A little belated (my) birthday gift from me to you! Please enjoy this unbeta'd mess and let me know your thoughts! Nothing relating to Gilmore Girls belongs to me. Title is taken from Bobby Darin's "Beyond the Sea".
A glass of wine sits on the nightstand beside her; her second for the evening. Hesitantly, she takes a drink, savoring the taste of black currant and plum, and inhaling its smoky aroma. She closes her eyes and settles into its warmth, reminding herself to relax, to remain in the moment.
Moments pass, and a notification sound emanates from her computer, jolting her out of her zen state and calling her attention to the screen.
"Hey Ace," the message reads. "Are you there?"
She begins to type out a response, but receives the invitation for the video call before she even hits send. A quick glance at her reflection in the mirror across the room, she smooths out her hair, adjusts the coat of gloss on her lips, and accepts the request.
"Hello, there," she says, sounding cheerier than she might have intended to.
"Why, hello," he responds, his image settling into focus on her screen. He is sitting at his computer, much like she is; except instead of cross-legged on a hotel bed, he seems to be sitting upright at a desk. He looks good, if not a little worn out, donning a dark grey t-shirt and approximately two or three days worth of facial hair growth. "How I've missed you."
Of course, she misses him, too. But it's a heavy thing to say, with things being the way they are between them.
She decides to play this cool, and hopes the facade is believable. Casual and aloof have never been her strongest suits. She rolls her eyes at him and laughs. "We talked on the phone this morning, Huntzberger."
"Doesn't mean I can't miss you," he yawns, stretching his arms out behind him. "It's been a hell of a long day on my end."
"Aw, poor baby," she teases, pouting in lighthearted jest at the camera. "Are you tired?"
"Tired has become my main personality trait these days, I'm afraid," he tells her, eyes crinkling. It's a joke, mostly, but she knows there is some truth to it, too; the pressures of work have been running him ragged lately.
A tug of sympathy pulls at her. "Oh, no. Do you want to talk about your day?"
"About as much as you actually want to hear about it," he smirks, referring to a phone call earlier in the week. She'd had a long weekend herself, putting in extra hours on the campaign trail, and so, briefly dozed off while he had been describing his most recent frustration with procuring finances.
Not the most thrilling of subjects, he had been understanding, of course, but that doesn't mean he's going to let her live it down anytime soon.
"Hey!" she folds her arms across her chest and feigns indignation. She jeers, "It is so not my fault your job isn't more interesting."
"Whatever," he shakes his head, disinterested in returning to that narrative. "How was your day?"
"Oh, you know," she shrugs. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Except I found out I've got a four day weekend coming up next month."
"Very exciting."
"I know," she says, "I am so excited to go home and sleep in my own bed and see my mom and Luke and Lane and eat real food and did I mention sleep in my own bed ."
He laughs. "Yeah, but it bears repeating."
"It most certainly does."
"Well, as jealous and sad as I am to be deprived of four whole days of Rory time, I think that sounds great," he says softly. "A little time at home will be good for you."
"Yeah, I know," she says, her voice small. "I'm pretty bummed about that too. I wish… Well, you know…"
For things to be different. For things to be the way they were before. For whatever this thing going on between them to be something . Something tangible. Something decipherable. Something she felt comfortable telling her friends and family about.
She isn't sure.
Whatever it is, though, for now, it's enough.
"Yeah, me too. But this ," his voice takes on a livelier tone, "I will say, I have been looking forward to this all day. Nay, all week."
"Of course you have," she says, nervously tucking a lock of hair behind her ears. "You know, I can't believe you actually convinced me to do this."
There is truly no way she was making it through this night in one piece. She could already feel her face start to flush, and all they've done so far was log onto Skype and carry out a fairly routine conversation.
"Come on, Ace," he responds. "As if I've ever been able to convince you to do anything."
She smirks into her wine glass. "Oh, no. We both know that's bullshit. I've got a running list of things you've convinced me to do since we've met."
"Since we've met, huh? Wow. That's gotta be a pretty long list, then." His image smiles at her reassuringly. "We don't have to do this if you aren't up for it, Rory. You know I'd be down to do just this. Talk. Look at you. I just miss you."
"No, no," she shakes her head. "I definitely want to do this. It's just… weird, is all. I've never done this before."
"Understood. I've never done this before, either."
"And besides," she adds, "if I say I'm doing something, I'm doing it."
"Oh, this I know. It's one of the many things I love about you."
There's that heaviness again. Only he says it so casually, it's easy for Rory to pretend he doesn't mean it that way. It would be worse if he sounded earnest.
"Oh, yeah?" she plays along, blushing for what she's sure wouldn't be the last time tonight. "What else do you love about me?"
"I've got a running list. Been working on it since we've met."
She rolls her eyes in a fruitless attempt to counteract the obvious heat still rushing to her cheeks.
"Okay, okay," she begins, returning her focus to the matter at hand. "So, what do we do first?"
His smile illuminates her screen once again, his image shifting a bit as he rearranges his position. "I'm not sure, but whatever it is, you're going to have to do it wearing far less clothing."
"We will get there," she scolds him. "Be patient."
"I haven't seen you in over a month, Ace," he laughs. "I'm not sure how much more patience one man can have."
Rory ignores his grumbling and leans over to pick her phone up off the nightstand.
"What are you doing?" Logan asks.
She holds up her index finger, indicating for him to wait as she skims through her music library. Within seconds, swing music booms out of her phone's speaker. Bobby Darin calls out to his lover beyond the sea, and Rory begins to sway along to the music.
In front of her, Logan erupts into a fit of laughter.
She gestures at him with a different finger, still rocking gently from left to right.
"Oh, man," he grins at her in earnest. "I love you so much, Ace."
Emboldened by the music and the wine 一 and yes, a little bit by Logan's attention, Rory pushes the neckline of her sweater down one shoulder, and uses her finger to trace her clavicle, revealing the strap and intricate red lace trimming of her lingerie.
"Is that new?" he inquires, an eyebrow quirked in curious approval.
"I don't know," she bites her lip and taunts him by adjusting the neckline of her top back into place. "Is it?"
His eyes narrow. "Tease."
"That's the idea, mister."
"Well, for the sake of moving things along," he says, arms crossing over his torso to strip himself of his grey t-shirt in one swift move. Without saying another word, he sits there, bare-chested and eyes gleaming; a challenge and a promise.
As if she's going to make it that easy for him.
Mr. Darin continues to croon about a wish to sail into his lover's arms, and Rory uses the opportunity to languidly take another sip of wine, still gently swaying in time with the melody. Logan rests his head on his hands, his dark eyes locked onto her every move in bewilderment.
"What would you," she asks, "if you were here right now?"
She is fully aware that she has caught him off guard, and admittedly, is curiously enthralled by the potential repercussions such a question might entail.
He presses his thumb to his lips, considering her proposition with fervid concentration. It was almost comical, his intensity ー almost; she's a little too preoccupied with her own agonizing self-awareness to laugh about it.
"That is a loaded question. Where would I even start?"
"Wherever you want to start," she tells him. "I'll meet you there."
"A dangerous game," he says, his voice devious and dark and unrefined.
"If you play it right," she purrs. She's always taken aback by how easy it is to channel this side of herself when she's with him, to slip into the role of this stranger she would definitely like to know better. An alter ego.
"Okay," he says. "Well, I'll tell you this much right now. For starters, you wouldn't be wearing that fucking sweater."
She laughs at this, feeling as light-hearted as she does light-headed, and strips off the garment in question, revealing the strategically selected undergarment she'd bought solely for tonight's objective.
It feels strange, though, debuting an ensemble such as this in front of a computer screen. Even with her newfound brash and daring disposition, Rory finds herself fighting the urge to cover herself with her arms.
But then he leans back in his seat and covers his mouth with his hand, and she decides that it's a small price to pay. It's his turn to feel flustered now.
"Damn," he chokes out, eyes heavy-lidded and ears bright red.
Bargain bordeaux be damned; she could get drunk off this alone.
She repeats her question; this time, her voice posing a challenge: "So, what would you do to me, Logan?"
"Push all your hair back," he begins, and so she complies, turning his words into action. "Slide your bra strap down your shoulder. Put my mouth to your neck."
Her head involuntarily tilts to the side, the warmth of words searing into the sensitive skin of her neck, imagining his fingers gripping the bare skin of her waist, the pressure of his hips pinning hers against the mattress.
He was right before, unfortunately; it had been far too long since they'd last been together. She'd missed this aspect of their relationship much more than she was willing to admit, even if just to herself.
At this moment, though, she gives in. Unfolds and pushes past the burdens of modesty and insecurity.
She closes her eyes and sighs in approval as he continues to describe the things he longed to do to her, for her; her mind working overtime to compensate for the lack of his physical presence. The heat of his breath on her skin, the pressure of his hands on her breasts.
Even his scent is almost palpable. The faint, comforting smoky aroma of whisky and cedar. Instant dopamine.
Eyes open and locked on his, she pushes herself up and uses the headboard for support as she shimmies out of her black leggings, revealing a pair of lacy red panties.
"You did not have to get all dressed up for me," he says.
"Oh, I didn't," she bites her lip, "I have a hot date later. Do you think he'll like this?"
He laughs a broken laugh and continues to watch her with a weighted stare. Then, Logan stands and frees himself from the confines of his dark wash jeans, his burgeoning erection visibly pushing against the thin fabric of his boxer shorts.
"Touch yourself," he directs her.
There's the briefest moment of hesitation on her end ー that ever-present self-doubt. She extinguishes it again, though, and eagerly complies to his demands, her fingers electric through the delicate fabric of her underwear. She brings her other hand up to cup her breast, gently rubbing circles into the soft flesh of her nipple through her bra.
At some point, the music stops playing; their soft moans and heavy breaths claiming its place.
" Fuck , Ace."
The needy timbre of his voice encourages ー no, invigorates her to continue. She slides her panties down to her ankles and kicks them off to the side, banishing them to the floor. She groans at the more substantial contact; she doesn't think the touch of her own hand has ever had her so frantic, so desperate.
Slowly, she pushes a finger inside herself and traces her wetness to her clit, drawing out a soft moan that seems to originate from somewhere deep in her throat. He curses again as his hands drop down to his lower half.
"Can't see you," she breathes. He slides his seat back a bit, just enough to give her a more complete view of his situation.
Logan pushes off his boxers with the uncontained ferocity of a wild animal.
At least the feeling is mutual.
She is continuously bewildered by the idea she could have this sort of effect on anyone at all, let alone in a situation such as this. She isn't even physically touching him.
He caresses himself at a steady, languid pace at first, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he collects himself.
She continues her own action, using two fingers now, hopelessly pretending they were his. It's not the same, of course ー her fingers are far more slender and far less forceful than his are ー but she adds a third and makes due. Through pressed lips, she emits another groan, drawn out and emphatic.
His breathing hitches as his movements pick up speed, brown eyes bearing into her as he continues to work himself toward the edge.
She chews on her bottom lip.
"I wish," he stutters, "I-I wish this was you. So fucking bad."
"Me too," she agrees, breathless and hot.
"God, I fucking miss you, Rory. So much."
He grunts and gasps for air, simultaneously stroking himself and pumping into his own grip, brows drawn together and eyes shut tight as he teeters closer to his climax.
How she lived a life before hearing the sound Logan Huntzberger makes when he comes ー a deep, gravel-like rumble that never fails to elicit a rush of velvety pleasure from somewhere deep within ー she'll never understand.
She watches his face fall; the crease in his brow, the tightness of his jaw, the rigid line of his lip go completely slack as he attempts to regain control of his faculties.
She's not there just yet.
"I'm going to have to ask you to keep talking," she urges him; though the sound of his voice alone might be enough to push her over the edge.
He more than happily obliges. "I'm going to fly the both of us out to an island somewhere," he proposes. "Mykonos, maybe. Get a really, really nice hotel room. Ocean view. And spend an obscene amount of time inside of you."
She has always known he could be extremely erotic and hopelessly romantic, but in all their time together, in all the different ways they'd explored one another, she'd never experienced the side of him she'd seen tonight.
"All of that money and effort to never even leave the hotel room?"
"I don't know why this surprises you about me, Rory," he laughs at her. "Besides, I said an ocean view, did I not? We would have a balcony."
Her eyes shut once more as she throws her head back onto the pillow, allowing her mind to explore this mental image. A warm night and a Greek sunset. His arms wrapped around her waist, body pressed against her back, face buried into her neck. He slips inside her and takes her gently from behind, setting a tantalizing, leisurely pace.
Her back arches in real time as she approaches her own release. As much as she wishes it was him inside her now, she rides out her orgasm, frenetic and feverish and hungry.
"Or maybe," he continues, watching her intently, "maybe I'll just quit my job. Spend the rest of my life inside you."
"That works for me," her voice shakes as she speaks. " God . You have no idea how much that works for me."
"Good," he tells her. "Just say when."
And for a split second, she almost believes that he would.
She picks up her laptop and brings it up near the pillow, setting it on the space he would take up if he were there. She smiles, giddy and unsteady and just a little bit wobbly. He returns her expression with one of pure devotion, an aching softness that somehow, some way, finds its way through hundreds of miles and radio waves and lodges itself into her throat.
She swallows it down.
Reluctantly, Rory pushes herself off the bed and rises to her feet.
"Not that I'm complaining about the view here, but where are you going?"
"Bathroom," she glances back over her shoulder. "Is that okay with you?"
"Hmm, permission granted, but hurry back," he calls after her. "Don't make me miss you again."
In the bathroom, she washes up; brushes her teeth, runs her fingers through her hair, splashes water across her face. She's too tired to commit to her full routine, which truthfully isn't all that much more complicated than this, but it's all she can manage.
Her reflection in the bathroom mirror blinks back at her. With her pupils still blown out in euphoria, her eyes look almost as dark as Logan's. She leans back and glances at her computer resting on the bed through the small opening she'd left in the door upon closing it behind her.
They're going to have to confront this eventually, but that won't be tonight. Tonight, they'll continue to dance this very same dance they've been doing since the end of summer.
Upon her return to bed, she finds that Logan has also moved himself to bed, his laptop perched on top of his lap.
"Took you long enough," he greets her
She settles beneath the comforter, turning to face her computer screen.
"I should probably go to bed," he tells her. "I've got to be up at the ass crack of dawn."
"Yucky," she yawns. "But yeah, I should probably go, too. My computer's at, like, 18% right now."
"Okay," he says. "This was nice."
"Yeah," she agrees. "For me, too. Glad you talked me into it."
"Well, talking Rory Gilmore into things is my forte, evidently," he boasts. "Think I'll talk you into bondage next."
"Ha!" she snorts. "Fat chance."
Logan shakes his head in amusement.
"So I don't know about Mykonos being in the cards for us, realistically-speaking, but I'd really like to see you again," he confesses. "Soon."
"Me too," she says again. "Soon."
"I could fly you out here, if you want," he suggests. "Or I could find some time somewhere. Come and follow you around the campaign trail."
"Oh, God. You would be, like, the weirdest groupie ever."
"Weirdest, indeed. And the most irresistible."
"I would like that," she responds. "Very much."
"Okay. Good. Good night, Rory. Talk tomorrow?"
"Talk tomorrow," she promises, nestling herself into her pillow. "Do me a favor, please?"
He smiles, placing his computer on the empty space on his bed, turning to face her in the dark. "Anything."
"Don't hang up just yet," she asks him. "Wait for me to fall asleep. Or for my computer to die. Whichever comes first."
"You've got it, boss," he salutes her with the two-finger salute. "So long, sailing."
She salutes back, stifling another yawn. "So long, sailing."