Chapter V
(Maura)
Work is stressful, to say the least. New York's murderers tend to be more active in early summer than in winter. I'm almost hoping that the upcoming August will bring higher temperatures, which might slow down the criminals due to heat-induced lethargy. I haven't been home before 10 PM most evenings, yet I've managed to attend the morning runs with Jane with only a few exceptions.
It's been three weeks since that initially awkward brunch, and it seems I've managed to break down a few more of Jane's walls. She now comes over every Tuesday — Casey's poker night — around 6 PM, and we cook together. It's the only day I make sure to leave the office by 5 PM. We chat about music, art, literature, and all the other things people usually talk about. Often, we watch a movie afterward, usually one Jane picks to fill what she calls my "educational gaps." Batman was quite fun, though some scenes were very unrealistic, and I couldn't resist making a few comments, which only earned me an eye roll and a tight-lipped smile from Jane. I can't quite get into those Quentin Tarantino movies, though.
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It's Friday night, and I've just returned from a few drinks with the detectives. I put the open bottle of wine from the previous evening back on the shelf — no more alcohol tonight, I decide — and instead set some water to boil for tea, humming softly to myself.
On my way to the bedroom, I glance at the clock. 00:45 AM. I smile. Jane would probably be proud of me; she always teases me for never going out and acting like an 80-year-old lady. "You'll never find a decent man like that, Maura," she usually winks at me, and we both laugh. A few times, the perfect response was on the tip of my tongue, but I always held it back. No, I won't find a decent man that way, but maybe the woman I dream of at night?
Lost in thought, I've removed my makeup and slipped into my black satin nightgown. I head back to the kitchen, where the water has reached precisely 167 F, perfect for brewing the exquisite green tea I bought from the little Indian shop next to my favorite organic grocer. I wait three minutes to avoid bitterness and am about to pour myself a cup to enjoy on the couch when I hear a light knock at my door.
Who on earth is bothering me this late at night? Should I even open the door?
There's another knock, this time more urgent. I walk to the door, grabbing the pepper spray from my bag on the way. Better safe than sorry.
I open the door and am momentarily stunned. The loud clatter of the pepper spray hitting the floor snaps me out of my shock.
"Oh my God! Jane!"
I pull her by the hem of her jacket into the house and close the door behind her. Her gray turtleneck sweater is bloodstained, and tiny red droplets still fall from her cheek. She's holding a blood-soaked cloth to the left side of her face. The blood is fresh. Her eyes are downcast, and it breaks my heart to see her looking so helpless, so broken.
Wordlessly, I guide her to the couch and gently push her down by the shoulders before carefully taking her hands to remove the cloth. She winces in pain, and I apologize more than once.
I inspect the wound and see a roughly 1 inch gash just above her left eyebrow. I know that head wounds bleed a lot and often look worse than they are, so I feel almost relieved.
"Stay here, I'll be right back." I need suturing supplies, ice, a local anesthetic, and bandages.
I reenter the living room and pause for a moment. How can someone be so beautiful, yet so broken? She sits on my couch with her head tilted back, eyes closed. Her black curly hair is tied in a ponytail, with a few stray strands framing her perfectly shaped face.
"Hey," I say quietly.
She flinches briefly, then immediately relaxes again.
"Sorry," she murmurs, the first words she's spoken since arriving.
"No need to apologize. Here, I brought you a cup of tea."
I look into her eyes and gently stroke her thigh as I set the cup on the table, then desperately try to find a good position to work.
After a few minutes and failed attempts, I sigh in frustration. This isn't working.
"Jane, I'm sorry, but there's no other way to fix this."
With that, I straddle her lap hesitantly and position her head perfectly to treat her wound.
As I clean the partially dried blood from her face with a damp sponge, she locks eyes with me. Her pupils are dilated, her eyes almost black. I fear she's about to have a panic attack and am about to say something calming when I suddenly realize how wrong I am.
It's arousal. Her breath is shallow, her body tense, her mouth slightly open, and her eyes, oh my God, her eyes will be my downfall.
I swallow hard and force myself to look away, repositioning her head to start disinfecting the wound. I whisper — though I don't know why I'm whispering — that the stitches might hurt despite the anesthetic, and then I begin to sew. With the first stitch, she grimaces and reflexively places her hands on my thighs.
My bare thighs. I glance down and see that my black nightgown has ridden up due to my position on Jane's lap. Far up. I close my eyes for a moment to regain my focus. Her hands are so distracting, especially as her thumbs begin to lightly stroke my bare skin.
Focus, Maura!
I try, really. But the warm breath against my breasts almost drives me mad.
A few minutes later, I'm done, and with trembling hands, I secure the white bandage.
"Finished." Why is my voice hoarse?
"Thanks."
Those eyes again, almost making me lose my sanity, and that incredible, husky voice. How can a voice be so erotic?
(Jane)
Since Maura straddled my lap, I can barely focus on anything but her. I smell the expensive musk shampoo she imports from France, mixed with her unique 'Maura scent,' and I can hardly think clearly. My hands have taken on a life of their own, resting on her thighs. The black, lacy nightgown hugs all her curves in the right places and has ridden up, so my hands now rest dangerously high. Her skin is so soft, and I can't help but let my thumbs slide over her taut legs. I feel the goosebumps my touch leaves and notice my breathing quicken. How can someone be so incredibly sexy?
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. White musk, Maura, and Chanel. Of course, she wears Chanel. When I open my eyes again, my gaze inevitably returns to her freckled cleavage and the full, round breasts, just the tops of which are visible. I realize she's not wearing a bra, and the thought of what lies beneath the thin silk fabric makes my face flush. I take another deep breath, hold it for a moment, and then release it in a soft sigh. The barely audible moan from Maura and the slightly erect nipples make my heart race. I blow gently towards her right breast and see the effect even more clearly: she arches her back slightly, and her nipple stands out even more.
I look up and see her close her eyes for a moment before continuing. Her face and neck are slightly flushed, and I can see her heartrate racing at her pulspoint.
"Finished." Her voice is smoky and deeper than usual.
"Thanks."
I don't know if I can trust my voice and manage only this one word.
I look into her gentle, hazel eyes and feel as if I can see into her soul. I've never met anyone as kind, as loving, as honest as she is. And also so incredibly sexy.
Her hands rest on my shoulders, her face just inches from mine. My gaze falls to her mouth, and I see the perfect, rosy, inviting lips that seem to beg to be kissed. She follows my gaze, licks her lips, and closes the distance between us with one last movement.
When I feel her soft lips on mine, it feels like my world is exploding.
We kiss, first slowly, somewhat hesitantly and exploring, before her tongue tenderly brushes over my upper lip, and I open my mouth slightly. I taste the sweet almond flavor of Amaretto with a slight tang.
"Amaretto Sour, Dr. Isles?" I tease her lightly and feel her mouth curl into a smile against my lips.
I kiss her chin, her cheeks, her nose, inhaling that unique scent she wears, which always drives me almost mad. My hands move upward, and with them, the black fabric. I let my palms glide over her buttocks and then gently run my nails up her back while I suck on her neck. She throws her head back and moans softly.
With one last movement, I remove the troublesome piece of clothing and revel in the sight before me. She's not wearing a bra. It's been a long time since I last saw a naked woman — aside from changing rooms and showers — and my memory might be a bit hazy, but I'm sure Maura's body is the most erotic thing I've ever seen.
"Do you like what you see?" she asks with a slightly smug grin and a raised eyebrow. She knows she's sexy and doesn't hesitate to flaunt it.
"Maybe." I answer with an equally mischievous grin before taking her left nipple into my mouth without warning, sucking and nibbling on it. I let it pop out of my mouth, blow on it, and see it harden even more. I turn my attention to her right breast while one hand slowly makes its way down her stomach to her inner thigh and the other massages her left breast.
Maura moans again, this time not as quietly and reserved as before, and I let my gaze wander upward to her fully exposed neck. My hand finds its destination, and I begin to gently massage her wet center.
Her moans grow louder, and I know that tonight I will make her scream my name. Her hips press against my hand, her back arches completely, and her hands are buried deep in my hair.
She pulls me up with a softly murmured, "I need you up here," and kisses me passionately. My other hand continues to massage her breasts, quickly noting that one is more sensitive than the other.
With a swift motion, I enter her with two fingers, stifling her loud moan with a deep kiss. I continue to rub her swollen clitoris with my palm while moving my fingers in and out at a steady rhythm. I can feel her riding my fingers, and for the first time in over three years, I feel myself getting wet. I kiss her, craving and greedily, as I press my fingertips against her front wall with each movement, immediately noticing her becoming uncoordinated and her walls tightening.
She breaks away from my mouth and completely loses control of her body as a long, intense orgasm overtakes her. She moans my name, over and over again, and it's the sexiest thing I've ever heard. Exhausted, she collapses on top of me, and I slowly withdraw my fingers to return the embrace.
I enjoy the feel of her steady breath against my neck and the repeated, soft kisses she places there. She gently massages my neck with one hand at the hairline, while her other hand rests on my hip.
After some time, during which we enjoy each other's presence in complete satisfaction and silence, she slowly kisses and lightly nibbles her way from my neck up to my jaw and chin to my mouth. Our lips are swollen and deep red, our kisses languid and tender.
Her other hand finds its way over my front, barely brushing over my breasts, down to my other hip, and gently tugs at my shirt.
"I feel a bit naked. Can we take this off?"
I don't know if I'm ready to let someone touch me yet. It would only take one wrong touch to trigger a flashback-induced panic attack. But how I long to feel her hands on my body.
"I-...I can't, Maura." I barely dare to look her in the eye. The guilt nearly consumes me. She has just given me everything, completely opened herself up, and I can't give her even a fraction of that in return.
But instead of the expected anger or disappointment, all I see in her eyes is understanding and — is it love?
No, impossible.
Who could ever love someone like me? I'm completely useless, weak, and worthless. I can't get anything right, nothing at all. I am nothing. A nobody. Maybe the world would be better off if I didn't exist. Maybe Maura, even Casey, would be better off without me in their lives. Yes, definitely. After all, I'm the one who regularly drives Casey into a rage, so much so that he loses control. It's my fault he's like that. And I deserve to suffer for it. Nothing good ever comes from my existence. I'm one big disappointment.
(Maura)
I'm completely naked and, to be honest, totally exhausted. I've had many orgasms, with both men and women, but this one was simply incredible. For a moment, I thought I would lose consciousness as that intense, long-lasting orgasm washed over me.
I kiss her, hoping that in this one kiss, she feels all the love that has built up inside me over the past few months.
I lightly tug at her turtleneck sweater.
"I feel a bit naked. Can we take this off?"
She hesitates, then: "I-...I can't, Maura."
She looks at me for a moment, then lowers her gaze. I notice her tensing up more and more, and her breathing quickens.
As much as I would love to reciprocate, I know all too well from my experience as a psychiatry resident how vulnerable victims of sexual and domestic violence are, and I doubt that Jane will let me near any half-naked part of her body.
I watch her for a few seconds, waiting to see if she'll pull herself together. Suddenly, I feel a drop fall on my still-exposed thigh. She's crying, and that's the last thing I wanted to happen.
I lower my head to her level and gently cup her chin to make her look at me.
"Jane, it's okay."
I whisper words of encouragement as I slowly and tenderly kiss away her tears.
"Everything is fine, sweetheart."
A few minutes pass, during which I caress her entire face with light kisses from my lips and gently stroke her cheeks with my thumbs.
To my own amazement, she suddenly grabs my hands and guides them back to her sides. I think I understand what she wants to tell me, but I still look into her eyes one more time, and she nods slightly.
With a slow motion, I lift the thin, blood-stained sweater, trying to keep my fingers in contact with her skin at all times. I kiss her mouth, lazily, unhurriedly, and only break the contact of our lips when I pull the fabric over her head.
I lean back a bit to admire her body and immediately notice how she lowers her head again. Yes, I can see the marks, the evidence of her hell on earth, but I refuse to let them ruin this moment.
She is well-trained, athletic. Her stomach is muscular yet feminine. The simple black bra fits perfectly, accentuating the flawless shape of her full breasts. Her collarbones stand out slightly, and I kiss the small mounds just in front of her sternoclavicular joints. Her arms are well-toned, the individual muscles visible, and her hands are slender with long fingers. Fingers that just minutes ago brought me great pleasure.
"You are beautiful, Jane." I murmur. My words startle her a bit, and she looks at me incredulously.
"Maura, I...everything...how can you..." Her voice fails, and tears flow again.
"No, Jane, you are breathtakingly beautiful."
My voice is soothing yet firm. I know her self-esteem will need much more than just a few kind words to get back to a somewhat normal level. But a start is a start.
I kiss her on the mouth again and begin to gently run my fingertips over her entire upper body and arms. I trace the bruises on her wrists and bring them to my mouth, where I kiss them as if I could erase the pain, the memory. I kiss the bruises on her upper arms and the strangulation marks on her neck, where his handprints are clearly visible, before returning to her mouth and kissing all the tears that now flow like streams.
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart."
It's the only sentence I whisper over and over as I cover every blue, purple, and yellow-green spot on her battered upper body, arms, and neck with feather-light kisses.
No, I can't erase the memories, but I can make new ones. I can't magically take away the pain, but maybe I can ease it.
Only when Jane cups my face with her hands and strokes my cheeks with her thumbs do I realize that I'm crying too. She seems so vulnerable. It almost breaks my heart.
After some time, during which we give each other sporadic, tender kisses, Jane slowly changes her position so that we are now both lying on my couch. She lies on her back, and I lie half on top of her, my head comfortably resting on her shoulder and her arm loosely draped around me. I feel a slight chill, and she reaches for the blanket that had been lying over the armrest under her head and covers us both.
"Better?" She murmurs, and I nod slightly.
"Thank you." We both know that I'm not just thanking her for the blanket but for the trust she gave me when she showed me her most vulnerable side.
She kisses me with a gentle brush of our lips before we both drift into a contented half-sleep.