Wild Rose - Pleasure & Pain

It was what he had expected as he came through. It was what he knew he'd find: Cora near her bed, removing her dressing gown, her slender form illuminated through her silk nightgown by the fire behind her. Her maid carrying out her evening dress, the silvery blue twinkling at every step, reminding him of the way she'd looked at dinner, making him smile. Cora's soft 'good night' to her maid still hanging in the air between them, the warmth of her lilt something that wouldn't evaporate for a few more moments to come.

Yes. He knew what he'd find.

Nearly forty years of this exact scene.

It was a scene as familiar to him as this room, its colors, scents, and sounds warmly curling around him, embracing him.

His heart took note of it all. The midmorning sky walls; the ever-present ghost of jasmine perfume and lavender hand cream; the tender padding of her palms, or knees, or hips against the mattress as she climbed into bed, the peachy duvet shushing softly.

He loved this. He loved this. His chest ached from it, and he drew in air. He stopped the emotion before it grew, for he felt it happening, felt the way it had quickened at seeing her and then immediately thinking of the way Doctor Clarkson would see her totally differently: a specimen in a jar; a butterfly pinned to a board.

He pulled air through his nose, loudly. He cleared his throat. Made noise to shake all that away.

She'd be alright. How could she not be all right?

He looked at her again, in her bed now, and she met his eye and tipped her head.

"I'm sure Bates is glad to be home again." Her voice smiled across the room, beckoning him to move to her.

Robert lifted his chin. He untied his housecoat. He felt himself nod. "I dare say."

She made a little noise in her throat, a small hum, and leaned away from him to switch off her lamp as he drew nearer. He watched the way her braid moved on her shoulder. He heard her voice as the lamp clicked. "And that dear little boy. I'm sure he's missed him."

It was darker. Robert sat on his edge of her bed, like always. He wiggled off each house shoe. He tried not to think of the way her gaze felt on him, watching his movements, waiting for him to swing his legs up and under the bedding, next to her. He didn't think about it, but he did it all the same. And once he'd settled, she shuffled down into the sheets, sending wafts of lavender when she lifted and arranged them around her.

Another thing he loved.

"Johnny," he answered after a moment. "The very image of Bates."

"Yes," her voice trembled higher into a soft yawn. He heard the tiny wet touch of lips afterward.

And another thing.

"And are you?"

He hadn't been paying attention. He'd been thinking of her. Thinking of tomorrow. He hummed his small confusion as he shifted deeper into his side of their bed.

"In spite of it all, are you glad to be home?" Her clarification was softer, closer, quieter as he rested his tired head into his pillow. "I know you're disappointed the filming isn't complete. But to be in our own bed."

Robert swallowed. That wasn't what he felt at all. He felt fear. Worry. The weight of dread in his chest that ached alongside the all-consuming love he felt for the woman beside him.

"Not disappointed, exactly," he managed around the knot in his throat. It felt tighter when her fingertips found his shoulder, tracing a soft line against his shirt.

She yawned quietly again. Oh, he knew she was tired. She'd even nodded off on the train.

"You should rest for tomorrow," he lifted away from the bed and away from her touch to switch off his lamp. When he fell back to his pillow, he noticed she'd moved closer.

Her fingertip returned, this time to his neck.

"You're right. And we should go early," she sighed. Her breath was strangely cool against his skin. "Tomorrow is Thursday; Doctor Clarkson's York meeting is at eleven."

But her words, her agreement they should sleep, did not match her movements. He felt her body drawing closer to his. He felt the shift of her presence, too, her sleepiness warming into something alive. Expectant. Pulling him in.

He wet his lips. "I asked for the car to be ready at eight."

She hummed again. And then, slowly, he felt as her long leg brushed along his own. The hem of his pajama bottoms lifted. He felt her skin against his, her ankle on his shin, and aching more acutely, Robert closed his eyes.

"Cora —"

But her face was close to his own. And then her lips pressed at his throat.

"Kiss me," she whispered, her leg moving fluidly to cover his own, anchoring herself to him. Her breath had been cool, but her body was warm through the thin silk gown, and it covered the chill of reality he couldn't manage to shake.

He felt her kiss at his throat, his jaw, his cheek. She kissed him the way she always did when she wanted him: pressing her soft lips to him with such force he could practically hear her thoughts. Her I love yous making gentle bruises. And closing his eyes, he felt, too, the way she angled her face up to his and could perfectly imagine the smile she gave him, her lips together, smooth and soft, a corner of her mouth tucking sweetly into the round apple of her cheek. Her come-hither look that had worked on him every time she'd given it.

The ache felt colder, and he let his hand go to her arm and he held her there while he tried desperately to sort the emotions he felt tumbling all around his heart. His head.

"Do you not want to?" was her next little whisper, even quieter than before, a small shadow of embarrassment in her voice; and he immediately nodded.

"Of course I do," he answered, eyes still closed, and he rolled toward her. "Of course," he repeated, letting his hand go to her jaw, her neck, her shoulder, her waist.

He shuddered a bit at the feel of her ribs beneath her nightgown, but pressed his lips harder to her own and rolled above her.

Oh she was thin. He hadn't noticed? How had he not? He could feel the angle of her hipbone in the cup of his palm and he resisted the urge to kiss her there. To mend it as a nanny would kiss a scraped knee.

No. He ignored it. He relished instead the feeling of her inner thighs, as she welcomed him willingly between her legs, and he felt her fingers travel their worn paths of his chest, unbuttoning button-by-button his top, then spreading her fingers against the flesh of his breast before helping him shake it off. Then taking his shoulder and pulling him deeper, closer to her.

Like always.

Another note. Another cherished thing.

He pulled in the scent of her, the earthy sweetness tucked behind her ear, beneath the softness of her hair that brushed against his eyes and forehead. He tasted the smallest bite of salt from her skin, and listened to the tender puffs of her breath against his ear, and he felt himself grow at that, and then even harder at the very quiet moan she'd made when he pressed himself against her.

It hadn't taken long, which surprised him. Age. His fear of tomorrow. The ache he felt at every kiss she gave him. He was glad.

And so was she, for, frantically, her fingers made quick work of his waistband, untying. Together, they shimmied him from his pants.

And her breath hitched at the feel of him.

Another thing. Another.

The ache colder still, and he kissed her shoulder, the little dip of her collarbone beneath her nightgown. He felt himself clumsily untie the little bow her maid had done at her throat.

She pulled herself to him to encourage him to take it all the way off, but he did not.

He swallowed and kissed her shoulder again.

His heart needed to adore her. Needed her to slow down, to wait a moment and let him cherish what may be one of the last times they … no.

"Darling," he said, as if in prayer. Involuntarily. And he had to quell the sudden burn of tears he felt that she did not notice.

No. She said his name as she purposefully drew his face to hers and kissed him. Her fingers were in his hair, her mouth was on his, her body angled upward toward his, inviting him — he knew — to take her. She was quick and eager.

He kissed her again. Prolonging it.

Noting the sensation.

But then, her eager, "Please." And he flushed. Harder still.

His hand pushed up the silk of her nightgown, and she broke away from him for a moment to undress herself, though he did not open his eyes to watch as he normally did.

And her skin was soft against his. And her lip trembled against his jaw, and when he felt her reach down between them, to take him in her soft hand, he worked more quickly.

He kissed her as he entered her. And the world slowed.

It felt as marvelous as always, his thoughts floating away, his eyes warming over, his lips parting against hers. He felt the touch of her nose against his. He found her hand with one of his own and held it; she gripped his tightly. He moved against her. And kissed her. And loved her, loved her so very much. He moved deeper.

And then —

It was a sharp little whimper. A different noise. It was not one of hers. Not familiar as every other moment had been. It was not one of her sweet sounds he'd memorized over the nearly four decades of their life together, of loving her this way.

And he did love her. He loved her.

He stopped and looked at her beneath him.

She looked worn. And thin. And tired. And when she opened her eyes and furrowed her brows, he immediately shook his head at her.

"What?" Her voice was mostly breath. She blinked. "Are you alright?"

"You gasped."

"Did I?" she brought her mouth back to his. "Oh," and she pressed her lips against his.

But he pulled back. He could feel her heart beat against him.

"I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

It could have been an echo of years and years ago: the first weeks together, when she had been merely nineteen and inexperienced and he'd struggled to understand the science and physics and geometry of how it wasn't meant to be uncomfortable for her. How on Earth could he avoid hurting her? And just as her response was years ago, she rolled her eyes.

"Don't be silly. I'd tell you if I was."

"You wouldn't. And," his voice caught, "I don't want to hurt you."

She laughed, or at least what should've been a laugh. Forced and strange. God. It was all strange. His heart breaking, inside of her, wanting nothing more than to hold her to him closer and closer still.

She shook her head, a taunt more than a tease. There was a sharp edge in her voice. "And so what if you do? We could have Clarkson patch me up in the morning."

But he couldn't smile at that. He couldn't meet her mouth that she angled up again to his. No.

He felt his chin wobbling, his lips turning into a frown, and he fought it. "There's no need to remind me."

Cora had seen it, too, he supposed, for she swallowed and brought her hands to his bare shoulders. And then his chin. And then chest. "I'll tell you if it hurts." He felt her softly kiss his arm. His shoulder. His cheek. "But it won't," she whispered quietly. "It doesn't."

And in a rush, she pulled them together, and kissed him, again and again, moving against him, and Robert kissed her too, moved within her, and listened to her little sounds he'd learned by heart, unwilling to tell her that she was wrong.

She was wrong because of course it hurt.

Every note of everything he loved. It hurt.