NOTE:

Originally there was going to be a lot more content in this chapter, but I had to cut it roughly in half for the sake of posting something for you guys… and for the sake of my own sanity, to be honest! Be warned that the middle part (probably more than 50%) of this chapter is not at all suitable for work (wink-wink).

Chapter 23: Tender is the Night

BENEDICT

Once safely settled in the back of the cab, I text Tom "There in 5," but refrain from sending the same to Holly. She's rarely on or near her phone lately, and five minute warnings only serve to make her anxious. Though I'd been able to sleep on the plane, after being in the air for seemingly endless hours, the disorientation is heavy in my eyes.

But despite the jetlag, all I want to do is fall into Holly's arms.

I have no idea what to expect from her. I've prepared myself to abstain from making love with her for as long as she might need to, anticipating that in light of our recent catastrophe, being physical might prove even more difficult for her than usual. But I can't help hoping she'll at least welcome an embrace from me, even if she isn't strong enough to embrace me back. Now is a time for me to hold her close and with warmth, but not too tightly.

It feels as though three hours pass before the cab finally pulls up in front of the Bloomsbury townhouse. Tipping the cabbie, I opt to retrieve my suitcase from the trunk myself and carry it, heavy, over the sidewalk and up the stairs, my breath short in my chest as I unlock the door.

Tom is sitting in the entryway at the bottom of the stairs when I walk in, hand on the handle of his own suitcase of the belongings he'd brought over for his stay with Holly during my absence. He looks up at me upon the opening of the door and stands up. "Leaving?" I ask, taken aback by the hoarse sound of my voice after not really hearing it for over a full day, and by the fact that I'd forgotten to make any polite greeting.

"Yes," he says.

I know not to ask further when I get monosyllabic answers from Tom. I'm sure he's emotionally exhausted from being with Holly, who is surely grief-stricken in the way I have felt deep down, but have not been able to outwardly express for the past two weeks, my emotions too heavily clouded by the exhaustion that comes from my work. My body is already weak with the knowledge of how difficult it will be to bear, now that I have a few weeks of respite from filming.

Tom gives me an utterly haggard look. "I should warn you that she's gotten quite thin. She's been eating, and… holding it down. But the stress is strong enough to… take a noticeable toll."

He stops himself here, seeming as though he would like to say more, but lacks the energy. I feel tears welling behind my eyes, but not entering them. "I'm so sorry about all of this, Tom," I admit, my shoulders sinking. "I shouldn't have-"

"None of it is your fault," he intervenes with a shake of his head. He must be truly exhausted; he keeps avoiding my eyes. "I needed to step in, not just for the two of you. For my own…"

I nod my head heavily. I know what he means. I would have preferred to be here in London, for my own sanity's sake, but looking back on it I know that (though it may be selfish) having two weeks to process what had happened at the premiere on my own before returning to merge my own feelings with Holly's has given me (hopefully) the personal strength to help her, which I wouldn't have had if I'd stayed and tried to dive into the role of supporter in the midst of all the immediate chaos. "Thank you," I say, a simple truth in the words, the tiredness in my own voice seeping through. "I don't know what I would have done without you."

Tom half-smiles, half-grimaces. "Please. We don't need to speak of it anymore." He re-grips the handle of his suitcase, clearly ready to leave, and I can't blame him-I'm surely a difficult person to comfortably converse with, at the moment. "I'll see you this evening."

He seems to be struggling from something unsaid, but neither of us wants to speak very deeply right now. We'll unpack it later once Holly has been soothed and we have a moment of shared clearheadedness in which to talk about our roles in all of this.

"See you," I say, allowing all of these thoughts to be inherent through two words. I can see that he understands and he nods to me, pressing his hand against my shoulder before leaving through the door. I watch him walk down the stairs with his baggage (not just the suitcase), waving to a cab which is just driving up for him, and then I lock the door behind him.

I climb the stairs with my suitcase in hand and stand in front of my apartment door for what must be a full minute before I finally turn the knob. It seems, though I've only been away two weeks, that I've somehow lost the right to call it my apartment. Shame again rattles through my veins as I think of how I'd so soon left Holly after the miscarriage, and I almost don't enter. But in the end I do, finding the door left unlocked by Tom, setting my suitcase against the wall inside and closing the door again as I call out to Holly.

By sight the apartment seems empty and barren, but I can sense her presence in it. There's an anxious, prickly edge to the gentle warmth that usually greets me upon entering a place where she has been in the wake of a long absence. But this hint of bitterness seems only natural, and I don't even think to resent it, only wanting to see her whole self, bitterness and all, and to hold her, if she'll let me.

The sound of her barefoot footsteps precedes her: hurried and soft down the corridor from the bedroom. I stand paralyzed, and a moment later she emerges, her eyes bright and powerful with unshed tears. She stops for only a second in the kitchen entryway before continuing towards me.

She stops just short of my chest and looks up into my face. My body tenses, my heart thudding slowly. But then, at last, she steps forward, hardly relaxing, but wrapping her arms around me and laying her head against my chest. Carefully I embrace her, pressing one palm against the small of her back and holding her precious head in the other. We hold each other for a long time, not crying, not talking, barely breathing.

My head slowly clears. I sense her thinness in my arms, the thinness Tom had warned me about. She's lost weight quickly, not a dangerous amount, but enough for me to notice. The tears which had pressed against the backs of my eyes downstairs come to the surface, now. My mouth trembles of its own volition and my breath becomes painfully audible. I shake my head, my voice sounding low and foreign to my ears, "I'm so sorry I abandoned-"

"Stop it." Her small voice is muffled and beyond exhaustion against my shirt. "You did no such thing."

I can feel her tension against my body; I shouldn't have said a thing like that, but it's right that I told the truth, and I want her to understand what I mean. "Holly, truly, I should have found some…"

She pulls her face back, looking up at me with a blank expression and dark and tearful eyes, and says it just as I realize it, myself: "Ben… there was nothing that you could have done."

The raw, complete truth of it drills a hole into my heart. There was nothing I could have done, once it was already over. But that doesn't mean it wasn't all my fault in the first place. A deep, guilt-ridden exhaustion comes over me, and I wish that I could, if only for a moment, float in some outer space of genderlessness.

Upset, Holly removes herself from me, standing a short ways away and looking at the floor. "You're probably exhausted," she says, very quietly. "From the plane."

She's right. I don't think I can keep my thoughts and feelings straight much longer on so little sleep. "Would you hate me if I took a nap?"

She smiles, but a tear shines inside and then rolls out of her eye. "Of course not." I detect in her downcast face that she might actually be a little relieved, and I can't blame her for needing time to readjust to my presence. A prick of protective instinct taps at the back of my throat and I extend my hand to stroke away her tear with my thumb.

But she turns her head at the last moment, wincing and then quickly looking at me with apologetic eyes. "It's okay," she says, as she wipes it away herself. She takes hold of my hand for a moment as an apology for pulling away, and my heart throbs. I want to say something, but she half-shakes her head and I know she understands what's in my heart. This reunion is what I had known it was going to be: bittersweet.

Releasing her hand from its self-imposed obligations, I start for the suitcase. But she says, "Let me get it for you," and I do, knowing that chivalry is not always the best course of action, knowing how it can feel to need a task in times like these, and wanting to provide her with at least that.

In a jetlagged daze I walk down the corridor to the bedroom, Holly following behind me with the suitcase, which she sets against the wall by the closet. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I'm so exhausted that I can barely lean down to untie my shoes. Holly presses her hand to my knee, and kneels down to untie them for me. I know, looking at the top of her head, that I have been forgiven beyond what I deserve. Holly frees my tired feet, stands up to kiss my forehead shortly and meaningfully, and then leaves to draw the curtains since it's still just before noon. I sink down onto the pillow, not bothering with the complication of the blankets. A moment later, I hear her say she loves me, but I'm already too deep inside my mind to respond to her, and just afterwards, I've gone under completely.

When I wake at five in the evening, Holly has fallen asleep on top of the covers next to me, her arms folded in front of her slowly rising and falling chest, her knees tucked up close to her elbows. I watch her face for a long time, troubled even in sleep, her lips slightly parted, her eyelids flickering every few breaths, a slight furrowing between her eyebrows. I get out of bed very carefully without waking her, take a shower, get dressed, and write her a note when I see that she's still sound asleep. I leave the slip of paper on the comforter in place of myself, before leaving to meet Tom for Letters Live.

'Home at ten. Please eat something. I love you.'

HOLLY

I wake up just after eight at night to find that Ben has left for his show. There's a little slip of folded paper in his place, instantly recognizable as one of his treasured notes, and I open and read it before I even sit up. My mind feels slightly better than it did before I went to sleep (the stress of the day leading up to Ben's arrival had done nothing good for me, and the feeling of having betrayed his emotions by flinching away from him when he'd tried to touch me upon his arrival has faded a bit), but I am physically just as exhausted as it had been beforehand, as though by sleeping I'd somehow set my body back.

I can see from the note that he must have been able to tell (unless Tom told him… of course Tom told him) that I haven't been eating enough. I haven't done it intentionally… I haven't been doing anything intentionally lately. But upon reading the words in his handwriting a punch of guilt is dealt to my stomach. I let this be my motivation for getting out of bed.

I hadn't known what to think during my fortnight-long state of waiting in the dark. But now that I've seen Ben, I know I need to eliminate as many reasons for him to worry about me as possible. Though the thought of food makes me mildly nauseous (You've got to fix that soon, Holly), it's worth it if it means I appear a little bit more normal… if I cause my beloved a bit less pain.

After standing in front of the refrigerator for far too long I pick something simple that won't make me feel ill: an apple. I finish it while sitting on the counter, and afterward I manage a second, proud of myself once the two cores are in the trash can and my stomach is prickling with bitter gratitude.

Walking down the hallway again, I pass the closed door of the guest room. For a moment my mind (thanks to tiredness combined with a weird breed of deja vu) perceives Ben's arrival as a dream, and it seems that if I open the door, I'll find Tom still here. But when I do turn the knob and push the door in I see, of course, the evidence of his absence. The room is empty of light and any of the things he'd brought to keep himself mildly comfortable while he'd stayed here to supervise me.

I feel relieved, but also terrible.

I had cared (I still care) deeply about Tom, and he'd thrown me off in some way: even when I'd felt tears burning in my eyes because of his seemingly patronizing concern these last weeks. He'd thrown me off by helping me across the street in such a simple way when I'd seen someone in a red sweater that day over Christmas break; by holding me in the hospital bed after I'd woken up, nothing but a putty of grief. He'd thrown me off in the same way the good looks or chivalrous attitudes of guys at Columbia had thrown me off before, because it's such a good shock when a man doesn't make it his mission to hurt me, when a man is nice.

But then he kissed me. And though that hadn't necessarily made him not nice, it had still ruined it. I know his intentions couldn't have been malicious, and when I study the situation deeply, I find that there is not an ounce of contempt in my heart for Tom. Who I am angry at is myself, and at the fact that when he did it I completely froze. If he'd for some reason gone further, I wouldn't have been able to resist him. Not even in the physical sense… I would have jumped to disassociation before even trying to resist. I would have abandoned myself with frightening ease.

It's the sort of thing that never happens when I'm in bed with Ben, but which I still know myself enough to know could, in theory, take place. Ben is the only exception to the general rule of my tendency to become helpless, almost willfully helpless, in moments when I become triggered. I can easily see myself saying "yes" to someone like Tom (someone nice and someone I care deeply for) even if I strongly mean "no."

I shudder at the stark reality of it, and close the door of the room where Tom had been staying, not wanting to think about that part of myself. But it's too late, of course: the next moment, I think I hear the echo (just the echo, a detached and whispering ghost of a sound) of something behind me… someone… someone in a red jacket…

But I force myself not to turn around and look, like a child forcing themselves not to look under the bed at night. Squaring my shoulders, I go down the hall to the bedroom and deliberately shut the door against that part of my subconscious, chills attacking my spine.

Benedict is back in London. I have to get these miniature panic attacks under control. Now.

To distract myself, I straighten the blankets on the bed, ridding them of the wrinkles from where I'd been laying. But in the process I find myself leaning down into them, pressing my face into the place where Ben had briefly slept. I inhale softly. His scent has been absent from the bed for so long, and it relaxes me almost into sleep. But I pull myself up before that can happen, going instead to the suitcase that still sits beside the door where I placed it before we fell asleep. Hoisting it up onto the bed (so much for straightening the blankets… but that had been a pointless task, anyway) I unzip it to find that all of his clothes are already clean. I place them back into the closet and dresser, knowing he would have done it if he hadn't had to leave immediately for his live letter-reading show, and wanting to do him a favor. One of many, many favors which I feel, deep down, that I owe him.

Replacing the suitcase in the back of the closet, I steel myself and open the bedroom door… to an empty hallway. Obviously.

By the quietly ticking analog clock I have just over an hour and a half to kill until Ben arrives home for the night. I wander into the sitting room and look at the stereo, thinking of humoring myself with a Mia Wallace moment (minus the near-deadly cocaine, of course) but decide against it. I feel a strange urge to be quiet. So rather than spontaneously dance around the room, I sit on the couch and burn determinedly through the end of Anna Karenina, no less than one-hundred pages. If I leave it unfinished I'll become depressed, but if I don't get through it as soon as possible, I feel that I won't be able to exorcise all of this badness from my system. It feels as though, if I can just get through to Levin's revelation in the last chapter, I'll somehow be able to reset myself. And there's nothing I want more in the world than to be clean and good and strong for Benedict. And, who knows? If the show is strong enough to convince my own heart, maybe I'll actually start being these things…

At ten o'clock I hear the door and stand up from the couch, the book still hanging open in my hand though I'd long been staring at the blank half of the last page. I can tell that I almost nodded off in the course of the last half-hour (maybe I actually had at some point…) but regardless, I'm feeling exhausted and alert at the same time.

I hear the sounds of the door closing and Ben's keys being set down on the kitchen counter. Instantly, these sounds, and the undeniable sounds of Ben's footsteps (at first amplified by his shoes and then softened after he takes them off) inject something seemingly foreign into my system… desire. It seems to spring from my tiredness, but is strong enough to make my heart thud in my chest, overtaking me too quickly for me to have a chance to understand it. All at once my mind is filled with thoughts of sex. I feel my body in a way I haven't felt it since what happened at the premiere, and a sudden warm arousal slams through my stomach, forcing me to sit down again.

I calm myself, closing the book, placing it on the coffee table and folding my legs, tucking my knees to my chest and locking my wrist in my hand in front of my shins. I don't want to pounce on him… he's probably exhausted, and my sudden feelings make no sense. I try to channel my energy into making it not obvious that my undivided attention is upon Ben's approach down the corridor.

I experience a sensation of mixed relief and heightened tension when he appears in the doorway. I didn't really look at him when he arrived earlier, too trapped in my own awkwardness and desperation and guilt. But now my sleepiness has loosened me up, and I can fully appreciate the sight of him. Tugging my knees closer to my collarbones, I feel myself smile gently, my stomach erupting with butterflies but my face (thank God) remaining relatively cool in the lamplight.

"Hi, handsome."

He chuckles deeply with a humble smile, and comes to sit down on the couch next to me, reaching out to take my hand as he looks into my eyes with gentleness. I feel an almost animalistic need to open my body to him, and I lean forward to stand on my knees, kissing him at eye level. When our lips first touch there's a momentary flash of Tom, and I hesitate in a sudden wave of guilt… but soon all thought of what had happened on the kitchen floor yesterday fades out of my mind with the power of the kiss that Ben gives me in return for my tentative one.

The slow, probing connection of our mouths is open and deep, and my jaw goes weak without resistance when his fingertips stroke my face with a warmly shivering quality. But he soon pulls away, seeming to be restraining himself for my sake. I conceal my confused expression against his chest when he pulls me into a solid embrace. I can feel the strength of his body, muscular and controlled, around my smaller one; can feel his steady heart and his heat. After a few moments he lets me go again, holding me gently by the wrists as I lean back. I look into his face and discern that he's probably too tired to be interested in sex tonight. I need to turn myself off quickly.

"How was the show?"

"Oh, loads of fun, as always." He's taken to gently rubbing my arms, appearing at peace and completely oblivious to how hard it's making it for me to cool down. "You should see it when they release the clips online. Jude Law read a…"

At this moment his thumb rubs over a tiny raised pink scar on the underside of my arm. Where I'd cut myself in the bathtub shortly after he'd left. My eyes going wide, I shift my wrists out of his loosened grip and cover the mark with my opposite hand, effectively distracted, if only for a moment, from my arousal. Ben's hands hover in midair as he continues to watch my arm, and he looks like he's about to say something but I can't bear it.

"Please," I say, in a surprising near-whisper, before he can make some sort of apology. Were he to look at me in a certain way, I could start crying… but luckily he doesn't. I rub my arm with my hand and let it go, not wanting him to look at it, not wanting him to have to worry or think about anything. He doesn't deserve this. "Not right now."

I've been neglecting my body for a long time, and I know that some physical release would help me to cope with the difficult discussions that lie in wait for us. I don't want to dwell on my shame right now, I only want to celebrate Ben's return… and that doens't have to be with sex, but God, do I want it to be…

Yielding to instinct, I lean forward and let my kiss fall upon his lips again. His mouth responds to mine after a beat of hesitation, making my jaw weaken again with his restrained passion. The fabric of our clothing shifts as our bodies adjust to the demands of our mouths, and I soon become lightheaded. Ben draws his face away to let me breathe, searching my eyes with his, and I take advantage of the moment to lean back on the sofa, tucking my chin and looking down as I slowly lift my fingers to undo the uppermost button of my shirt, my breathing shaky. He looks at me and when I lift my eyes to caress his, his gaze slowly clears of whatever had been clouding them before, and begin to shine with his own desire. I reach out for him again and he kisses me deeply on the mouth so that I can't help but sigh against his lips, leaning forward and undoing the second button… and the third… stroking his fingertips against the newly exposed skin with every new button, kissing my chest down its center as he goes. My face is weak with desire, my whole body trembling, by the time his face returns to mine. I shiver heavily when his hands slide under the open shirt and gently shift it off my arms, casting it onto the floor. His eyes take me in as he slides his hands further up my back and lowers me onto the couch, sinking further against me with the delightfully unbearable effect of masculine heaviness.

Softly, maddeningly, he brushes his lips across my collarbones, and plants a row of kisses along my chest just above my bra. My back strains in the discomfort of anticipation and I bite down on the insides of my cheeks to keep from letting out an entirely wanton sound-though I'm sure he can practically smell my mounting arousal. If we're not going to go all the way with this, we need to stop at this very moment.

I put my hand in his hair, bringing his eyes to mine. My voice trembles with the weakness of desire. "We don't have to if you're too tired."

His voice rumbles in his chest as he smirks with a devilish look. "Holly Whitaker…" the sound of my full name in his deepening voice makes my hand tighten in his hair and my mouth falls limp. "The fact that I wasn't expecting this-" his hand reaches down to press into the warmth of my abdomen, and my breath catches and stops for a moment. "...doesn't mean that I don't desperately want to make love to you."

Thank God…

I finally release myself from the ropes of self-restraint, letting myself sigh and moan when he kisses my neck, blood rushing to my face and… other places. My body strains away from the couch, wanting more of him now and sensing my eagerness Ben nudges his knee between my reflexively parting legs, rubbing it through friction-giving layers of fabric against the place that is beginning to throb. A helpless sound warbles through my lips. "Cheater," I gasp.

His groan rumbles through both our chests. "I owe you," he says, in a promising, seductive voice that sends chills racing up and down my reactive spine. I can feel his physical intensity growing by the moment, and my nipples are as hard as ice inside the cage of the bra, around which his lips continue to mercilessly tease. Through heavy breaths, I manage to speak, my eyes heavy-lidded. "Please… take me to your bed…"

With what can only be described as a growl, he again devours my mouth, biting my lips with a tenderness that hides something terribly exciting. He's barely touched me yet and I'm already practically numb in the mind. "Mmm… Yes, madam."

Next thing I know he's picking me up, my legs wrapped around his hips, and carrying me towards the bedroom. I delight in the way he holds me so easily. In the world outside of the two of us, I often hate being smaller and weaker than men… but in bed with Ben, there's something tremendously sexy about being fragile and easily overwhelmed by the strength of someone who can be trusted beyond a shadow of a doubt. I can let go with him, and it feels like I've been holding on far too tightly in his absence. My heart pounds with gratitude that he's willing to do this for me, since I'm sure he would have preferred to talk before jumping into physicality.

Yet as he carries me through the bedroom door, I think twice about this assumption. I can tell he wants me badly, too; he has that look he gets only once in a while; a look that's different from his usual gentle, probing, pre-lovemaking glances… a look that's a bit dark, a bit possessive and dominant, and right now that's exactly what my body is burning up for.

He half-throws me down on the bed, exactly in the grey space between considerate and rough, and takes off his shirt before slowly, slowly tugging off my pants and underwear, sure to brush his thumbs over my scar and my straining hip bones on his way down. With what little strength I have left, I prop myself up on my elbows and unclasp my bra while he watches, letting myself tease him a little bit, shrugging the straps off my shoulders and slowly lowering the cups to expose my hard breasts to the cool air and his thrilling, darkening gaze. I toss the bra aside, hearing it land on the floor, and Ben groans deeply, commencing to climb onto the bed and sink between my trembling legs. I tug at his belt loops, bringing him closer and weakly savoring his mouth.

I can feel him getting hard and I reach down to undo his pants, his hands wickedly teasing my breasts as I shift my body anxiously so that I can slowly tug off his pants with my feet. I get the waistband to his mid-calves and he kicks them off the rest of the way, the slow movement of my knees and ankles along the outsides of his legs having made him unbelievably erect.

It seems that our physical forms are more in tune than usual, for I can feel how hot his body is becoming, and he knows precisely what I want, grinding against my most sensitive organ through the fabric of his boxers and then pressing two fingers into me, demanding that I maintain eye contact despite my instinct to let my eyelids flutter down. This is far from our usual gentle style, but not quite so rough as the time I'd asked him to fuck me in the shower over the Winter Holidays. The feeling he's giving my body is nothing short of perfect and I can't get enough. I could come right now but I know I can't yet…

His fingers fill me, and when he adds a third I can't help but whimper. I haven't so much as masturbated for two weeks, so I can tell I'm really tight, and I'm a bit nervous to take him. But my desire races ahead of me as his fingertips deeply massage my walls, my whole body shaking as he slowly pulls me apart. I slip my hand under the waist of his boxers, slowly wrapping my fingers around him as I look deeply into his eyes. He returns my gaze with a disabling sexual look of his own, and we can both tell that it's time.

For a moment he leaves me to put on a condom and lubricant, and I watch him from where I lay in the center of the bed, my gaze wearily tracing his powerful back and his arm in the lamplight. My own arm has reached out of its own volition and my fingertips stroke his elbow. Even this miniscule connection of flesh causes a coursing passion to shiver between our bodies.

Finishing his preparations, he returns to me and sinks towards me as I spread my legs for him. He strokes my body, looking down at me worshipfully but with a violent desire embedded deeply in his eyes, and stretches one of my legs up to hook over his shoulder, kissing my knee and my ankle.

Oh, no… Oh, yes…

The sound he makes when he enters me is nothing short of ambrosia. My body reacts unexpectedly, straining against his significant intrusion while my back simultaneously arches uncontrollably away from the bed. I feel my mouth widening as my breath hitches in my throat. "Oh, Ben…" He feels far larger than usual after a long dry spell, and though I already feel filled to the point of near-pain I can tell he's barely halfway inside of me.

"You're really tight," Ben groans, completely in tune with his pleasure and taking me along with him despite the ache of it. I grip his shoulders tightly as he pushes forward, but it starts to really hurt after another inch, and the way I groan strongly contradicts the pleasured weakness of my face. Still bracing his hand beneath the arch of my back, my hips still far from flush to his, Ben holds eye contact with me, his gaze deep with concern but still glittering with unshatterable arousal. "Is this still okay?"

"Yeah…" I manage, my whole body trembling. It's not that I feel like it's too late to say no, it's that I truly don't want to. My body is burdening me with a splitting pain but my heartbeat is racing ahead with desire. I weakly lift my lips and kiss Ben again, urging him to keep going. He does, very gently, but it still aches badly as he continues to press forward, and my traitorous eyes well with tears.

Why is this happening? I'm fully aroused and have been for long enough that something like this should be unthinkable… I wonder, for a moment, if this could have something to do with the miscarriage. And the thought of that brings a freezing cold, half-sobbing exhalation into my chest.

Ben senses the difficult time I'm having and stills, the size of him (still not completely) lodged inside of me causing a deep and almost intolerable pain to seep throughout my lower body. "Do you want to stop?" he says, lifting his fingertips to my face and brushing a lock of hair from in front of my eyes. He's surely confused by my breathing (it sounds like I'm on the verge of a panic attack) and the concern in his gaze is in danger of outweighing his eagerness to keep going. I can't manage to answer him and he says "Let's take it slower," moving to help my leg down from his shoulder.

"No, it's okay…" I say, stopping him. "I'm just a little sore."

Looking into my eyes, he persists very slowly and after a few torturous seconds I end up taking him all the way, whimpering and breathing shallowly as my hip bones finally mold against his strong body. He stays deep inside of me for a few moments, kissing my neck to help me relax and adjust. His body is trembling on top of me as he fights to keep control over his evident urge to start thrusting, and succeeds with an effort that makes my walls convulse around him with both pain and gratitude. Ben traces my jawline tenderly but dangerously with his teeth, a strained growl rumbling in his throat. Very slowly he draws himself nearly all the way out of me, and then starts again, groaning deeply as he grips my little body, manipulating it in just the right ways to help me take him more easily.

My still-intense pain is slightly eased by how physically pleased he seems by my tightness, but still on the third or fourth stroke it still aches to take him, my body seemingly set against me. I can tell he's holding much of himself back in trying not to cause me pain, but the thought of him feeling repressed makes me feel miserable, so I allow a tentative moan to pass through my lips. Unable to help reacting, Ben gives me a few quicker, shallow strokes that I can tolerate before sinking all the way in again. This time, the pain and pleasure are tied up together into an irresistible itch which Ben both incites and relieves simultaneously. I shudder and groan again (a real sound this time, not manufactured to soothe him) and Ben makes a honey-sweet sound of his own as my hips arch harder against him.

"Better?" he says, his voice hoarse with need.

I don't know how, but he's somehow fixed whatever had been keeping me from pleasure, and now it washes over me as though having made a deal with the aching, more thrilling than I remember it. "Yes…" I moan, as he treats me to a tender, promising thrust which almost undoes me right here and now. "That's so, so good…"

Once he's ascertained that I'm going to be okay, his body finally yields to the intensity it's been promising. Gradually he speeds up his thrusts, always burying himself deeply inside of me but being sure to avoid my cervix. Were he to truly let go and exert all of his strength, he could easily bruise it; a fact which excites rather than frightens me.

The sex itself soon becomes overwhelmingly good. Our physicality contains a mutual appreciation and pleasure, and I feel better than I've felt in two weeks. Ben overwhelms me with fast, hard thrusts, that dark glittering I'd sensed in his eyes earlier finally manifesting itself in physical movement. His body is unthinkably powerful, and the pitch of our connection makes my blood race through my body, my drowsy desire persisting as he overtakes me again and again. My body hits extreme peaks of anticipation, one after another, driven totally to pieces by the tenuous balance between painful burning and blissful burning, but we're both determined to prolong our orgasms for as long as possible.

Our lovemaking soon becomes competitive, as it very rarely does, and I grin wickedly as I make my first countermove. I unhook my leg from over his shoulder, moving slowly so that he throbs inside of me. I almost slip over the edge early, but we both hold on. Knowing what I want, he leans back, straightening his legs but remaining sitting up so that we can pleasure each other face to face, our bodies remaining locked together the whole time. My eyesight becomes wobbly from the influence of my violent heartbeat. His hands grip my hips tightly, doubling the force of his thrusts, and I moan into his mouth, massaging his ears with my fingers and nipping his lips with my teeth, eliciting a growl deep inside his throat. He holds me so hard that I'm sure I'll be bruised in the morning, but the thrilling ache I'm feeling right now is more than worth it.

My insides become sharply sore and needy, and in a frenzy I push him down on his back, riding him with a deep scooping motion that almost undoes him. He continues to grip my waist, slamming me down over him as we maintain a biting eye contact. I want to be closer to his face so I bend down, pressing my chest against his and breathing unevenly. The new angle at which he's mercilessly thrusting into me is unbearable, and I leave him to take over again with a meaningful groan against his neck.

Obliging me, he flips us over again, clutching my breasts tightly and going hard, without pause, until I have become literally senseless, out of my mind with deep, unbridled moans, which he returns in a deliciously low register. His pace and persistent depth is certainly painful, but the hurt feels so, so unspeakably good that I dare to urge him to go harder. It feels like I'm being actively cleansed of something, my body hot and tight around him as he draws strands of exclamation and profanity and praise from my mouth.

When he's almost finished, he starts moving more slowly, attentive to my breasts with his skilled fingers and stroking himself against my sensitive spots with each long, savored thrust, the way that helps me come when I'm on the bottom. I whimper, and though the pain is mounting again as I start to tighten around him, my pleasure is such as I've never felt before. We can both tell that it's past being a competition: we're walking hand in hand towards the edge, looking into each other's eyes and tasting each other's exhausted mouths to test when the jump will be taken.

I let Ben be the one to decide. He waits until I've dissolved completely into weak mewls before saying it breathlessly into my ear: "Come with me, my love…"

That's all it takes for me to snap, coming violently and with a loud wail, deeply satisfied, first seeing kaleidoscopic images on the undersides of my clenching eyelids and then becoming totally blank for longer than usual, floating in a blissful black darkness. Ben follows only a split second after me, drawing out my own first orgasm like taffy as he continues to thrust through his own. He moans in a delicious way that makes me come a second time as he continues to throb, so perfectly deep inside of me, and it's the best orgasm I've ever had. I shudder violently and grip him as tightly as I can, unable to make a sound though my mouth is stretched wide open. The deep, jolting waves of undiluted pleasure don't subside even slightly until at least twenty seconds have passed, and even then, I have lost all need for a sense of time. All that matters is this; all that matters is Ben.

As we both recover, he moves very gently inside me a few more times. My whole body is tingling or still numb, irrevocably spent. This is far better than being high. I feel like I've come back to myself, like I've come back home. I'm neither on a cloud somewhere nor deeply embedded in a small place inside myself. I'm just regular-sized, fully contented Holly.

Ben holds my head with both hands, kissing me deeply and staying inside me as he strokes my hair, looking into my eyes. He only starts to get soft again after an impressive minute, and then he pulls out gently before there's any cause to get nervous about the condom.

"I love you, Holly."

"I love you, Ben," I manage, my voice small and weak, but happy.

"I'll be right back," he says, setting me at ease with another deep kiss before his weight eases off the mattress.

He walks across the room into the bathroom to check and dispense with the condom and quickly rinse off. IN his brief absence, I crane my neck without moving my body and gaze at him upside-down, where he stands in the warm haven of the bathroom. My center is weak and tight but slowly cooling down, and my body feels deeply, meditatively relaxed. I lift my arms above my head and point my toes to stretch, smiling subconsciously.

But then something slips. Something imperceptible at first, like a pin dropping in a noisy room… but it's as if the people in the room are wired to detect the sound of a dropping pin, and slowly the room falls silent and all the attention falls upon the one who had been responsible for the tiny sound… and that person is me. I try to hold on…

Don't ruin this. Don't ruin this. This was so good. Don't ruin this. Please, please, please…

But I'm already clinging to the edge of the cliff, my weight (which had seemed nonexistent just a moment ago) dragging me down. I start to breathe, to do what I've learned to do to keep myself up when these spontaneous, deadly moments come pounding down inside my brain. But none of it works. My attempts are too last-minute and frantic, and I'm already slipping… already starting to slide painfully down the rocky face of the cliff. I become aware that it's causing me more pain to try to grab onto sharp handholds than it would be to fall freely through the air, and so I'm forced to eventually brace myself and shove my body away from the ciff, allowing myself to tumble down silently.

Damn it.

The warm light of the bathroom seems very far away. The outside of my body has turned cold and soon enough the warmth inside dwindles down to a spark, which is then stubbed out.

I roll over and lay face-down, unable to move, even to shiver. It's like I'm stuck now in that dark place deep inside of my body, but it's not warm or distracting, and the memories are locked in here with me, like rodents or spiders that I can sense but can't see, creeping around in the dark.

I'm not aware that Ben has come back until the moment before he touches me gently on the shoulder. This isn't enough time to prepare, in my current state, and I flinch involuntarily. In an instant, my eyes are filled with burning hot tears of resentment for this terrible duplicity of my body, content one moment and terrified the next. I realize that I've groaned aloud in anger at myself.

Ben knows I have a bad habit of feeling guilty after flinching away from him, and he tries to keep that guilt from consuming me, now, sitting gently on the bed with a tolerant, somehow loving exhale, not trying to touch me again too immediately. "It's okay," he says, his voice also tolerant and loving. "What happened?"

I fold my lips into my mouth and bite down on them, the heat in my eyes starting to pour down my cheeks. Then I release the tension in my mouth, breathing out cooly and quietly, trying to keep myself calm, at least. My voice is hardly audible when I speak. "I don't know what happened."

I can detect some guilt of his own in the pause he holds before responding. "Was it too much?"

"Not at all." I smile in the way crying people smile, a little foolishly but too tired to care if I seem like a fool. "It was really good. I just… I just… missed you so much, and now I feel… bad. I don't know why."

Another guilty pause, and by a certain sharpening of the silence at its tail end, I can tell what's coming next. "I shouldn't have-"

"Benedict." I cut him off, looking into his eyes and reaching out to put pressure on his hand before quickly withdrawing my own, my skin suddenly reacting badly to touch. I have his attention. "I wanted it. I really enjoyed it. It's only… then…" I have to take a moment to press my face into the blankets to dry my tears, speaking muffledly. "This has never, ever been your fault."

My crying doesn't progress but I do start to shake feverishly every few seconds. The sound of the monotone voice that had come from my mouth a moment ago is still throbbing in my ears, the way sounds throb in the ears of a person nearby whom a bomb has just detonated. My head stings.

I turn on my side and hold his hand tightly with both of mine, trying to be strong, but unable to smile with any sort of assurance for his sake. He lays down next to me and brings my body closer to his. I feel closer to him without clothes on, but some part of me feels too exposed. This body, this reaction, this mind… I'm all wrong, right now.

We lay in silence for a minute before Ben parts from me, for long enough to pull down the covers and slip underneath them. I join him, the weight of the blankets and the increased warmth of his body helping me to calm down. After another minute of silent breathing I can manage to speak sensically.

"I'm really sorry about this."

He strokes his fingers through my hair and gathers it gently at my scalp, looking at me sincerely. "You've done nothing wrong."

I pull my arms up in front of my chest and nestle more deeply against him, smiling sadly when his calf brushes against mine and tugs it gently into a comfortable tangle under the covers. "I'm so glad you're back. I don't know why… My body felt amazing and then I just plummeted."

I'm just trying to wrap my head around why this happened. Had it been too sudden?

I don't really want to admit to the answer.

Ben's breath is warm between our faces. "I don't require an explanation from you, lovely. I only wish… I could do something to stop it."

I manage a trembling smile, but soon can't hold back the sobs. He's simply too good.

He shifts under the covers and holds me tightly against his strong body, helping me to relax very eventually with the pressure, saying "I have you… I have you… You're safe…"

I can feel a tear of his own fall onto my temple, and whisper "Oh, Ben," against the skin of his chest, wishing that I could be perfect for him, as perfect as he is for me.

But he embraces me tightly enough for me to forget about that, to forget about almost everything. We just lay there, holding each other tightly for any number of minutes. I soon become exhausted again, having forgotten how sleepy I'd already been before we'd made love. My tiredness weakens me, and I start to have a hard time breathing comfortably in the overwhelming goodness of his grip. He can tell, and loosens himself around me, just pressing his hand over mine as we continue to lay close together. I open and close my eyes, looking at him, for another minute, and eventually keep them closed. Ben refuses to fall asleep until I've already slipped under.

I'm the first to wake in the morning. Ben must not have to go anywhere today, because there's been no alarm and it's already nine o'clock, the summer light and quiet city sounds streaming through the curtains of the window.

Carefully slipping away from Ben, I stand up out of bed to find myself stiff and actually limping a little bit, to my surprise.

Gosh… I think, as I limp as quietly as I can across the floor. I have to start stretching again.

In the bathroom, I flip on the lightswitch and bend down to wash my face. But in the process I catch a glance of myself in the mirror, and instead I remain standing, staring at my reflection.

I have to start stretching again… and eating.

I haven't seen myself naked in quite some time. In general, I haven't bothered to look in the mirror at all for the past two weeks. Seeing myself now is startling; I've lost some obvious weight, and not really in a good way. This, combined with the light bruises around my hips from last night, causes me to be a little bit frightened by my appearance. I want to look away and forget about it, but it's too difficult. I try to read my own eyes, but I can't.

A few moments later Ben appears behind me, very softly, in the doorway. I want to stand confidently but end up pressing the soft insides of my wrists to my chest, instead, looking at him nervously, sure that this had been part of why he'd included 'Please eat something' in his note to me last night, and embarrassed that he had known before me. But there's no judgment in his eyes, only softness as he embraces me from behind, bending down a little and resting his chin lightly on the top of my head. I tense for a moment, but then I let myself lean back a little, relaxing into him and watching his calm face by way of the mirror, no longer feeling the urge to hide myself.

"Good morning," he says, his voice deep and comforting after a night of apparently deep sleep.

I squeeze his hands. "I love you, Ben." My voice is slightly hoarse; just in the course of last night, I was more vocal than I've been since before the miscarriage.

He turns my chin gently and kisses my mouth. After a few gentle moments, he taps his nose twice against mine and then draws his face back, looking into my eyes, having abandoned the use of the mirror. "Do you want to talk about last night?"

His tone is light, giving me ample opportunity to say I don't. I feel dejected even by the question itself. I want to forget about it all and act like it never happened. But I know I'm just being childish. I shrug my shoulders and tell the simple truth of my feelings: "I don't think it's any use."

"Did you stop wanting it partway through?"

I can't help but smile a small smile. This is one of his recurring insecurities in regards to our sexual relationship and it has never once applied. I've always wanted him throughout the whole thing, and I've told him if that has changed, even if he's embarrassingly close to finishing. Never once has he failed to stop the moment I say something, and we've always found other ways to satisfy our needs.

But this time I can't answer the question with the usual answer. The truth doesn't fall into either a "yes" or a "no." I just don't know what to make of what happened. I'd certainly wanted it while it was happening, but as soon as it stopped, I'd fallen cold, and the lingering memory of that coldness colors our lovemaking in a bad light, in hindsight.

Luckily, my long silence prompts him to speak before I have to. His look becomes concerned and serious and I can feel his arms tightening around my waist. "Baby, you know I'll always stop for you, no matter what."

I can't manage to speak at first. I just shake my head. What finally comes out is something I know he won't want to hear, but it's what I feel.

"I don't deserve you," I say, my throat constricting. "And you don't deserve to suffer because of me."

Ashamed by the crestfallen look that promptly overcomes his face, I try to pull away from him but he only holds me tighter to him, making me look up at him with a gently forceful hand on the side of my face. "Holly," he says, his voice threatening to break. His eyes are filled with emotion and I know he's trying to relay something he can't believe I don't already understand. "Holly, You are a part of me. And I am in love with you."

How? I want to say. How can you be? But my throat has closed up entirely now, and I just have to wait it out.

He holds me tightly for another minute before he separates from me. "Are you okay with showering together?"

I nod my head.

We're both quiet from then on. He turns on the water to the perfect warmth and holds my hand as I step over the edge of the tub, looking upset by the slight limp and the bruises on my hips but taking mercy upon me by not saying something about it. Under the comforting stream of the water he is the one to rub soap over my skin, his touches bringing my soul enjoyment, but not containing any ulterior motive to force me into feeling sensual. When he's done, I wordlessly insist that he allows me to return his reverent favor, and I wash him, too. Not speaking makes everything more intimate and important, and I find myself blushing. Once we've finished, we step out into the cleansing air of the bathroom and dry one another off with a soft white towel.

We get dressed together, enjoying the silence and mutually deciding to maintain it as long as we can. Though it's summer, I feel chilly and in need of extra comfort. I slowly put on my long yoga pants, sweater and warm socks, strangely appreciating each part of my tired little body as the fabric covers it. Ben takes my hand and I slide silently along the floorboards at his side, to the sitting room. Anna Karenina, finished at last, still sits on the coffee table.

We sit and then lay down on the couch, Ben spooning me tightly as we rest with soft breath and meditative bodies, the green window open to the gentle breezes and sounds of the street below.

NOTE:

That was probably the saddest I've ever felt after finishing a chapter. Even with the miscarriage and self-harm scenes, there was something that seemed explainable about it all… but when you're grieving in the company of a still-living loved one, in a situation that should make you completely happy, that causes a specific breed of confusion and defeat. I promise that with Benedict's return, there is hope… in the next chapter, we'll start to see it shine through a little bit.

12 July 2021

On_Errand_Bad