Disclaimer: They're not mine... but see how good it could be if I got them all the time?
A/N: So, I know this is a much-awaited chapter for a some of you, and a moment others wished wouldn't come... or, at least, not yet. I just want to say that I thought very hard about when and how this should happen, and this is the way I feel the story needs to be told.
Also, this will be my last update until either late Sunday or Monday... we're going to see my parents for my mom's birthday, and thus I will be away from the computer. I will be able to check reviews however, and they would be greatly appreciated, especially for this chapter. I put a lot of effort into making it right, and it's one of my favorites... so please let me know what you think. Enjoy!
Chapter 4: Love
The week passed fairly uneventfully—but it was the happiest I think I've been in my whole life—happier than when I was with Tyler, or Michael, or when I discovered that forensics was my calling. It was the simple things, the little things, that made every day a miracle stolen from a life that couldn't possibly be mine.
Gil had cancelled his reservations at the second hotel—his suitcase remained stubbornly in my guest bedroom, because he'd insisted that he spent the night in my bedroom by my invitation, rather than by his right. We slipped into an easy routine—like our whole lives we'd just been waiting to organize our days around each other, and by now knew perfectly how such a thing should work. His lectures were usually finished by mid-day, so he'd drive back to the apartment alone and have dinner on the table by the time I made it home.
On the rare occasion that he stayed late or I finished early, we would drive together, and I'd sit on the counter in the kitchen while he cooked, talking about anything and everything—occasionally pausing as he lifted a spoon to my mouth for a quick taste and an opinion. More salt? Too sweet? …As if it was ever anything but perfect.
I had raised protests about him cooking every night, at first, but upon tasting the food, they died quickly on my lips. He had been modest—the pasta was amazing, but so was everything else. I lean back in my chair, rubbing my stomach after a particularly filling meal of home-made sweet and sour chicken, fried rice, and lo-mien, and glare at him.
"If you keep cooking like this, I'm going to have to move up a size… you don't want a fat girlfriend, do you?" I tease. He grins at me.
"You'd have to move up several sizes to be fat, honey, and I would still desire you more fervently than any other woman on the planet." He hadn't commented on me referring to myself as his girlfriend, but it hadn't seemed to faze him either… I grin.
"Always the charmer..."
He leans over, kissing me quickly, his voice all business, "Now, we're actually going to make it to the beach tonight. It's gotten chilly, so maybe you should change into jeans…"
I glance down at my legs, bare from the knees down, in one of the few skirts I own. I grin, getting up and carrying my plate and glass to the kitchen, with him following closely behind me. "…Why the beach, Gil? I don't think you can mix me a drink there…"
He snickers at my attempt to sound innocent. "Is your mind always in the gutter, Miss Sidle? For most of us, beaches are romantic places to walk under the stars, rather than to disrobe and copulate."
I giggle, stopping abruptly so that he walks into me from behind. I lean back against him. "If I keep the skirt on, disrobing won't really be necessary…"
He groans softly against my hair but pulls back from me and moves around to the dishwasher, placing first his dishes inside and then taking mine from me and doing the same. He uses his business voice again. "Go change, Sara, and I'll put away the leftovers…"
I pout playfully, and he chuckles at my retreating back as I move into the bedroom. No sooner are the jeans are around my hips and I'm hanging up the skirt, than I hear a clap of thunder. I rest the hanger in the closet, and move to my window, peering out as bright light streaks across the sky and another rumbling clap fills the room. I jump when I feel Gil's hand on my shoulder, and turn quickly. He smiles at my reaction.
"Not afraid of storms, are you?"
I shake my head. "No, I… I love storms." I move closer and his arms circle my waist easily. I had always enjoyed them—my brother did too. We used to sit by my bedroom window and watch the sky flash brilliantly, and jump and giggle when the thunder boomed around us. He was a lot older, so maybe he had just been indulging me… but those were some of the best memories I had with him.
…And once again, a storm had given me the opportunity for a good memory… I grin. "So much for your beach idea…"
He shakes his head, sighing deeply, but it's playful. "I guess we'll just have to spend another night in bed… shame."
I grin. We had slept together—actually slept—every night since the first time he cooked for me… curled in each others' arms, talking and laughing and kissing freely—but nothing else. It seemed there was no room for middle ground between us—the minute the kissing became heated we had to break apart… we both knew that if we let ourselves go, we would never stop.
…Needless to say, however, my hormones were raging. I hadn't been with anyone in… god, four years…. And there had been an inordinate amount of foreplay to get no release. Even just looking at the man caused frustration… imagine curling up against his perfect, beautiful body, night after night, and getting nothing.
And more than that—I wanted all of him. I wanted him to be mine, and to be his, completely… to share every inch of myself with him. I wanted to feel like there was nothing in the whole world between us. …So I took initiative.
"Well, if you don't want to spend the night that way…" I pull back from him, slowly unbuttoning and unzipping the jeans, and sliding them back down my legs. "You're welcome to do something else." I step out of them, and turn my back to him as I pick them up, to make sure he has a chance to fully appreciate the lacy underwear, boy bottoms in basic shape, but high cut in the back—very high cut. I turn around, folding the jeans. "But, uh… I think I'm gonna crawl into bed."
I look at him intently. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, his eyes have closed, and his face is lined in concentration. I slowly pull my shirt over my head, watching to see if his eyes will open at the sound of my movements—I'm not disappointed. He groans out loud at the sight of the matching red lace bra, and his hands find my hips again, almost possessively, though he looks as surprised at their presence there as I do.
"Sara…" It's a warning, more than anything… I ignore it.
I step forward, just barely letting my body brush against his, and then back, out of his grasp. "Like I said, I'm going to crawl into bed… and you can join me, or not." I grin, and climb up onto my bed on all fours, literally crawling from the foot to the head, turning around slowly, and sliding under the covers. He looks like he's going to pass out from the amount of effort it's taking him to remain rooted to the spot.
And then, he gives in. He groans again softly, lets his shoulders slump off the tension and restraint, turning off the lights and quickly removing all but his boxers and a t-shirt, and slips into the bed next to me.
"For the record, this is all your fault…" His hands find my hips again, and he pulls me roughly—urgently—against him, capturing my lips in a searing kiss. My whole body heats, tendrils of fire seeping through each vein, as I kiss him back—I have never ever needed anyone so badly in my life.
His tongue teases my bottom lip and then his teeth capture it—his hands slide up my sides, taking a moment to explore my breasts and then moving around behind me to remove the offensive red lace. His mouth breaks from mine, and I'm gasping and breathless as it finds instead what his hands neglected. He's biting each nipple gently, in turns, and sending thrill after thrill down my spine.
I know that I'm moaning out loud—that my head is tilted back and my eyes are closed—and I know that my moans drive him crazy the way his terms of endearment do to me. His hands and mouth are frenzied and I feel how badly he wants me between my thighs. I grind up against him and he moans into my breast, his hips jerking up hard in response. My whole body is nothing but a delicious burning and my hands claw at his back, tearing the t-shirt over his head and capturing his lips with mine again.
But something is wrong… his hands slow, gripping me tightly, and his mouth separates from mine. Our eyes meet, and then he's pulling away from me, sitting on the opposite side of the bed, running his hands through his hair.
I sit up slowly, disoriented, an unwelcome pout drawing my lips down, wondering what I did wrong… He flinches when I place a hand on his shoulder, and I draw it back, as if burned, but he turns and snatches it from the air, mid-retreat, and brings it to his lips, kissing my palm gently.
I tilt my head at the gesture—no one has ever kissed my palm before—just the back of my hand. It feels… more intimate, more personal, somehow, and I find myself trembling at the action. His eyes catch mine, and they're still clouded with desire, but they're remorseful also. I don't understand.
"Sara… you… you deserve better than this. Even… even if you're okay with it, even if you want it as much as I do…" He closes his eyes, as if steeling his resolve.
"Our first time should be slow and deliberate and sensual... not rushed and urgent and… and the result of me apparently not having enough self-control to turn down red lace." He says, angry at himself. "…I, uh… I think I'm gonna go get some air." He kisses my palm again, more fervently than the first time, and walks out of my bedroom. I sigh deeply, trying to wrap my head around this.
Granted my sexual experience was not vast—out of all my consensual encounters, I had only really had three 'first times.' One was overrated, boring even, another marvelous and sensory, and the first… pleasurable, but new—the excitement probably more responsible for the resulting orgasm than the boy himself.
Ken had not wanted to wait, obviously, and Michael had wanted to wait because I wasn't ready… If I had been, we probably would have made love in the first week. Tyler had made me wait… a long time. But for at least half of it, neither of us had been ready for sex, and then it had been… he had been afraid I was leaving. He wanted to be sure I was going to stay, that we'd be okay, before we made love.
Gil was the only man I'd ever been involved with who cared about waiting—even if I was ready and willing and… and wanted it, as much as he did—simply because he thought it was what I deserved, as a woman he cared about. …I slipped from the bed, pulling on a tank top and pajama shorts, and grabbed his t-shirt and the Harvard pants he'd been sleeping in every night, despite now having his own pajamas here, making my way out to the living room.
The balcony of my apartment was strange—something with the way the plumbing had been installed meant that my bathroom was placed differently in this unit than the others, which threw off the layout of the living room. My balcony, therefore, opened to a dark area of the building, with no windows close by, and a heavy tree cover. The privacy of it had been one of the main reasons I'd chosen this place.
He stood out there, in only his boxers, bent over the railing with his head in his hands. It was raining out, and he had to be freezing.
I sigh, dropping his clothes to the couch, sliding the door open behind him and wrapping my arms around him from behind. "I'm sorry, Gil… I won't… I won't try to tempt you anymore. Come inside, it's freezing out here."
He turns around, wrapping his arms around me—he's soaking wet, but I hug him tightly, because he seems like he needs it. "I'm… I'm sorry, Sara. If you don't want me to stay anymore, I can… I can find a hotel room for the night, or stay in the guest room…"
I kiss him gently, to quiet him, my head already shaking. "I want you to stay right here, with me. I know why you want to wait, and… and it's really, really sweet. I'll try not to let my hormones make me forget again, okay?"
He holds me tightly, rubbing my back, the wet fabric of the tank top slippery under his fingertips. "It's not even… it's not about waiting, so much anymore. Everything has been faster with you—I've never looked into someone's eyes and known that I was going to be with them, you know? I just… I want it to happen the right way…"
I turn my head up, to look into his eyes—they're such a dark, deep blue, out in the night and the storm. Rain falls down his face carelessly, and I'm overwhelmed by how beautiful the storm makes his stoic features. I find myself leaning into him unconsciously, and our lips meeting gently—as if in awe of the moment and the person we're sharing it with.
It slowly, sensually deepens, making me feel lightheaded and disoriented and… completely lost. Before I'm even aware he's broken the kiss, he's lifted me up into his arms, an arm around my back and another in the crook of my knees, and then he's kissing me again, into breathless, dizzying senselessness.
I hadn't realized how cold I was until we move back into the living room and the warmth. He carries me slowly and gently, our lips never parting, back into the bedroom, and lays me down in bed with the reverence of one placing their god on an alter to be worshipped.
And he does worship me—he slides me out of my wet clothes, reverently tucking the blankets around me while he slips himself out of his wet boxers. He sneaks beneath the blankets and lies gently on top of me—far enough down that I can't feel his length between my legs, though I want to.
His kisses are slow, soft, and they obliterate my senses once again—until I'm reeling with them, uncertain of even my own name. My hands trail lazily over his back and into his hair, and the kisses deepen—they aren't faster, or any more urgent, just deep and full and purposeful. His hands slide up my sides, brushing against the sides of my breasts, peeking out from between our bodies, and then up to cradle my face between them and wrap into my wet curls.
I moan softly, gently, and push my body closer to his—again, not from urgent need, but from a deep longing to be as close as possible to him—I want every inch of our bodies to touch, and be connected. I want to bury myself inside of his chest, so that I can be a part of him forever.
His lips move to my neck, and though they keep the same tone and tempo, my breathing becomes ragged. His body is on one side of me now, supported on his elbow, and his free hand draws delicate trails with his fingertips over my chest and stomach, my hips and down my thighs, brushing tantalizingly close to their apex. My breath hitches, and my senses reel, and I can feel his lips form a smile as they move across my skin, down my body, covering every inch in gentle goose bumps.
The only sound in the room is my heavy breathing, the sound of rain on the windows,—the occasional clap of thunder, muted now, as the storm is farther away—and the gentle pucker of his lips as they explore every inch of me. His fingers brush over my thighs again, teasing me—and he bites down gently on a nipple as he slides a finger inside me.
Another low moan escapes my lips, loud in the quiet, but somehow seeming to fit into the music of the moment—the rain and the breathing and the movement of his adorations. His lips continue—trailing across my stomach, back up, between my breasts, up to my neck and across my shoulders—always gentle, loving, and caressing, as his finger becomes two and he starts a slow rhythm inside me.
The rain picks up outside, as if to match my increased breathing—his more purposeful movements—and his whispery voice intones lyrics to our very own love song—a poet's serenade, as my body moves against him, my mind reeling from the sensations, his lips caressing their way back down my taut and delirious body.
"If questioning could make us wise, no eyes would ever gaze in eyes;…" his pace increases, his thumb pressing gently, teasingly, against the bundle of nerves there and I whisper a breathless "Oh god" into the stillness.
"…If all our tale were told in speech, no mouth would wander each to each..." His lips capture mine, quickly, and again his fingers move more rapidly within me, my hips rising in time.
Against my neck, "Were spirits free from mortal mesh…"
Kisses trail to the center of my chest again,"…and love not bound in hearts of flesh,"
He kisses above my heart, slowly and deliberately, increasing the pressure of his thumb at the same time, causing me to release a shuddering gasp. "…no aching breasts would yearn to meet, and find their ecstasy complete…"
I'm slowly coming undone, my mind and body both dizzy with his attentions, my hips rising against him, trying to force him to drive me over, but he isn't finished, and he doesn't give an inch.
"For who is there that loves and knows…" He moves his body directly over the top of mine again.
"…the secret powers by which he grows?" He settles himself against me, moaning gently himself at the feel of me, and yet still delaying his entrance.
"Were knowledge all, what were our need…" He slides slowly against me and my shuddering body rocks up to meet him, desperate now to feel him within me. "…to thrill and faint and sweetly bleed?"
He makes certain that his eyes are locked on mine as he gently moves against me again, causing me to moan and tremble with anticipation, my hands digging into the sheets at my sides."Then seek not, sweet, the "if" and "why"…"
Keeping my gaze, he positions himself against me, "I love you now, until I die:…" finally, finally, pushes inside me slowly, our moans mixing together with the sound of the rain, and gasps out huskily, "For I must love, because I live…"
He moves slowly, his words ragged, whispered in time with his movements, "…and life, in me, is what you give."
"Because She Would Ask Me Why I Loved Her" by Christopher Brennan
