18 March 2005
Nick came back to himself slowly; the last few minutes felt like nothing so much as a dream, and were it not for the weakness in his knees and the warmth of her wrapped around him he would have been certain he was dreaming still. It didn't seem possible, somehow, that he should be here, with her legs tight around his hips, his face resting in the tender crook of her neck, her hands drifting slowly, gently through his hair. A moment's madness had spiraled out of control, and now that his rational mind began to reassert itself he was left full of dread. Dread at the thought of having to uncouple himself from her, having to leave that place and once more submit to the constant surveillance of SIS, dread at the thought of having to leave her for good, when this thing was done, never knowing her name or where to find her or even if she wanted him to, but most of all, dread at the thought that she might regret this, that she might withdraw from him, that she would insist they could never do this again. There was nothing Nick wanted more than to hold her, to be near her, to touch her satin soft skin and hear her sigh, to make the affection, the desire, the...whatever it was that he felt for her into something real, and lasting, something more than a moment's madness. If she did not feel the same, if she regretted, he feared her disappointment might break him clean in two.
"Your hair is filthy," she whispered, her lips close by his temple, and he smiled, kissed her neck and lifted his head to look down on her beautiful face once more. There was no regret in her eyes, not yet; she just looked tired, and sad, but she smiled, too, when she saw his face.
"So is yours," he answered, running his hand gently over her head. "And I'm afraid there's not much hot water left."
Her legs still cradled him close, and her hands drifted down across his shoulders, and in the warmth of her he found peace; she was not rushing to distance herself from him, and he took that as a hopeful sign indeed.
"Maybe we should share?" she suggested softly, shyly.
It was exactly what he wanted, just now, a few more quiet moments spent with her, and he was grateful she'd been the one to bring it up; if she didn't want to be near him she wouldn't have asked him to linger, and he knew it.
"Yeah," he said, running his hands over her soft, bare thighs. "That sounds like a good idea to me."
They parted from one another carefully, his hands ghosting over her legs as he stepped back, as at last he withdrew from her, and she sighed and let her legs dangle against the counter for a moment. There was a reddish mark at the base of her neck left by the heat of his mouth, but it was not particularly big or particularly dark; it would fade quickly, he thought, and no one would be any the wiser. No one would ever see her like this, hair mussed, skin flushed from the steam and the heat they'd generated between them, her soft, pale pink nipples, her soft stomach, soft thighs, all of her soft, and warm, and etched on his memory, now. In silence he held his hand out to her, and she took it, let him help her down off the counter, lead her to the shower. Once inside he let her step beneath the spray, watched her tilt her head back as the water washed over her, blood and worse sluicing off her body to swirl around their feet. She looked...beautiful, and weary, and he wanted only to touch her, and so he reached for her shampoo himself.
"Let me?" he asked her quietly, his voice barely audible over the water. Trish smiled at him and turned her back to him, let the water wash down her front and gave him access to her soft blonde hair.
It was the sort of thing a man might do for his wife, Nick thought, after a long day, the sort of thing lovers did for one another. There was a tenderness to the moment, a fragility he felt so keenly; every breath was precious, in this moment when they stood so close to ruin. Carefully he ran his fingers through her hair, mindful not to tug, not to hurt her, feeling the softness of it between his fingers, brushing against her scalp, massaging her gently and listening to her sigh over the rush of the water. Perhaps he should have spoken, should have told her how much she meant to him, how beautiful it was, being held by her, should have talked about what came next and what they were going to do and whether this kind of intimacy would be in the cards come the morning, but he didn't. The words were too heavy, and the bliss of the moment would not survive beneath their weight, and so he only worked his fingers through her hair until he supposed he'd wasted enough time, and urged her to turn around once more.
When she did, tilting her head back, exposing the elegant column of her throat to his hungry gaze, he let his hands drift over her body, her shoulders, her breasts, let his palms soak in the heat of her, greedy for every touch, every second he could spend with her, a clock ticking loudly somewhere in the back of his mind. Time was passing; their luck with the hot water was bound to run out any second, but more than that, his time with her would come to an end one day, too. Perhaps sooner rather than later; now that those two SIS operatives had been killed the spooks would be out for blood, and if they had any sense at all they would recognize the danger Nick and Trish were in, and push for results. Maybe another setup, just like this one but with better surveillance, maybe something else; their plans were a mystery to him, but this was always meant to end, and when it did she would vanish, and then what would become of him?
With the last of the shampoo rinsed clean from her hair Nick reached for a washcloth and her soap, and took her once more into his arms. Gently, carefully he scrubbed every inch of her skin, cleaned the last of himself out from between her legs and felt her shiver in his arms, ran his cloth over her breasts, her thighs, knelt at her feet, and looked up at her in wonder with her calves in his hands. Trish watched him in silence all the while, her bright, grey-blue eyes focused on his face, her hand on his shoulder, as if she, too, could not bear to be parted from him. Of the pair of them she was the more talkative; her mind was clever and sharp, and she liked to talk her way through any problem, liked to determine the possible outcomes and ward against disaster, was more prone to worry than he. If anything should have given her cause to worry, he thought, surely this would be top of the list, but she did not speak. Perhaps she felt, as he did, that it would be unfair, cruel, even, to classify their coming together as a problem. It was too beautiful for that.
Then again, perhaps she was just too tired, and the worries would come in the morning.
Slowly he rose, let her lean back against his chest while the water ran over their bodies, washed away the soap suds and the grime of this terrible day.
"This is nice," she whispered, turning her head to kiss his neck. She had decided to speak after all, but she was not admonishing him, and Nick was grateful for that, too.
"You're beautiful," he answered, running his hands over her stomach.
"Charmer," she said, and he could hear the laughter in her voice. "Here, let me." She reached for his shampoo, apparently intending to return the favor, and he grinned, thinking about how she'd have to lift herself up on her tiptoes to reach his hair, thinking how lovely it was that she should want to touch him, relieved to know she cared for him, perhaps as much as he cared for her. It was not to be, however, for she had no sooner turned to face him than the hot water gave out and she shrieked and jumped towards him in distress.
Nick laughed as he spun them around, put himself between her body and the suddenly frigid water.
"Go on," he said, brushing a kiss against her forehead. "I'll finish up in here, no need for you to freeze on my account."
Trish was already shivering, but she looked as disappointed as he felt. "All right," she agreed, crossing her arms tight across her breasts. "But...I just…"
Nick watched her curiously, wondering what it was she was trying to say while she floundered in front of him, but in the end she revealed her intentions by lifting herself up onto her toes and kissing him once, gently.
"Thank you," she whispered, and then she was stepping out of the water, leaving Nick to finish his cold shower alone.
He worked as quickly as he could, cursing the bloody hot water heater, listening to her towel off, the door opening and closing behind her. This was probably for the best, anyway; if they'd exited the bathroom together surely SIS would have known something was up. This way he could claim he'd simply sat on the toilet and spoken to her while she showered, that they'd switched places when she was done, that nothing untoward had happened. It was a lie, but lying was their business, now.
As soon as he could he shut the water off and stepped shivering from the shower. Their filthy clothes were still piled up in the corner and Nick left them right where they were, dried himself off and then wrapped the towel around his waist and made his way out into the bedroom. The light was out and Trish was already in bed, her back turned towards his bureau, and so he let the towel drop unselfconsciously, tugged on a clean pair of trunks and slid, at last, into bed behind her.
It was easy to roll himself in close to her, to drape his arm over her waist beneath the duvet, pull her in until her back was flush to his chest, and she let him, let the warm swell of her ass settle against his spent cock, let their legs tangle together, out of sight of the cameras. Most nights they fell asleep like this anyway; it would be nothing new for the SIS watchers. They were practiced at this, now, hiding their hands from the cameras, whispering so softly no one could hear them; it was a strange thing to become accustomed to, Nick thought, and he hated how familiar they had grown with obfuscation.
"You ok?" he asked her very quietly, his face buried in her soft, still-damp hair. Beneath the duvet Trish was tracing her fingers over the back of his hand, her touch gentle and comforting.
"No," she whispered in a voice very close to tears, and his heart sank. He could hardly expect a different answer, but having just made furious love to her in the bathroom he was so hoping she had found peace in his arms, as he had found in hers, and it hurt him to think he'd brought her only more grief.
"I'm scared, and I'm tired," she said. "And you...I don't want to let you go, Wes. But I have to. And now…"
And now it would be so much harder, he knew. He tightened his grip upon her waist, brushed her hair aside with his nose until he found the warm skin of her neck, and planted a gentle kiss there. Now that he knew the taste of her, the sound of her, the warmth of her, the glorious rapture of her, now that he had discovered this woman who so amazed and delighted him at every turn, now that he had found this soul so like his own, so dear to him that she had become his home and his hope, the thought of leaving her was more unbearable than it had ever been.
"I know," he told her gently. "But I'm here, sweetheart. I'm right here. You can rest now."
Just now, just for tonight, he didn't want to worry about what came next. He didn't want to worry about how they would hide their growing closeness from the cameras, or whether he'd ever get the chance to hold her again, or what would become of them when they were forced to part. For now, for this one night, he only wanted to sleep, safe and warm, with her.
"Sleep, Trish," he said, and kissed her again, and she sighed and relaxed back against him, and they both drifted into dreams, together.
