May 1912
It had been two weeks since their arrival back in New York on the Carpathia and now that April had given way to May, the rain in New York had finally settled as the city's state of mourning of the Titanic's sinking seemed to have firmly cemented into the new ways of life. It was hard to escape it. Hard to see past the darkened endless days of living in the aftermath of such a tragedy, but it was even harder for two people who had lived through it. Seeing a newspaper, though, Cal's face adorning the headline with a photograph of herself just merely weeks ago in Paris, and her name listed amongst the deceased; it was surreal.
Rose shook her head, letting out a long, heavy breath. "Everyone is talking about this, Jack. Without really knowing anything, they're talking about me, about my life and my death."
"Let them talk. They don't know you or the situation, and their judgement doesn't affect who you are." Jack held her gaze, running his thumb down the line of her jaw. "Do you hear me? What they think of you is not who you actually are. They do not have that power over you."
She smiled, but it died quickly, sadness washing over her again.
"I feel like a fool. I was a fool."
"It's him who's the fool," Jack assured her, searching her eyes with his own. "You are, without a doubt, the most caring, loving, passionate, intelligent, and classy woman I have ever met. You give without ever expecting anything in return, and you're brave." Jack shook his head. "You are so fucking brave."
Rose's eyes softened, her voice just a whisper again. "You didn't mention the way I look in any of that.''
"You're beautiful," Jack said easily. "But that's not what makes you the woman I l—" he swallowed, throat constricting like her eyes held it in a vise grip. "That's not what makes you the woman you are. You are more than your eyes, your hair, and your body. You're not meant to be a puppet in some man's sideshow, Rose. You're meant to be his entire world." Rose let her eyes wander over every inch of his face, as if she was just noticing him for the first time. And maybe she was.
"I love the way you see me," she whispered. Jack swallowed, heart picking up speed as she leaned in closer, her hands fisted in his shirt, her eyes on his lips.
"I just see you with my eyes."
"No," she argued, her lips centimetres from his, her sweet breath invading those senses. "No, you see me with your soul." She swallowed, eyes flicking up cornflour blue, before they fell back to his mouth. "And I feel you with mine." Her lips touched his tentatively at first — feather light, each of them releasing a shaky, anxious breath. Jack felt that tiny, almost non-existent touch in every inch of his body. A wave of chills rushed through them, their lips hovering, breaths hard and heavy with want. With need. Then, his hands slid into her hair, and he pulled her into him, claiming her mouth like it had never touched another man's.
Rose sighed, melting into him as he deepened the kiss, Jack's lips hard and hot on hers. Her hands twisted into his shirt before she let it go completely, sliding the warmth of her palms beneath the fabric and over his stomach. Jack shivered at the touch, groaning against her kiss and pulling her closer and feeling stupid for ever thinking that he could know, could fathom, what it would be like to kiss her, to have her in his arms like this. Kissing Rose wasn't like kissing a normal girl. It was like kissing royalty, like kissing a goddess, like being hand-picked by the heavens to surrender your heart forever in exchange for just one, tender, earth-shattering moment. Jack surrendered to that moment, to that sacrifice, letting his hands wander her curves, lips savouring the pressure of hers, tongue's tasting the sweet taste buds of her own. Jack pulled her closer — tugging, reaching — until she straddled him upon the hardened couch with her skirts splashed out beside them. But when the heat of her centre rubbed against his erection, he bit her bottom lip, sucking in a groan and releasing her mouth on a panting breath that felt like he had been sucked back down to Earth and landed flat on his back.
"Stop," Jack breathed, pressing his forehead against hers. Rose's chest heaved, her hands still under his shirt, lips parted. Jack swallowed back silly nerves. "I don't want you." Her face crumbled at that, brows bending together as she pulled back to look at him. "Not like this," Jack clarified. He reached under his shirt for her hands, folding them in his own and bringing her knuckles to his soft lips. "I have thought about you, every day since I saw you. And, making love to you was…everything that I ever thought it could be.'' The level of hurt on her face in that moment was enough to make Jack wish he had never said a damned thing. And God, it killed him,to have been the one to put it there. But he couldn't lie to himself, or to her. ''What happened then was wonderful, and now, I don't just want it to happen unless we mean everything. It's been…tough. We have cried. We have laughed.''
Jack waited for her to curse, to slap him, to crawl off his lap and slam the door in his face as she stormed out of the boarding house and maybe even out of his life completely. Instead, she let out a relieved breath, shoulders folding forward as she squeezed his hands that held hers. "Tonight has nothing to do with Cal, or the sinking, and you know it," she breathed. Jack's heart was a stallion in his own rib cage, thunderous and powerful, steady and strong. "We've both known it," she continued. "And I've tried to fight it, tried to convince myself that what I felt when I was with you was wrong, that it wasn't real." She shook her head. "But it is real. I'm just sorry it took me so long, that it took this, for me to finally admit that to myself." Jack searched her eyes, and when he found nothing but sincerity there, he didn't know if he wanted to jump and throw his fist in the air or curl into her and fucking sob. Because Jack felt it — right then and there on the brown, mattered couch of a New York boarding house just days after arriving back into the country which he had dreaded coming back to the most — he felt it and he knew.
The engagement ring which Cal had placed upon her finger never mattered. She was his. And he was hers. As if to hammer that point home, she kept her eyes locked on his as she reached down and slipped her hands back beneath his shirt.
"Now," she said, rolling her hips just enough to elicit a stiff breath from him. "I'm going to ask you to kiss me again, Jack Dawson. And I won't ask you twice."
Jack's lips were on hers before she could even say the words.
Dark. Everything was dark. Outside, the sun was breaking through the clouds but inside the boarding house bedroom, where Jack was kissing Rose, and backing her up — slowly, step by step — it was all dark. Dark walls. Dark comforter. Dark curtains covering the window and blocking the sun's light from sneaking through. Blind caresses in the black space between them — lips and necks and hands and sighs. Dark intentions, dark promises waiting to be fulfilled. His blonde hair in her hands, her dark heart in his. He was just a shadow as he held her, his kisses touching like a sweet, soft, summer midnight on a tropical island. Rose didn't realise how much a kiss could feel like a vacation. Didn't realise how much a person could feel like home.
"I've wanted to kiss you this way since I saw you," he breathed against her lips, breaking contact just long enough to whisper the words before his mouth claimed hers again. "And now, I don't think I'll ever be able to stop." Every breath was a trembling, shallow sip of air. Rose's body didn't know how to react with new hands on her, with new lips, a new tongue, a new feeling. Jack's calloused hands held her face like she was the treasure he'd hunted for his entire life and finally found. He peppered her with kisses before holding her to him longer, slowing it all down, caressing lips with passionate, silky kisses. He'd slip his tongue inside her mouth, tasting, drawing her bottom lip between his teeth and releasing it on a groan that she felt all the way to her toes. This wasn't just a kiss. This was a dream, a fantasy — and every part of Rose's body surrendered to the impossible realism of it all. Jack backed her up farther, his hands sliding down to the small of her back to guide, and when the back of her legs hit the edge of the bed, he stopped, holding steady.
"Rose," he whispered, kissing her again before she could answer.
"Yes," Rose barely breathed in return.
"Can I take this dress off you?"
"Yes."
The word was a longing sigh falling from Rose's lips, and as soon as it had, Jack trailed his fingers down her bare arms, hands rolling into fists at her sides and bunching the fabric of her dress up with it. There were buttons down the back, but it was loose enough to be pulled just over her head. Having gone without a corset since the last night aboard Titanic, she felt the fact that she wore only her thin undergarments beneath it.
Jack captured her mouth even harder, sucking in a breath on a passionate kiss before he broke away and lifted the dress up and over her head. Rose's arms were still in the air when he threw the dress somewhere behind him, and he reached up, meeting her hands with his own as he kissed her again. He wound his fingertips with her own, and somehow, what his hands did was even more sensual than the kiss, than his once-white shirt on her half-naked body, than his hard-on pressing through the fabric of his khaki corduroy trousers.
Rose didn't ask to take his clothes off. Instead, trailing her trembling hands down, his fingers following until she slipped them downwards. His hands found her waist as hers dove beneath the gaping opening of his trousers.
Their clothes were borrowed from the charitable organisations and so whilst it didn't quite fit properly on either of them, it was easier for Rose as she trailed fingertips from hip bone to hip bone, just under the band, and she groaned in shock when she felt nothing beneath.
Rose gathered the hem of his shirt in her fingers and tugged. Jack lifted his arms, letting her strip him before he reached around her back to pull at the brasserie which was the only item left covering her. Jack inhaled a stiff breath when he slipped the straps of it over her shoulders, the fabric eliciting a wave of chills as he dragged it downwards and let it fall on the floor between them. His eyes dipped to her exposed breasts for just the smallest moment, his Adam's apple bobbing hard in his throat. Then, his lips were on hers again. Her knees buckled when he pressed back farther, and she fell into the white linen of the sheets. Guiding her up, he crawled over her and she sighed when the warmth of his bare chest brushed against her nipples, and the heat of him lined up with the heat of her, only his trousers and her undergarments and stocking separating them both. Jack pulled back, balancing on his elbows above her as he searched her eyes, my hair, every centimetre of that cherished face. He seemed to be tracing lines — first with his eyes, and then with the tender tip of his finger. "God, Rose," he whispered, shaking his head. "What are you doing to me? I feel like I'm under your spell."
Rose smirked, rolling her hips against his. "There's no spell. It is real.'' Jack groaned at the contact, biting his lower lip and kissing her hard before he pulled back again, this time peppering her collarbone with kisses and shifting his weight. The response that she went to give was lost in her throat, kidnapped by a gasp that ripped through her at the shock of his mouth on her sensitive nipple. He sucked gently, rolling his tongue over the puckered tip before trailing over to the other. He massaged the weight of each breast in his hands, his mouth devouring and then, he trailed down. His lips wandered like lost travellers over the hills and valleys of her rib cage, sliding down the middle of her abdomen, traipsing the freckles between those hips before he settled on his elbows between her thighs. His eyes were dark and hooded as he gazed up at Rose, and with that look of sin holding her captive, he pressed one, feather-light kiss to the wet centre.
Rose moaned, back arching up off the bed as her fists twisted in the sheets. When he slipped his thumbs under the tops of the stockings and slowly trailed them down her thighs, she couldn't help but watch, and loved the way his eyes darkened even more when she was bare beneath him. A million thoughts possessed her mind; how no one had ever been so up close and personal-there. How was one supposed to move when a handsome man was lowering his head towards that part of her.
But the second Jack had her stocking off her ankles and dropped somewhere off the bed, he dragged his tongue up the inside of each of her thighs, and then, he pressed that same brush of a kiss to the same spot. But nothing was between them this time. Every inch of her trembled at the warmth of that kiss, and even more so at the loss of it. She gripped onto the sheets again, like they could ground her, like somehow they could steady shaking nerves.
"You're trembling, love," Jack whispered against the spot he'd just kissed, his breath hot and wet and sending another wave of chills across her.
"I'm so nervous I feel like I'm about to pass out." The words flew out before Rose thought better of them, and Jack laughed, pulling away long enough to look up towards Rose.
"Why nervous? It's just me. It's just us."
"I know," Rose said, shifting until she was on her elbows and could meet his gaze. "I just… I've never…" She didn't even want to say it, so instead, just nodded to where he was between her legs. "You know."
His face sobered. "I know that."
A fierce blush shaded her cheeks. Without another tease, or so much as a warning, his mouth was on her. On her — as in, his lips surrounded her, his tongue tracing the sensitive bud in a circular rhythm before he dragged it back and forth in slow, long rolls. Rose fell back into the sheets, her entire body convulsing at the feel of his expert tongue. Rose couldn't wrap her head around anything he was doing, and as soon as she felt used to the sensation, his tongue would start a new pattern, or he'd suck between his teeth, or drag his tongue. Every second was a new feeling, a new reason to shake, a new thief of breath.
"You're so beautiful," Jack said, kissing the inside of her thigh as he ran his hand up over her knee. Rose didn't have time to blush or moan or bite her lip because in the next breath, he slid one finger inside of her, right up to the knuckle. She gasped at the stretching feeling, head rolling back in the pillow, fists abandoning the sheets to fly back and hang onto the top of his headboard. She needed friction. She needed grounding. She needed something to keep her from flying out of this universe entirely at the feel of him. Her mind raced, trying to piece it all together as Jack worked between her legs and she'd never felt so cherished, so worshipped. Having a man between her legs was somehow the most powerful experience, and she revelled in it, letting every time she had thought of their one time within the Renault. Wondering if that could ever be again. That time was now. Jack Dawson had his face between her legs, and Rose was like a prisoner surrendering willingly to whatever consequence lay before them after this moment. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing but this man and this moment. Jack stayed between her thighs for hours. She was certain of it. It had to be hours.
Rose felt it building, like a slow, glowing ember that caught oxygen and exploded into flames.
"Jack," she breathed, heart racing, legs trembling. Sheets and headboard be damned. Rose flew into the atmosphere, every part of her alive and burning, stars invading her vision as she succumbed to the darkness and panted out each rolling, euphoric wave of her orgasm. She was floating. Soaring. Rose was nothing at all and everything she'd ever wanted to be.
When the time came for her to face him. To make love. Their breathing stopped. Time stopped. And Rose lowered, just an inch, just enough for everything in the universe to snap back into action. They breathed a sigh of ecstasy in sync, and she lifted her hips before sliding down even farther, taking him a little more. Each time Rose lifted, each time she sank down on him a little more, their breathing accelerated. Jack groaned when she went to the very bottom, feeling the stretching burn from the inside out, and for a moment she just stayed there — him completely inside of her, his hands bruising her hips, the moment branding her heart. They were chest to chest, and he held one strong arm around her, while the other slid up to her back, his hand cradling her head and pulling it into him. He pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes as he flexed his hips, and she whimpered, feeling the extra inch of him that she was unable to reach alone.
''I didn't know it could feel like this. I didn't know anything in the world could feel like this.''
This was art. This was Jack, the painter, his hands the brushes, Rose the canvas. This was Rose, the muse, feeling every breath of his like the fire that fueled her existence. They were slick with sweat, rolling and slipping over each other as she rocked and he flexed, his mouth finding hers, kissing with reverence as sighs and moans mingled between us. They seemed to dance in time with their movements — a thrust, a sigh, a flex, a kiss, a roll, a moan. It was a beautiful waltz. And they danced for hours.
For a long moment afterwards, Jack stayed there, balanced on his hands above her, as she released her grip on the sheets. Their breaths slowed, chests aching with the release of air, and he gently withdrew.
Suddenly, Jack's hands were weaving into her hair, breath skating over the skin of her neck. What happened next, Rose couldn't fight. Her eyes welled with tears, nose stinging as the dam broke loose, and as soon as those tears hit Jack's chest, he pulled back, worried eyes searching.
"I'm sorry," Rose whispered, wiping at one before Jack took her place, his thumbs brushing over wet cheeks. "I don't know why I'm crying."
"It's all right," he responded, voice just as low. ''I do.''
Rose's brows pulled together, eyes flicking back and forth between his.
"You do?"
"I felt it, too, Rose," he said, pulling her back into him and surrounding her with his heat, with his weight. "I felt it, too."
Rose closed her eyes, two more tears slipping free as she pulled him closer, wanting more, needing to seam them together in every way possible. It didn't feel real, the whole experience morphing in her mind like a dream that she was suddenly aware of, a dream that she was about to wake up from. So, she held on tight, willing it to be true, willing him to be real. Her body succumbed to the darkness with her mind following quickly, every part of her slipping into the promising black space around them.