She barely sleeps at all, the rest of the night. She is haunted by images of him, his sensuality now made real, rather than just an air he wears like a suit jacket. She wishes… she wishes she could have seen his face when he said her name.
When she does manage to blank her thoughts and drop off, she only dreams of him… of them.
Touches, light as feathers over her skin.
Movements like dancing, perfectly in sync.
Whispers, soft in her ears like the gentlest breeze, Lizzie, sweetheart, yes, now.
Scent, like whiskey and cigars, like cardamom and musk, wafting through her sleeping mind like a memory of home.
Just as the world comes into focus, when she thinks she'll see his face, close to hers, their lips ready, at last, to touch, hot breath mingling…
She wakes, abruptly, breathing hard, flushed and burning. She yearns for something she didn't know she wanted, still isn't sure she wants, something she may not be able to have.
She tosses and turns, sweating, frustrated, and unhappy. She watches the block as the seconds and minutes pass by, waiting for morning, so she can get up and move and shake herself free of this wretched desire she neither needs nor wants.
When the clock finally ticks over to 5:30, she decides it's late enough to get up and shower. She hasn't heard Red yet — she'll be the first up for the first time since they arrived in this luxury hidey-hole.
She pads to the bathroom, thankful that she doesn't have to pass his door to get there. Water, hot and hard, provides some relief. It streams down her body like a caress. She can picture his large, warm hand… God, she thinks, what is wrong with me?
But she can't banish him (dammit, Red); it's like a dam has broken inside her, a door been unlocked, like her mind and body both were just waiting for a chance, for a reason to see him this way. So she gives in to it, before she loses her mind and goes straight to the source, in the steamy heat of the shower.
She slides her hands down her body, everything soft and warm and sparkling. She cups a breast in one hand, tugging at an aching nipple; runs down to press into her clit with the other hand, circling. She tips back her head, eyes closed, and lets her sense fill with Red, as they had in her dream.
The touch of the water becomes his hands, stroking; the smell of spice and musk; the image of his chest moving and his hand, strong on his body… what does he taste like, she wonders, salt and scotch, bitter, she thinks, not sweet. She leans against the shower wall, panting a little, pressing harder and moving faster now. Little shocks start to run through her, and then there's the sound of his rumbling burr rasping her name, this, she thinks, oh, this, then tumbles over the edge.
Dry, dressed, and considerably more relaxed, she is in the kitchen making their coffee when she hears the click of a door and the rush of the shower coming on again. She wonders, waiting for the kettle to boil, if she could make oatmeal, so that he would be the one to come into the room to the warm and homey smells of breakfast. She remembers the gluey mess of her last pot of pasta, and decides against it, sighing.
She sits at the table, nibbling on dried apples while she waits for the coffee to brew, thinking. He'll never come to her; she knows him too well to think that he ever would. She can still see the look on his face, in the back of the car, ordering her not to care for him, his arrogance and self-loathing battling for prominence.
But she does care for him — she just realized that she could never admit, even to herself, how much, how deeply it runs. Since the beginning of their odd couple partnership, she has been drawn to him — she had thought it was the lure of her past that he dangled, just out of reach, but no, no, it was just Red all along. Just Red — his charisma and his three-piece suits; his dry wit and ferocity of spirit; his sharp green eyes and expressive and handsome face.
She has come to know him, not well — no one seems to know him particularly well at all, except perhaps Dembe — but enough to see the good man behind the shield of the bad one. She thinks, ruefully, that all of her biggest lies have been the ones she's been telling herself, that she chose to hide behind her anger when she thought he'd let her down — but in the end, he never really had. (Although she thinks it's fair enough that she has trust issues.)
When put to the test, she has been on his side, has fought for him every time — to defend him, she has killed. She can't even remember them all. At The Factory, the mercenary Yaabari, Connolly… God, Connolly — had even she realized that before this moment? How can he not see it, this man who is so very perceptive?
She knows that he cares for her — all the time he has given her, all his attention and solicitation. Her whole life, she thinks now, he's been watching over her for her entire life. So how can she shake him loose from his self-appointed role in her life?
She thinks that their time together has proven that the direct approach doesn't work — and even if she could get up the nerve to seduce him, it would immediately put him on the defensive. He gave himself away, though, she thinks, with that kiss — she can work with that. Back, then, to making friends on one hand, and poking at him with the other.
Sooner or later, he'll break again.
She's pouring coffee when she hears him behind her; she turns around with a smile. He smiles back; he's wearing another t-shirt and the loose pants he wore the previous day to work out in.
"Good morning, Lizzie," he says cheerfully. "You're up early today."
"Couldn't sleep," she answers, carefully laconic. "Strange dreams."
He quirks an eyebrow at her, but she just shrugs. Then she smiles again, mischief all over her face. "I was going to cook breakfast," she says, "But I figured we have a limited supply of pots down here."
He laughs, surprised, and comes up beside her to get his own coffee. "I'll take care of it," he says. "Up for a proper workout this morning, Lizzie?"
"I'd like that," she replies, inwardly gleeful. "If you think you can manage it, of course — yesterday's was pretty short. I was worried it was too much for you."
He barks out another laugh — she's back to sass, but he doesn't mind it so much, today. "Oh, I think I can handle it," he twinkles at her. "In fact, I think I'll enjoy it very much." And he moves past her to start on breakfast.
She goes back to the table, smiling inwardly.
So it begins, she thinks. And she can't wait.