22. Tactile

The touch he bestows upon her is a surprise. It is almost gentle, and puts her on her guard at once, for he has never touched her in such a way before. Determined not to melt into his touch as she wishes desperately to do, she spins around to face him with guarded brown eyes.

"What's wrong, love?" she asks him warily, hoping it is something to do with his laundry and not a disguised attempt to hold a razor to her throat.

"Nothing's wrong," he says, and raises a hand. She flinches, expecting him to strike her as she sometimes thinks he would like to, but instead he presses his palm against her face, cupping her cheek gently, smoothing his thumb against her skin. She is unable to suppress a shiver as he continues this action, his hand much warmer than his pale skin looks.

"What do ya want, then?" She finds her voice as his other hand ventures upwards to splay against the back of her neck.

For a moment he stares at her intensely, his dark eyes blistering her skin, and she feels herself flushing. Then he moves his mouth towards her ear, his breath ghosting it as he rumbles lowly, "I want you."

Time seems to stand still as her eyes widen. She cannot comprehend what he is saying to her. It can't be true, not after all of the snarled words and harsh threats, not after months of working herself to exhaustion when he doesn't even notice her.

But, as he hesitantly moves towards her lips, tilting her head so he has better access, she decides to forgo caution for the sake of her desires. She is never able to resist him, and especially not when he is acting so affectionately.

At last their lips meet, and it is more wonderful than she has ever envisaged. For a moment they stand there motionless, she with her hands hung loosely by her sides, he with one lost in her messy curls, the other pressed against her neck. She feels her eyelids fluttering closed as his tongue sweeps her mouth. He tastes better than she ever imagined, of gin, and she presses herself as close to him as she possibly can, shivering uncontrollably in his arms. At last he pulls away from her, pushes an errant auburn curl out of her face.

"Mr. T," she says breathlessly, moving back towards him, but he keeps her at bay. She no longer cares that he is acting so strangely. Her heart has never pounded so hard. She has never felt this lightheaded. She has never felt so alive.

His eyes appear to be as bright as hers. "I hope you don't think I'm being too forward, Mrs. Lovett, but I would very much like to retire to your bedroom—"

He's barely finished his sentence before she's kissing him again, fingers working on removing his waistcoat. She pushes it off his arms and it hits the floor with a quiet flump. He kisses her back just as tenderly, enveloping her in his warmth. Her heart feels as though it could sing. Layers of their clothing hit the floor as they move from the parlour, and she begins whimpering a little between kisses as she feels the heat building in her lower half, his teeth raking over her earlobe.

She doesn't even realise that they are in her room until her back hits the sheets of her bed, and he hovers above her, his trousers the only thing preventing their flushed, naked flesh from touching. It has been years since she's had a man in her boudoir, and she is surprised by how unconscious she feels. Perhaps it is the appreciative way he is looking at her, as though she is an artist's masterpiece

He dips his head to kiss her again, nuzzling softly against her. And then he opens his mouth to breathe in her ear.

"I love you."

And everything is right in the world, everything is perfect, because he is exactly the way she's tried to make him over these past few months. He will always be Sweeney Todd, but here he is, proving Benjamin Barker is not as dead as he'd so vehemently declared when he'd returned to London after fifteen years' imprisonment.

He opens his trousers then, pushes them down his hips, letting out a sigh of contentment as their bodies meld together for the very first time. He is truly making love to her, and she cannot stop the tears from welling in her eyes as she realises that there are no more ghosts, just the two of them ensconced in their own world.

She awakens to find her pillow soaked with her tears, the space beside her stone cold, and Mr. Todd's constant pacing overhead, the same sound she had fallen into a slumber listening to. As the last remnants of her perfect dream are chased away by the first rays of light, Eleanor Lovett acknowledges rather bitterly that if Sweeney Todd does not manage to get there first, these haunting visions of the life she could have will drive her insane.