth, blood pulsing so close...
If it hurts you, it hurts me...
She raises her hand and touches one of the wounds she inflicted, then another. They're warmer than the surrounding skin. "Speaking of hurt...," she says softly.
He jerks his head away. "Elizabeth—"
"—I hurt you. That's what I want to talk about."
His chest tightens beneath her cheek, breath quickening. "You're deflecting," he says.
"Maybe I am. But you wanted to know how I felt, doing this to you. Now I want to know what it was like for you. Tell me... what did you feel? Was it like before, when you were younger?"
When you were sick and out of control... when you needed PAIN in order to feel human...
"I don't want to talk about that."
His face is turned away from her, and he sounds stricken. She shouldn't be asking, her emotions are too tangled — love and happiness spiked with guilt and shame... and a strange desire to punish someone...
But not him.
"I don't like hurting you," she says, the truth of it twisting her heart. "I didn't want to do that."
"Yet you did," he says quietly. "Even though I asked you not to."
She flinches, whimpers like he plunged a knife into her gut, and tries to pull away... but he tightens his arms around her.
"I'm not angry, Elizabeth. I never would have agreed to it... but I needed it. I needed to be forced out of this insane fucking head of mine. You were relentless, irresistible, like steel... wrapped in satin. You took me to a place of pure feeling. You made me feel safe enough to go all the way there."
"Safe?" she gasps. "While I was hurting you?"
He pulls back just enough to look down at her, his eyes full of an adoration that shames her. "Yes... but...," he hesitates, as though searching for the right words. "It's not that simple. When I said before that no one's done that to me for years... the truth is, no one's ever done that to me... not to that degree. Maybe it was the tumor, but I never trusted anyone enough to let go like that, to let myself be so vulnerable."
He fades for a moment, but comes right back, a bit less sturdy, but no less honest. "You wouldn't let me hide in the past, Elizabeth. Somehow, you knew just what to do. You... were amazing."
"Well...," she says, abashed, flushing and wildly self-conscious. "You... you'll need a turtleneck."
He bursts out laughing. "Ha! Maybe a scarf. No, a cravat. I could be one of those '60's jet-setter types, zipping through St. Tropez in my Alfa... a living goddess by my side."
The image brings a reluctant smile to her lips, but it doesn't last. She gingerly touches the marks again, one by one.
"Is there another way? I mean... without—,"
"—The cravat?" he laughs.
"Without the pain."
His smile slowly fades. "I don't know," he sighs. "I guess I don't know anything. I was so fucking horrified by who I was and what I'd done, and everything was all jumbled together... but, like you said earlier, maybe there are things that aren't all bad. Things that…," he trails off, expression darkening as though reminded of ghosts... and the danger of resurrecting them...
"...That we could explore together," she says, touching his face to bring him back.
His eyes clear and he gathers her close. "Yeah. As long as it's safe... for both of us. As long as it's something... you want."
She traces his mouth with her fingertips and suddenly feels so overwhelmed by it all — the glow of his approval, the excitement of stepping into this strange new world with him, his struggle toward self-acceptance that in some ways mirrors her own... and his willingness to be vulnerable. It's a place she hasn't quite reached yet.
"But we'll go slowly," he says. "One new color at a time."
She nods, and before she can think, she pulls him down for a ravenous kiss… and she never, ever wants to let him go. But she has to when he breaks the kiss and lowers his mouth to her throat, grazes the sensitive skin with his teeth... giving her a taste of what she gave him.
"I meant to ask," he whispers like liquid fire. "Does it arouse you... your power over me?"
Her body reacts almost violently — neck craning for more, pussy clenching, heat flaring in her veins...
"God, yes," she laughs, and turns in his arms, winds her legs around his waist. And as he laughs with her, his head drops back and the crescent marks on his throat flare at her like an accusation, once again flattening her with guilt, remorse...
It must show vividly in her face — he's there in an instant, attempting damage control...
"Don't, Elizabeth," he says sternly. "It's all right. You have to understand — pain and pleasure are just labels. They're sensations on a continuum."
He searches her face. She knows he's looking for a sign of comprehension, but she has no way of relating to what he's saying, and can only look back helplessly...
"Okay." He strokes his goatee like a professor lost in thought. "Okay, let's try an experiment."
He slips his arm around her waist and like a slow wave he bends forward, gently lays her down on her back, and himself on top of her. She feels him, heavy and warm between her legs, and this is familiar, this she understands. She rocks herself against him until he's fully hard, until his eyes darken... and he gives her a slow, sexy smile.
He begins pressing inside her. "It's a little bit like this," he says... and even though she's given birth, even though she's slick with him, his size makes her wince as he meets her body's initial resistance. "Imagine a moment of... discomfort...?" he whispers.
She nods, but relaxes and opens herself to him...
"Only a moment... and then...,"
He pushes deeper... and she sighs, angles her hips, welcoming the burning stretch, the aching pressure as he groans softly above her... and soon he's as deep as he can be... he's part of her, and there's nothing but the incredible pleasure of being filled by him, the joy of absolute surrender...
"Good?" he murmurs, eyes so tender, so sincere.
She can only cling to him, every sense wildly alive...
"It's about trust, Elizabeth. It's about letting go..."
And as he begins moving slowly inside her, pain of any kind is the furthest thing from her mind...
To be continued...