Like a Horse Made of Air
Chapter Three: When it Rains (You Could Say it Pours)Business picks up for her after that.
Tommy wasn't the only one on the street that evening and plenty of folks witnessed her settling Danny down. Which seems to somehow translate into people seeking her out. She finds she needs to explain what it is she sells less and less, even as what she sells expands wildly. Funnily enough, her best seller is her soothing mints.
She never charges Danny when he comes around and finds a surprisingly easy friendship with the big man and his wife Rosie. She teaches the woman the exercises she learned from Gram while keeping them stocked with simple remedies. Rosie in turn fills her in on the latest gossip while teaching her about her work as a seamstress. It's a companionship Wren hadn't known she needed and is very grateful for.
Especially considering all the things she's been struggling with lately. People are cruel, she's learning. She hasn't dared mention her contraceptives at the gathering places after hearing how readily they tore into other women for the least little thing. She knows they talk about her when she's not in ear shot, she's not stupid. And with her business so new she hesitates to push out where they might try to shut her down. It's so frustrating, how closed minded the gossipy hags are. If she didn't have even-keeled Rosie to lean on she probably would have died in a fit of rage by now.
As it is she's sorting through the Office, the last bit of chaos left, after a long day out dealing with said hags. The only thing left to do being the time-consuming reading and organizing that simply can't be rushed. Not unless she wants to have to redo her work when she inevitably finds something out of place. Truthfully, she isn't bothered as she enjoys reading in general. It's a bonus that everything in this room feels like a peak into her grandparents' lives. Nuances she's never known to wonder about create stories told in the edges of ink on paper. Too, while she might have passed her exams, it doesn't mean she's anywhere near done learning about her craft and her Gram has a plethora of books.
She finds another key and automatically checks it against the locked trunk under the red desk, jolting in surprise when this one actually turns.
Suddenly excited, she carefully grabs the handles and wiggles the whole thing out into the open. She grunts with the effort, the trunk heavier than she expects. Once it's free she manages to keep from flinging it open, barely, but holds her breath as the light reaches the contents within. She releases it all at once in surprise when she sees nothing but tightly packed books.
Why would Gram lock up books?
She looks around at three walls with floor to ceiling bookshelves, each heavy with tomes and journals, then back down at the trunk. Confused but curious, she teases out a book and flips it open to a random page. It takes far too long a beat before she manages to process the drawing sketched on the page and what it means before she drops it with shock. Cheeks hot and chest heaving, she tries to calm her sudden fluster. Cautiously, as if it might bite, she picks the book back up and flips through the pages. The pages are filled with sweeping, graphic drawings explained with painful detail by cramped blocks of tiny text.
The book in her hand goes to great length to explain exactly how one should go about pleasuring a partner—male or female—while engaged in various sexual acts.
"I'm holding a book my grandma kept," she whispers in horrified wonder, "about, Good Lord, can they even call that sex anymore?"
She gawps at a drawing that she can't quite wrap her head around or figure out how exactly it's supposed to be enjoyable.
Abandoning the first book she does a quick inventory of the other texts and finds the first is a good summary of the theme. It isn't even the most graphic of what she finds. One of them is an agonizingly frank and explicit manual on how to "properly clean and maintain a sensual body". Quite frankly she's half convinced that most of these books aren't legal.
Would rather explain why they were locked up.
Before this moment, Wren had thought she had a decent idea about what sex was considering her lacking personal experience. She had thought all the bother and flutter around the subject juvenile and had dismissed the giggling and posturing horde of her agemates.
Clearly, they had known things she hadn't she muses wryly to herself as she eyes the piles stacked around her.
Abruptly she rises and leaves the office. She goes through the familiar ritual for putting on the kettle and prepares herself a calming mix. She pauses a moment and adds the bottle of amaretto to the tray, before returning upstairs. She makes her cup with a healthy splash of amaretto and builds a comfortable nest in the stuffed chair by the fireplace. She picks a book and settles down for a night of reading.
She stays up far too late and as a consequence gets a late start. Her heads a bit sore, but she hadn't gotten properly drunk. She'd done her best to have just enough alcohol to leave her warm and ease the sting of embarrassment, but no more. It's not 'til she's crossing the lane that she realizes her mistake. An unfortunately common theme with the man in question.
Her semi-regular encounters with one Tommy Shelby are a thing of the past. It's an off day if she hasn't seen him more than once. He'll drift along beside her as she wanders about. And he frequently walks her home and sits at her table of an evening. He's even begun to share a few stories about his family when she shares some of hers.
She has to give him his due, he does his best not to intrude or impede her business, but she isn't sure how she's supposed to keep her head with all the things she's been reading fresh on her mind. She honestly doesn't know how she's going to survive his new habit of brushing his fingertips against her shoulder, waist, and the small of her back.
Further convincing her that he's a mind reader, the first thing he does as he falls into step with her is trail his fingertips down her spine. Her skin prickles and warmth settles in her cheeks and her belly, her awareness expanding to the new fluttery ache between her thighs. She does her absolute best to maintain some measure of poise but has no idea how successful she is.
"Didn't see you this morning," he says idly, gaze outward and cigarette between his lips.
The feel of his fingertips burns through the layers of fabric where they rest at the small of her back, "Wasn't out this morning. Had a lie in and got a late start."
"You deserve a break," he replies. "Wouldn't hurt for you to take a day for yourself."
Her mind immediately jumps to the instructions she read clearly telling her it was her duty to herself to…figure herself out and…take care of her own needs. Followed by unabashed descriptions of how to go about doing said figuring and care. Then she jumps to the section on how to…introduce a partner to her needs. She's blushing, has to be with the heat in her face. Desperately hopes he's just a man after all and can't read her mind.
"Business is new," she manages to force out. "Not sure me ledger would thank me."
"Every business has off hours," Tommy points out reasonably. "Better to get everyone used to your days off now, than have to get them to accept not having daily access when they've grown used to it."
Clinging to the edge of the gutter in her mind by desperate fingertips she very nearly lets too long a pause pass while Tommy and "daily access" make a go for her sanity.
"And does Tommy Shelby take days off from business," she deflects, though not without some genuine curiosity.
It's his turn to let the silence build. She very nearly spontaneously combusts when she feels him settle the whole of his hand against her spine. The points of heat from his fingertips giving way to a broad pressure. And just like that there's no hope for ought else. Her brain completely consumed with the thought of that big hand gripping her, moving her, and exploring as he pleased.
"I could be convinced," he says and for a long moment her mind spins, fantasy spooling endlessly.
Then reality reasserts itself with a burst of chatter from passersby and she remembers the question.
"Convinced to take a day," she clarifies slowly. He glances at her through the perpetual smoke and dips his head. "And how does one go about convincing you then?"
He doesn't reply, and something about the flicker of his glance and the tilt of his lips gives the impression of mischief. Surprised and flattered she makes a show of thinking it over, "well, what if I ask nicely?"
The lift of his brow is completely expected, and she bites back a laugh, "not even if I say please?"
She feels the flex of his hand against her, a sudden thrum of tension like a plucked chord, as his gaze fixes on her mouth for just a beat too long. With sudden clarity she thinks, is this flirting? Followed by the near overwhelming impulse to ask: what about for a kiss?
She manages to press it down somehow as she bites her bottom lip. His gaze flicks to her mouth again and she turns forward to try at hiding her smile.
He never does answer her.
All These Words (All These Little Talks)It's days later as she's visiting with Rosie that she finds herself struggling with the urge to tell the other woman everything. She likes Rosie. The woman is eminently practical and sweet natured. She is also the only other woman Wren would genuinely call a friend. She's fiddling absently with her cup, spinning it round and round in her hands and watching the ripples. The conversation has lulled into an easy quiet.
So, the sudden noise Rosie makes followed by an exasperated, "oh alright, will you just spit it out? I've been married to Danny too many years, I've forgotten how to deal with people who don't just speak their mind as it comes to them." Is rather startling.
Wren blinks at Rosie caught off guard before she just let's out with, "even if it's about sex?"
Rosie laughs and points at herself saying, "married. Has two kids."
Then she levels a curious look and says, "would've thought you were a virgin, to be honest."
"I am," Wren admits feeling somehow embarrassed. "It's just. I thought I had a good idea about what sex was. But then I…well I mean."
Rosie reaches across the table and gently pats at her hands, face open and kind. "There's no judgement from me, Wren. Sharing—and keeping secrets—is what friends are for."
"One of the first things I went through while I was deciding what to do was some of Gram's journals," she tells the older woman. "There are tons of recipes and notes, including some contraceptives and abortifacients. At the time I didn't think much of it, always thought the fuss around the topic was overdone. Thought too, that with the men back, contraceptives would be good money."
"I'd pay good money for a contraceptive I could trust would work," Rosie comments with feeling. "I love Danny, but the risk of another kid has admittedly put me off him more than once. Our two boys are more than enough for me."
"I have a couple you can choose from. And that includes some for Danny to take," Wren offers easily.
Rosie about tackles her clean out of her chair, a look of mingled relief and glee dancing over her face. "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"
"You're welcome, I suppose," Wren laughs.
It takes a moment for them to settle but eventually Rosie pulls herself together, "you were too wound up for it to be just about asking what I thought about contraceptives. You keep on now."
"Ah…" Wren picks back up. "I originally thought contraceptives would be a big part of my sales. But then as I was wandering around well, you hear things. Some of the comments those women make about other women. It's awful. I've never thought poorly of a woman who works as a whore—I still don't—now I feel rather badly for them. The shit they deal with for just getting by."
Rosie nods knowingly, expression sympathetic.
"For Christ's sake, I could have ended up as a whore," Wren realizes all at once. "If me grandparents hadn't taken such time with me. If they hadn't taught me. Well, Mum and Dad certainly hadn't. I wouldn't have had anything else to fall back on. But that's not where I was going. It's just at first, I felt me business was too new to be obvious about something so inflammatory. But now? I'm honestly a bit afraid to open the conversation. Which is stupid, because so many people would benefit from it if they just knew it was available."
Here Rosie chimes in in vocal support.
"And now well," Wren hesitates and blushes. "The way I thought of sex was a bit well…mechanical? I didn't really ascribe much to the act, other than if you weren't careful—and even sometimes if you were—you could end up with a baby."
"But that's changed?" Rosie asks curiously.
Wren squirms a bit, cheeks hot, before she admits, "there was a locked trunk under Gram's old desk. I finally found the key."
"And?" Rosie coaxes amusedly.
"It was full of books," Wren continues. "Books about sex, and things to do with sex."
"You like books," Rosie teases unrepentantly.
"Well, yeah! And I mean, I'm reading them and—fuck—there's so much I just didn't know," Wren groans as she covers her face with her hands. "But it gets worse."
"Worse?" Rosie cackles.
Wren attempts to pin her friend with a quelling look, but she imagines she's too red in the face to make it work. Then she hesitates before blurting out, "well, it's Tommy."
"Ah," Rosie sighs sympathetically. "That's a blinder if ever there was one. I don't know that God even realized how unfair it was to unleash that man on us mere mortals."
Wren nods a bit before shyly offering, "he walks with me every day now. Has for a bit."
"He does?" Rosie blinks in surprise.
"Yeah, see him at least once a day though usually more often," Wren continues. "He's gotten…more intense? I don't know how to put it. He just, when he's around he seems very focused on me. He's taken to setting his hand at the small of me back and wandering with me. And he's just there. Doesn't let his hand fall away if he can help it, not until he means to leave anyway. Most nights he walks me home and sits at me table, and we just talk for hours."
"Really?" Rosie breathes a bit wide-eyed.
"Yeah, and I think there's flirting?" Wren confesses.
"You think? What do you mean you think? I need more details!" Rosie exclaims leaning forward.
So, Wren relays some of the conversations she and Tommy have been having. Like the time about days off. Or the time they started a debate on eating habits—fast versus slow—and got stuck on a tangent about "tasting what you eat" and "savoring a good flavor".
"And I just don't know!" Wren slumps forward into her arms. "Is it actually flirting or am I hearing innuendo because of what I'm reading?"
Rosie seems to genuinely think on it a moment before she slowly says, "if it weren't for the fact he keeps reaching out to touch you, I could see the latter. That he keeps reaching for you? Meeting up with you? Spending time with you? Those are pretty good signs he's investing in you. To what end? Well, handful of years ago I could have told you. These days? Only Tommy could say."
Wren lets out a long heavy sigh, which earns her a pat on the head.
"I might not be able to give you much on Tommy," Rosie declares, "but I can help you sort out the contraceptive business. I don't mind doing a bit of networking for you."
"Yeah?" Wren perks up a bit. "I could pay you?"
Rosie snorts, "not a penny. You think I haven't been paying attention to what you charge for the stuff you keep me, and Danny stocked with?"
"It's no bother," Wren insists.
"Aye, and it's no bother for me to talk to people I would already be talking to," Rosie retorts.
"Thanks, Rosie," Wren smiles.
Rosie waves it away, and the conversation moves on.
We Dream A Dream (With Our Eyes Wide Open)His hand is a familiar pressure against her spine as he walks her home.
He'll head to the Garrison after this, she knows. He'll sit with his brothers, play cards and drink. She wonders what it would be like to be invited. If that's something a woman would be invited to.
Wonders how he'd treat the woman he considers his.
Would he pull her chair close, arm draped over her shoulders?
Or would he lean back in his seat and settle her on his lap, arm about her waist?
She's pulled from her thoughts as they reach her house. The motion automatic now to reach for her keys and unlock the door. She turns to him and wonders for a second if he would put off the Garrison if she invited him in. His blue eyes meet hers without hesitation and temptation burns at her restraint.
Somehow, she manages to get out a "thanks, Tommy." To which he dips an easy nod.
His hand hasn't left her though and she's reluctant to pull away.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she tells him—meant to be a question, but she thinks it comes out too certain to be anything other than a statement. She wonders if that's what happens to him when he states questions and leaves people guessing.
"You will," he agrees, voice low.
It's only when she feels the frame of the door that she realizes he's pressed close into her space. She tips her head back as she looks up at him. His eyes are the heart of a flame, she feels the burn beneath her skin. His other hand finds its way to her jaw, gently tilting her head the way he wants. Then his nose brushes hers and her eyes flutter closed.
She can smell tobacco, something bitter sharp, and hints of cologne. Then his lips brush over hers, faint as butterfly wings. Once, then twice, then three times. When he catches her bottom lip between both of his she realizes she's pressed forward into him, and her hands have fisted in the front of his jacket.
It's only a heartbeat before she's pinned back against the door. He's not just testing the waters now; he's drinking his fill. His mouth hungry and purposeful against hers. Achingly slowly he coaxes her, gently guiding her through the motions. When he bites her lip and sinks his tongue into her mouth, she has no control over the whimpering mew that leaves her throat.
Her arms are around his neck now, and she's up on tiptoe, pushing as close as she can get to him. Both his hands are busy holding on to her, lifting her up to him. His tongue moves against hers, his pace molasses slow. She whines, and a low masculine noise answers her. The vibration transferring with the sound and leaving her dizzy.
Then he breaks the kiss, leaving her gasping while he presses his face into her neck. She can feel his own erratic breath both where their chests meet, and in the tickle of his breath where his mouth touches her skin. She's caught, she thinks, caught up in a trap of blue eyes and black desire. She hadn't known to be wary and now she's caught, with no thought to get free.
He eases her back down, his hand cradling the back of her neck gives a gentle squeeze. She melts into his grip, something about the gesture bypassing any sort of conscious thought and speaking directly to her body. She feels a brief little kiss pressed against her pulse before he straightens up. Then their eyes meet again. He studies her face for a long moment, and she can't help wondering what he thinks of what he sees.
He brushes the fingertips of his other hand from her brow down her cheek. The gesture an echo of that night when he touched her for the first time. She shivers. His lips part to speak.
She wakes up.
As she stares wide-eyed at her wall she wonders if this latest twist in her dreams is better or worse than her recurring nightmare. She's sweaty, her skin hot and sensitive. Every brush of fabric against her sending prickling heat through her nerves. Her chest feels heavy, nipples tingling. The ache she's getting far too accustomed to is forceful, as if demanding she acknowledge the emptiness inside her and the sticky wetness coating her thighs. But there is a sweeter sharper twinge above it that's more difficult to ignore. Rolling over onto her side she presses her face into the pillow with her eyes squeezed shut.
Then she tugs her nightshirt up and off leaving her in nothing but her knickers.
She remembers how the book's instructions insist to take her time, to be patient with herself and let her body tell her what she needs. So, she traces her fingertips from her belly up to her neck. She winds her fingers around the back of the column of her throat and gives a little squeeze. She feels her inner muscles shiver and a trickle of moisture. She lets go and trails her fingertips back down imagining all the while a bigger, calloused hand.
His hand trailing circles around the soft swells of her breasts and teasing at her nipples. His hand petting at her belly and fitting itself to her waist. His hand grabbing her hip. His hand slipping beneath the fabric of her knickers and carding into her curls. His hand making space for itself between her thighs. His hand with it's long, thick fingers teasing circles around her pearl. His hand sinking deeper to tease at the source of her slick.
"Tommy," she sobs into her pillow. "Tommy, Tommy, Tommy."
His name a mantra on her lips as she falls over the edge.