"e.e. cummings"
Warning: contains adult material
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The snow provided a perfect excuse.
Inside the hotel bathroom she still felt the chill from the wet snow that had soaked her clothes, which she now hung on the bathroom door hooks, all the while watching herself in the mirror. Perhaps it wasn’t such a risk. Perhaps it was what he wanted. He had his own room, after all. But without question or discussion, had followed her to her room, and was lying out there now, carelessly sprawled across her bed, his boots dangling off the side as to not mess up the nice quilt the hotel had provided, but inadvertently creating a slushy puddle on the floor. What would he do? She smiled, examining herself one last time in the mirror, her hands over her flushed cheeks in disbelief of what she was about to do.
She emerged from the bathroom in a lavender lace bra and matching panties.
He smiled at her, not looking too surprised, and let out a slight laugh, which was completely impossible to interpret. “That does look more comfortable,” he said, turning his gaze back to the television.
The walk back from the restaurant had left him cold and wet too, the snow being almost knee-deep and pummeling itself from the sky as they walked through it. The memory of their walk was still fresh in her mind. He had wrapped an arm around her to keep her, or perhaps himself, from slipping on the invisible ice underneath the snow. They hadn’t been able to speak because of the roaring wind, which scattered and swirled the snowflakes around them. They had barely been able to find their hotel.
She resumed her position on the bed, but now lay on her side, watching him. He didn’t look at her, but continued to look at the TV. The news was on, and he appeared to be watching intently. She continued to stare at him.
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked, noticing the snow flakes which had adorned his hair had now melted, leaving it wet.
He shrugged, not answering. Instead he began commenting on the news story, the idiocy of it, but his eyes soon wandered over to her. His gaze moved to her hip, specifically the small strip of lavender which connected the front and the back of her panties. He stared at it, continuing his tirade about the news media. She just stared at him. His words made no sense, but she loved the sound of his voice, even when it sounded irritated, as it did now. He rolled onto his side now too to face her, occasionally asking her opinion about the news story, but not waiting for her response, all the while staring at the lavender. Mid sentence, his hand suddenly reached for it, coming to rest on her hip, absently stroking it, cupping it, eventually slipping his middle finger underneath the tight panty strap, entangling it around his finger, all the while continuing to talk. His finger quickly became wrapped too tightly in the material, and this seemed to unnerve him. He stopped talking. Completely focused on her panties now, he gave them a little tug. It was under the guise of trying to free his finger, but her panties slid down her hip, revealing a slight smattering of pubic hair.
He stopped immediately upon noticing, his finger sliding out. He put the lavender strap back in its proper place, took a deep breath, and rolled back onto his back. He put his hand over his forehead and closed his eyes.
Her heart sank. It had been a mistake. Was he scared? He must be scared. Why was she doing this to him? For a second she hated herself, but stopping didn’t seem to be an option. She kept picturing him in the scarf and boots he had been wearing on the set that afternoon, and which now were hanging by the door. Remembering the snow flakes in his hair and eyelashes as they ran to his trailer to escape the cold Bulgarian air. Remembering the time she had met him in New York for sandwiches. Remembering all the times in LA when he had been so kind to her, all the career advice, how he had helped her practice her lines.
“God what are we doing?” he started to say, looking at her, the mischievous smile that he had had upon seeing her emerge from the bathroom completely gone. He looked utterly lost, but to her his feelings were completely lucid. It was as if she could see through his eyes and into his mind, seeing everything he was feeling. “It’s just that - “ he couldn’t get the words out. She knew everything he was about to say and she stopped him, putting a maternal finger to his lips.
“Shhhhh,” she tried to comfort him. “I know. I know you love her. I know you would never leave her. It will only be one time. No one else is here. No one will ever know. It’s as if it’s not really happening.” She soothed him with gentle kisses on his face, on his forehead, on his cheeks. “Please.. . please don’t stop,” she begged.
He turned away, looking down, trying not to look at her, trying not to let her see how badly he wanted it too. She tempted him silently. She begged him with her eyes, giving him the most pitiably desperate lustful look she could muster.
He looked at her, but didn’t move. His expression was now impossible to interpret.
She sat up on the bed, not sure what to do. She noticed he was still wearing his boots, which were caked in melting snow, and mindlessly reached toward the end of the bed to his feet. She carefully unlaced and removed one of his boots, then the other. At the very moment the second boot hit the floor, she felt hands on the middle of her back. She felt the movement of the bed as he sat up, close behind her. Then her lavender hook was being released. He was wrapping an arm around her, his mouth close to her ear. With his other hand he slid one bra strap down her arm, then the other one, exposing her. She instinctively covered herself with her arms, and looked back towards him, her blonde hair falling across her cheeks.
“Stand up,” he ordered.
She immediately did so, accidentally stepping in the slush puddle.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he maneuvered her so that she was standing between his legs, facing him. He took both her hands and moved her arms down to her sides, revealing her body to him. He looked her body up and down, over and over, seeing everything, inspecting her, taking her in, finally settling on her eyes. While staring into her eyes, he once again entwined his fingers into the straps of her panties, but this time he didn’t let go. With both hands he slid the lavender straps over her hips and down her legs, exposing her completely. He now let his hands slide up her sides, possessing her, seemingly trying to memorize her. He stood up, stroking her hair, caressing her cheek, watching her tremble. Then without warning he grabbed her by both shoulders, spun her around like a rag doll and flung her across the bed with such a force that her hair slapped against the metal headboard, which missed her head by mere centimeters.
He stood silently, staring down at her, still examining her body, all of her body.
“Spread your legs,” he finally said softly.
Again, she immediately obeyed. Still fully clothed, he knelt on the bed between her legs. He circled his hands around each of her ankles, and gently pulled her legs high and spread them wide apart. Holding her legs firmly, he gazed down at her, seeing everything, seeing the physical evidence of how excited he was making her.
“Touch yourself,” he instructed, then added with a knowing smile, “the way you do when no one is looking.”
She felt herself blushing. No one had ever asked her to do that. She had never done that in front of someone. Looking up to meet his stern gaze, she bit her lip and let her hand run down from her chest, across her stomach, and down. She gasped out loud when her fingers made contact, losing themselves within the moist folds of her body. He watched, his eyes becoming very dark and intense, his breathing rapid, his hands tightening around her ankles, leaving what would later become a ring of bruises. She began going faster, using both hands, her entire body stiffening, her legs struggling to release themselves from his iron grip, panting, clenching her teeth to keep from screaming.
“Come for me,” he whispered intensely, although the command wasn’t necessary. At his words she convulsed violently, sitting up and throwing herself back down repeatedly, while he watched and clutched her legs, painfully spreading them even farther apart.
In the midst of the spasm she heard a belt buckle coming undone, and opened her eyes just briefly enough to see that the front of his pants were now opened. Without hesitation, he thrust himself between her legs suddenly, unexpectedly, burying himself completely, ruthlessly and repeatedly thrusting himself into her, lying over her, completely on top of her, holding her down by the wrists. She started to scream, her mind absolutely gone, but he anticipated the reaction and clamped a strong, reassuring hand over her mouth. However, this freed up one of her hands, and with it she grabbed the front of his shirt, shredding the material, clawing him, ripping at anything that threatened to separate his body from hers. He paused his thrusting briefly to assist her endeavor, removing the remains of his shirt. Then he pulled out, and began wriggling to get his pants off too. His struggle was taking too long, frustrating her. She sprang up, taking advantage of her momentary freedom, and yanked his pants off of his body, leaving him scratched and completely nude, lying at the foot of the bed, one arm dangling off the side.
There he was.
There he was, for her. All hers. She crawled across the bed to him on all fours, staring down at the part of his body that for so long she had only imagined. She leaned over slowly, holding her hair back with one hand, and let her lips slide gently over the tip, slightly annoyed when she realized she was tasting herself on him. She worked it deeper into her mouth, feeling every inch, feeling every ridge and vein, closing her eyes, going so deep she could feel his light brown wispy hair brush against her cheek. He liked it. Glancing up occasionally to gage his reaction, she saw he was delighted, the mischievous smile on his face once again, he lay back, enjoying it, watching her, one arm still dangling off the bed helplessly, the other bent beside his body, his hand squeezing itself into a fist. He shut his eyes and let his head roll back, giving in to it.
While his eyes were shut, she straddled him gently, working him deep into her body, feeling the connection and unity the simultaneous pleasure brought them both. He looked up at her, sleepy, relaxed, adorable. He suddenly looked so young, so boyish. He put his hands on her hips, the very spot where he had first touched her lavender panties, and gently helped her ride him, moving his hips with hers. She leaned forward, pressing her hands onto his chest, and leaned close to his ear.
“I want to watch you come,” she whispered to him.
He opened his eyes, a bit surprised at being given such permission so soon, but took full advantage of it, thrusting deeper, faster, bucking, almost bouncing her. The moment came quickly, and when it did he closed his eyes tightly and turned his head to the side, almost as though he wanted to hide. His breathing stopped, his muscles tightened, and she felt the explosion inside of her. His thrusts slowed, eventually coming to a halt, his muscles relaxed, his eyes remained closed and his head remained turned, away from her, a pained look suddenly overcoming his face.
Softly, quietly as to not disturb him, she dismounted and curled herself up next to him, resting her head on his chest. He still didn’t open his eyes. Neither spoke. They tried not to even think. As they gradually began to breathe regularly, he suddenly tightened his arms around her, holding her impossibly close, nestling his mouth into her hair.
“It’s like Doctor Zhivago,” she finally said, trying to lighten the mood. This caused him to smile at her, perplexed.
“Remember when they said ‘If our days are numbered, we might as well enjoy them?’”
He laughed. “That’s a movie, dear,” he whispered, bending down to quickly kiss her still erect nipple.
“I know, but that’s how it feels. Everything here reminds me of it. The snow. The wind. The cold. You. Knowing this is it, this is all we get. That after next week, I’m going back to New York and you’re going back to . . .It’s just that . . . it’s just that I love you.” Unable stop herself, she burst into tears.
He instantly held her and hugged her paternally and let her cry into his neck and into his shoulder. He held her like that for a long time, as long as she needed him to.
“Would it be . . . too . . . histrionic . . . to recite poem right now?” he eventually asked thoughtfully, in a tone that sounded slightly worried. Unsure of what histrionic meant, she could only giggle and look at him in disbelief.
“Please do,” she answered.
“Ok then,” he cleared his throat in mock formality, and began reciting portions of a favorite e.e. cummings poem, which he remembered from years ago, in a low voice, barely above a whisper. She rested her head on his chest as he spoke, feeling the reverberation of his voice.
“i fear no fate, for you are my fate, my sweet,
i want no world, for beautiful
you are my world, my true
and it's you . . . are whatever a moon
has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life,
which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart . . . with me
i carry it in my heart”