OK, so more action in this chapter. Also, I realize it's been fluffy so far, but more drama's coming. Thanks again to everyone who's R&R'd!!
They both held out for two nights. Mort didn't want her to think he'd invited her to stay with him just for sex. Marah didn't want to feel like she was granting him favors in return for his kindness. On the third night, she lay awake a long time, imagining his hand on her face, his lips on hers. Finally she gave up. She got up and went to him.
He hadn't been sleeping. At the first creak of the bedspring upstairs, her first barefooted steps he'd heard her, looked up. She looked fragile and delicate and pure, standing at the foot of the stairs, a little uncertain and yet intense. He sat up, and their eyes locked. Unable to tear herself away, Marah walked slowly to his bed, if you could call it walking—she felt like she was floating, being drawn to him on a magnetic current of air. He reached out to her as soon as she was close enough to touch, drawing her down onto the bed with him. She traced his face, his neck, his toned chest and back.
He rolled her over gently so that he was on top. He passed over her entire slim body, kneading her curves and kissing fire into her skin until she became liquid warmth, clinging to him and moaning softly. He brushed back the hair from her face and kissed her lips, long and deep.
Their senses were filled with each other. It was like throwing themselves off a cliff—but knowing that they someone would be there to catch them when they fell. Mort imagined that he could feel their very souls merging into one, someplace in heaven.
After that, their life together settled in quite comfortably, with all the joy and excitement of a new relationship. Very rarely would Marah step back and think, who IS this man I'm living with? What do I know about him? How can I be sure that I'm not just a desperate girl who's been drawn in by... but she couldn't imagine what Mort could be. He couldn't be hiding anything from her; she trusted him too much. And yet...
He acted very strangely sometimes, suddenly, without any reason or anything she could think of setting it off. Once Marah had been sitting curled up beside his desk, reading while he did something at his desk. She'd said something like, "You should have a dog, up here all by yourself. I had a dog growing up, they're great company..."
Mort had stiffened, turned away from her so she couldn't see his face. "I used to have a dog," he said, but his voice was odd, strained, and there was something ominous in its tone. She could tell he didn't want to talk about it.
"Oh," was all she could think of to say. But he didn't speak to her again for the better part of an hour.
Another time she'd gone out to the cornfield by the side of the house, intending to spend some time reflecting, wandering amidst the tall green stalks, the sunlight playing down through the leaves. Within minutes, Mort had found her, and looked at her like he didn't even know who she was.
"Hey," she'd said, and then, "Are you all right?"
He'd been collecting a few ears of corn for lunch. He'd slowly put it down on the ground, and advanced toward her until he was only a few inches from her face, staring into her eyes like he was trying to draw out a secret she didn't know she had.
"Why are you in here?"
"I just wanted to come out here and think." She'd tried to kiss him, but he'd stopped her, with a hand that wasn't gentle. A second later he was shaking his head, apologizing, saying his head was off somewhere today, let's go inside.
Every day that went by was an affirmation of their love. But somewhere in the back of her mind, Marah knew they were not at peace, only at a temporary lull in their stormy lives.
As for Mort, he loved having Marah there, loved the way she sat across from him at the table and smiled when she asked him to pass something, loved having her sitting next to him while he worked, loved feeling her presence curled up reading while he worked. And he loved the nights. Early in the morning, when she was still asleep, he would write his new piece. He'd set aside the horror one he had been working on before; he couldn't think of anything else to write. But he was full of ideas for a new one. It was still mystery, still angst-ridden, but full of love and tenderness and regret. And maybe—just maybe—he would have a happy ending. He wasn't sure what his editor would say, or his agent, but he wasn't writing for them anymore. For the first time in many, many years, he was writing for himself.
Sometimes he would look at her and not even believe she was there with him. Everything had been so sudden—it had barely been two months since she had walked past his house, surprised him by smiling back, inquired after an address. But that's what a town full of bigots will do for a romance, he figured. And he wasn't complaining.
Nevertheless, living with a woman again all of a sudden wasn't easy. Too many things she said and did reminded him of the past—a past he'd buried so deep he didn't even know it was there. She didn't look remotely like Amy, or sound like her, but the way she felt, in the darkness of the night, the gentle curves of her body, the sound of her breathing...
The dreams didn't go away. They weren't always the same—sometimes it would be Marah standing there, and sometimes it would be Amy, and sometimes one would turn into the other, or they would shift back and forth like fluid ghosts until he wanted to scream and take hold of them just to keep them still. He always felt he had to go to her—whoever she was. Sometimes he had to protect her, because something was coming for her, trying to hurt her... and sometimes it was him, looking to hurt her, and he'd watch with sick pleasure as she begged him to let her go. And then...
He would wake up in a cold sweat and feel Marah's warmth against his chest, her body rising and falling gently, regularly as she breathed. With one hand he would trace the edge of her cheek, brushing her dark hair back from her face, asking himself.
But he was afraid of the answer.
They both held out for two nights. Mort didn't want her to think he'd invited her to stay with him just for sex. Marah didn't want to feel like she was granting him favors in return for his kindness. On the third night, she lay awake a long time, imagining his hand on her face, his lips on hers. Finally she gave up. She got up and went to him.
He hadn't been sleeping. At the first creak of the bedspring upstairs, her first barefooted steps he'd heard her, looked up. She looked fragile and delicate and pure, standing at the foot of the stairs, a little uncertain and yet intense. He sat up, and their eyes locked. Unable to tear herself away, Marah walked slowly to his bed, if you could call it walking—she felt like she was floating, being drawn to him on a magnetic current of air. He reached out to her as soon as she was close enough to touch, drawing her down onto the bed with him. She traced his face, his neck, his toned chest and back.
He rolled her over gently so that he was on top. He passed over her entire slim body, kneading her curves and kissing fire into her skin until she became liquid warmth, clinging to him and moaning softly. He brushed back the hair from her face and kissed her lips, long and deep.
Their senses were filled with each other. It was like throwing themselves off a cliff—but knowing that they someone would be there to catch them when they fell. Mort imagined that he could feel their very souls merging into one, someplace in heaven.
After that, their life together settled in quite comfortably, with all the joy and excitement of a new relationship. Very rarely would Marah step back and think, who IS this man I'm living with? What do I know about him? How can I be sure that I'm not just a desperate girl who's been drawn in by... but she couldn't imagine what Mort could be. He couldn't be hiding anything from her; she trusted him too much. And yet...
He acted very strangely sometimes, suddenly, without any reason or anything she could think of setting it off. Once Marah had been sitting curled up beside his desk, reading while he did something at his desk. She'd said something like, "You should have a dog, up here all by yourself. I had a dog growing up, they're great company..."
Mort had stiffened, turned away from her so she couldn't see his face. "I used to have a dog," he said, but his voice was odd, strained, and there was something ominous in its tone. She could tell he didn't want to talk about it.
"Oh," was all she could think of to say. But he didn't speak to her again for the better part of an hour.
Another time she'd gone out to the cornfield by the side of the house, intending to spend some time reflecting, wandering amidst the tall green stalks, the sunlight playing down through the leaves. Within minutes, Mort had found her, and looked at her like he didn't even know who she was.
"Hey," she'd said, and then, "Are you all right?"
He'd been collecting a few ears of corn for lunch. He'd slowly put it down on the ground, and advanced toward her until he was only a few inches from her face, staring into her eyes like he was trying to draw out a secret she didn't know she had.
"Why are you in here?"
"I just wanted to come out here and think." She'd tried to kiss him, but he'd stopped her, with a hand that wasn't gentle. A second later he was shaking his head, apologizing, saying his head was off somewhere today, let's go inside.
Every day that went by was an affirmation of their love. But somewhere in the back of her mind, Marah knew they were not at peace, only at a temporary lull in their stormy lives.
As for Mort, he loved having Marah there, loved the way she sat across from him at the table and smiled when she asked him to pass something, loved having her sitting next to him while he worked, loved feeling her presence curled up reading while he worked. And he loved the nights. Early in the morning, when she was still asleep, he would write his new piece. He'd set aside the horror one he had been working on before; he couldn't think of anything else to write. But he was full of ideas for a new one. It was still mystery, still angst-ridden, but full of love and tenderness and regret. And maybe—just maybe—he would have a happy ending. He wasn't sure what his editor would say, or his agent, but he wasn't writing for them anymore. For the first time in many, many years, he was writing for himself.
Sometimes he would look at her and not even believe she was there with him. Everything had been so sudden—it had barely been two months since she had walked past his house, surprised him by smiling back, inquired after an address. But that's what a town full of bigots will do for a romance, he figured. And he wasn't complaining.
Nevertheless, living with a woman again all of a sudden wasn't easy. Too many things she said and did reminded him of the past—a past he'd buried so deep he didn't even know it was there. She didn't look remotely like Amy, or sound like her, but the way she felt, in the darkness of the night, the gentle curves of her body, the sound of her breathing...
The dreams didn't go away. They weren't always the same—sometimes it would be Marah standing there, and sometimes it would be Amy, and sometimes one would turn into the other, or they would shift back and forth like fluid ghosts until he wanted to scream and take hold of them just to keep them still. He always felt he had to go to her—whoever she was. Sometimes he had to protect her, because something was coming for her, trying to hurt her... and sometimes it was him, looking to hurt her, and he'd watch with sick pleasure as she begged him to let her go. And then...
He would wake up in a cold sweat and feel Marah's warmth against his chest, her body rising and falling gently, regularly as she breathed. With one hand he would trace the edge of her cheek, brushing her dark hair back from her face, asking himself.
But he was afraid of the answer.