After he was able to calm her down somewhat, Lorelai's call to Richard had instigated a quick series of events that resulted in the elder Gilmores and Lorelai now driving to Greenwich. Lorelai was not surprised that her father immediately jumped to her aid; what surprised her was that her mother remained relatively civil--though she did arch an eyebrow when she saw the ring on the chain around her daughter's neck. 'I'll deal with that later,' Lorelai thought.
Richard dispatched a member of his firm to make sure that Luke's truck would be properly handled. The family then quickly debated the merits of chartering a helicopter to get to the hospital, but decided that they would make better time just leaving right then and there.
Lorelai was also surprised that her mother insisted she rest in the back seat of the car. Maybe Emily Gilmore really had made an about-face concerning Luke.
And then there were the two daughters, Rory and April. Emily agreed to contact Rory and have her come to the hospital, but Lorelai insisted she wait until Rory's evening seminar was done. April was another matter. Lorelai's heart ached for the girl who had just found her daddy yet might lose him. She just couldn't face that fact herself. Lorelai called Lane, asked that she call the child, and tell her that her dad was unexpectedly out of town. Again, Lorelai decided that this was something they'd deal with at the hospital after they knew what to expect.
With the most urgent matters taken care of, all Lorelai could do was wait, and think of Luke. The hospital had not given out any information about his condition, because of the new privacy laws and the fact that Lorelai was not his next of kin. 'Yet,' she thought. And driving through the Connecticut night, the car's motion enabled her to quickly fall asleep, her head resting on her balled-up jacket. And as always, Luke was on her mind, especially the Luke she'd known before the April experience. Sleeping, she retreated to remember a happier time.
-----
Lorelai often awoke to find a man's hand on her breast.
The first time it happened, it surprised her. What was not surprising was that she quickly became used to it.
And it always went like this: they were in bed, spooning, her back to his chest; his arm placed both possessively and protectively over her. She'd never thought that she'd love the feeling of being possessed by, and protected by a man. With him, though, it felt right. It smelled right. The pheromones were keeping score. And so began one of her favorite games.
At first, she'd pretend not to notice that his hand was on her breast. Oh-so-innocently, she would then arch her back, in effect offering herself up to the owner of that hand. They say that idle hands are the devil's tools; well, based on what went on in their bed, there was no danger of that hand's owner needing to worry about eternal damnation. After a beat, that hand would begin an amazing journey: gliding over first one breast, then the other, in concentric circles. It was a hand that most definitely knew what it was doing, confident, matter-of-fact, sensuous, and always backed up by a chuckle.
Sometimes her body was clothed, sometimes not. But always, his hand was on her when she awoke. And as they awoke, sometimes, one or the other had to leave to attend to life's needs. Work. Family. Friends. But always, there was the promise of more to come.
This promise of more to come was a new feeling for Lorelai. Even during their darkest hour concerning April, she always felt that deep-down, as long as they awoke with a physical connection, that things would be alright in the end. She had never been with someone that she could count on so much for physical or emotional sustenance. It was always their call. It came down to her idea of the complete package, and with him, she knew that he was all that she was looking for, and that she was it for him. He'd told her so on their first real date. He was all in, even if at times, life threw Team Gilmore-Danes a curve ball and she'd have to eventually remind him of that.
His hand on her breast was always a good thing and always led to even better. For example, he would pull her close into him with his other hand. The hand on her breast then continued its magical journey: circling, traversing, and gently pinching. These were moments to be savored, and he knew to extend the experience. And after a few minutes, both of them would yearn for him to spend more time on other parts of her body. He liked to show, not tell.
Focusing on one part of her, he tugged Lorelai's nightshirt away from her shoulder, to allow him to brush his softened stubble over the expanse of shoulder and neck now wholly accessible to him, and him alone. After the shower incident while remodeling, she'd assured him that only he would get to see the goods from then on, and that knowledge inspired him. He'd nibble her earlobe, carefully listening for her reaction, while reveling in the fact that this experience would be his and his alone.
But after he'd spent some time lavishing his affection on the sensitive areas between her shoulder and jaw line, she desperately wanted him to just move on. Somehow, her legs had been busy during the time he was otherwise engaged, and his muscular and longer limbs were now wholly entangled with hers. It took no effort at all to slip a knee between her thighs, and the carefree ease with which she opened herself to him, welcoming him, made his breath catch. She, on the other hand, was surprised to learn how grateful he never ceased to be...
In the mornings, since she wasn't a morning person, his busy yet gentle caresses, and the parting of her thighs combined to produce a sexually charged dream-state. Eyes closed, she could pretend that she was asleep, at his mercy, wholly but innocently relinquishing herself to him. And even as she slowly roused herself, she'd keep her eyes closed, not quite ready to relinquish sleep. If she chose to open her eyes, she would stare ahead and revel in the mystery of this man behind her. Even if she would want to pretend he was someone else, say Bono, hypothetically speaking, there was no escaping the fact that he, just by scent and caress, had imprinted himself to such an extent that it could only be him.
Scent and caress, such a potent combination. She'd close her eyes, and inhale deeply, her sense of smell enhanced by depriving herself of sight. The same applied to his touch.
When they were first together, his touch was often hesitant, as if he were handling a priceless museum piece. But she taught him, and taught him well: that he was the only man she wanted, and that his touch was most definitely wanted, and most of all, needed. For a man who often worked with his hands, his touch was deft and variable: sometimes light, sometimes firm, yet always sure. It amazed her that just the sweep of a finger across her nipples could instantly harden them, sending lightning bolts of arousal to her core and to places she'd never experienced arousal before, like the tip of her chin. She was simply addicted. "Hi, my name is Lorelai, and I'm a Luke-a-holic." Because once she tasted his lips, his chest, his throat; trailed her tongue over his biceps and around both his tattoos, and then down to where their bodies differed...Yes, she was Lorelai, a Luke-a-holic.
And he knew. Oh, he knew. Because he suffered from an equally addictive affliction.
Knowing this about the other, they both felt a responsibility to carefully preserve it, to nurture it. Lorelai did not take this duty lightly.
No one had ever so wholly depended on her for both physical and emotional love, and she had herself never depended on anyone in that way.
And always, his hand would work its magic as she inhaled his scent and languished in the land between night and morning.
After a while, his hand would work her into a frenzy, so that she was begging him, "Make love to me, Luke," her voice a breathy shadow of its normal self. No coy "make love WITH me," this was a command.
A command he was eager to obey.
He knew that patience was not one of her virtues; he'd learned early on that taking his time to remove her clothing only led to frustration and comedies of error. It was much simpler to quickly slip her sleepwear over her head, using his hands to shield her chest from the coolness of the early morning.
"Turn," he'd command. And she'd turn without protest and he would gaze upon her chest and reach out to capture each nipple between fingers. She'd cry out as he rolled each between his fingers, exerting just enough pressure so that she'd easily sign over the inn, Paul Anka, her jeep and anything else she possessed at that moment to him. Another twist and she would be writhing, and finally, begging. That was the cue for his hand to slip down and stroke her thighs.
Again, quick removal of clothing made more sense than slowly seducing her clothing off her. He'd hook his thumb over the waistband of both her sweats and panties, and yank them down, whispering "Kick" for her to finally shed them.
"If I had my way, you'd never wear clothes," he sometimes informed her in a sleep-rasped voice, looking her confidently, almost defiantly, in the eyes. And while looking into her eyes, he'd kick off his own sweats and boxers, quickly dispatching them to the growing pile on the floor.
Returning to her, he would once again spoon behind her. And in that position, he would adjust her legs and make her extremely vulnerable to him--just in time for his fingers to spring into action.
That was always a surprise to her, because others had been perfunctory in that department. He on the other hand, took his time. He'd show her. Always show her.
Stroking, he'd demand, "Give in, Lorelai," while gliding his so-talented fingers over her folds. The fingers that carved figures on a chuppah could write poetry on her body. The hands that worked in the kitchen could turn up the heat in her.
This game always ended up the same way. She'd pretend to resist and he would press on, creating a spark, then a fire.
Because while his fingers were working, so were her hips.
"God, Lorelai," he'd groan, then quickly refocus and turn his attention back to her, Two fingers would search out that very special knot of nerves, and tweak it just like he had tweaked her nipples.
"Dear God...!" she'd cry out, writhing in his arms.
"Would you just be still?" He'd parody a phrase from their first kiss.
And before she could take another breath, he'd push inside her, with his hand on her hip, pulling her toward him.
"Lorelai," he would whisper into her hair.
And then he would begin to move.
This was a position of trust for Lorelai, because in this position, he controlled everything. She had to allow him to take the lead, to decide how to thrust into her. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, but always, his hot breath whispered, "I love you," into her ear, "I just do."
And then he would groan, "Oh, Lorelai...my God..."
Seconds later, his hand would return to the bundle of nerves at her core; he was now a man with a mission. His objective: turn this strong independent woman into a mindless wanton consumed by sensation; one without pride, without reason, who only existed to respond to him. And he accomplished that mission by relentlessly working his fingers, continuing his loving assault.
It was only fair. Because she had the same effect on him.
"Let go," he'd gently demand, "for me," sensitive to her agitation, while kissing her everywhere his lips could reach.
It wasn't that he was trying to exert his power over her; it was that she was always so strong for everyone else. Letting her let go in a safe place was his gift to her.
Plus, he loved to watch her, to feel her reactions, to inhale her scent. And with that as motivation, how could she deny him?
Her breath now frantic, she would say his name as she exploded, moaning, screaming, and whispering. Then, stroking her arms and back with infinite tenderness, he'd coax her back down to earth, safely wrapped in his arms.
This was a game where no one kept score.
-----
And as Lorelai, in her dream, remembered how tightly Luke would then hug her to him, she opened her eyes.
The car was pulling into the parking lot of Greenwich Hospital.
Her father turned around, hearing her yawn, and simply said, "Good that you were able to rest."
TBC