Something small and strangled, something that might have been a whimper, escaped her throat. A shiver ran through her, her fingers digging for a moment into his back. She was off the edge of the map now; the two boyfriends she'd had before had never gotten this far. Oddly, though, that thought did not distress her in the slightest. Of course, it was difficult to be even remotely distressed with Stephen kissing her neck, with his hands doing whatever complicated thing they were doing against her back. For a moment she almost forgot to breathe, but when she remembered she managed a faint gasp of a laugh.
"I think," she said, the words half a whisper, "I can live with with that." Her fingers were trailing down his back, tracing along his spine, exploring each scar she found. Though she'd inhabited his body, she'd never realized how many scars he had, and she memorized them by feel.
The straps undone, Stephen let the top half of the dress fall, smooth fabric tumbling about Susan's waist like the petals of a night-blooming flower that had opened all at once. There was no time for awkwardness or modesty, though it left her bare from the waist up, because then he had drawn her close again, skin to skin, and he was kissing her, more slowly than he had thought he would be able to do, trying deliberately not to rush.
The sudden intimate contact made her shiver again, her hands momentarily stilling. Her hair had up until now tried to hold its style, but it now gave up and tumbled down her back, tickling her shoulders as it fell. She'd never imagined how warm Stephen's skin would be against hers, how even just kissing him would fill her with a kind of sweet ache. She was quite glad, now, that she'd never done this before--that she'd never made it this far with anyone else. Her hands found his shoulders again as she kissed him, her fingers the faintest pressure.
He had no fear of her hair, after everything, one hand stealing up to tangle in it. When it fell, her whole demeanor changed, it seemed to him, just as it had seemed at the shooting range. She was pretty with it done up, proper and demure, but when it fell about her shoulders, she was something altogether divine, in a sense so literal as almost to be unnerving -- inhumanly beautiful: delicate white hair against delicate white skin, and that lock of pure black hair throwing it all into stark contrast. He had to draw back for a moment, just to look at her, to drink it in.
Susan watched him, searching his face once more. The expression in his pale eyes had passed what she thought of as the Look, transmuting by some internal alchemy into something that momentarily made her forget everything, even how to properly think. She'd wanted that look--wanted to see it, to know that it was hers. Her own eyes returned it steadily, mirroring back everything she saw in his. Her face, her body, the soft, shallow hitch of her breathing; all of it spoke of much, much more than simple desire.
She laid a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her palm, and leaned in to kiss him again--a soft, swift kiss, barely more than a brush of her lips across his.
He allowed it, though he wanted to catch her wrist as she touched him, wanted to catch her mouth with his as she kissed him. There was something trusting in those soft light gestures, and he did not want to answer them with anything like roughness. Nor did he want to shatter the moment with awkward questions. What she wanted, she would have, and if he had to ask what it was, he had no business being here. He drew her into his arms again and held her, kissing the top of her head. "If I can tear myself away from you long enough, I can move those things, or else we can have them sent along without us," he murmured, meaning the wedding presents that still cluttered her bed.
Susan stood still a moment, her head rested against his chest. She drew back and looked at him, smiling slightly. "Let's just move them," she said, and her voice actually cracked--she didn't think that had ever happened before. The last thing in the world on her mind was wedding presents, or weddings, or anything more than six inches beyond her body. Pulled away from him like this, the cooler air of the room hit her, a subtle reminder--not that she needed one--of how very bare her skin was.
So he did, stacking them on the floor at the foot of her bed, insofar as a fireplace set could be stacked with other things, which is to say, not very neatly; but the neat quickness of his movements made up for it, the same weird grace he'd had on the shooting range. Amid all the eccentric trappings of his everyday life -- the shabby careless clothes, the jumbled accoutrements of his professions and hobbies -- it could be easy to lose sight of that essential quickness, the way he moved, fluid as mercury. It was all stripped away now, literally, Stephen completely out of his habitat, and dressed only from the waist down in these smooth dress slacks unlike the grubby stuff he usually wore.
He was not neat in turning down the bedcovers, though, tugging them aside with no great care, and he would have done the same to the skirt of Susan's dress if she let him.
Susan sat and kicked her shoes off, moving with an almost-hidden trepidation. This was so far off the edge of the map that she could only hazard a guess as to how things went from here.
Stephen's odd, seamless grace was not lost on her; she'd seen it at the shooting range, but here and now she could openly appreciate it. Her stockings followed her shoes as she watched him, searching for some sign, as though there would be a magic signal that would tell her what to do next. She wouldn't have dreamed she had it in her, to so thoroughly put her trust in another person, but at the moment she had complete faith in Stephen. He would know what to do, even if she did not.
There was no magic signal, no special indication what should come next. Shoes already off, he did not join her on the bed, but knelt before her where she sat, and took both her hands in his, and looked levelly into her face.
"This can stop now," he said. "Not that I wish it to stop, and not that I think you wish that either; but it has to be said." And, having said it, he drew her hands to his lips, kissing the back of each.
Susan didn't realize her eyes were any wider than usual. She didn't realize how shallow her breathing had become, or the fact that her heart was racing. What she did know was that she most definitely did not want to end things here.
Mutely she shook her head, and somehow found voice enough to say, "Gods, no, I don't want to stop." She squeezed his fingers gently, though for his reassurance or hers, she didn't know. Her eyes held his, steady as ever; they said, as much as her words, that she would go wherever he led. The idea of her being led would have seemed laughable before now, but now...now she needed guidance.
"I thought not." He rose, then, and urged her to rise with him, just long enough that he could find somehow the fastening that kept that dress still clinging to her waist. It fell to the floor with the whisper of a rustle. It was the first time he'd ever actually seen her legs, he reflected as he quickly shed his trousers. He had not looked, when he'd been wearing her body; he'd been that scrupulous.
Traditionally, he supposed, this would be the right moment to tell her she was beautiful. It seemed a foolish thing to say. He might just as well tell her the sky was blue. Instead he drew her down onto the bed and tried to show her.
It suddenly seemed so much simpler, with him lying down with her. The feel of his skin against hers, a dry warmth beneath her wandering hands; the odd, spicy-rich taste of him as she kissed him. Her hair, for once completely inert, spread over the dark comforter like a kind of pale corona, strands of it tickling her arm as she wrapped it around Stephen's neck. She held onto him like a life-preserver; as if, should she let him go, she'd drown. Her other hand was touching his face again, his neck, his shoulder, light fingers dancing as she drew him down close against her. The weight of his body was a reassurance, a kind of anchor amid the dizzying whirlpool of the present.
It could be very simple indeed. The needless complications they'd introduced could melt away; all Stephen had to do was keep from talking. Anything he said could be a mistake. He wanted, very badly, not to make any mistakes with her now.
Her touches felt light to him, almost tentative, but his hands on her were sure and firm. They were a surgeon's hands, a cellist's hands, a swordsman's hands, for all their scars, and they were as eloquent as he could not be.
Susan couldn't have spoken if she'd wanted to. Stephen's touch was...dizzying; she'd been right in her speculations about his hands, more right than she had ever imagined. She didn't realize she'd shut her eyes until she opened them, and when she looked at him her gaze was almost fearless, now. Without thinking--for she was almost incapable of thinking--she touched his face again, as if she were just now seeing it for the first time. She wanted to kiss him, but she could barely breathe; instead, she traced down along his temple, the shell of his ear, the line of his throat, exploring every inch of his skin as though learning some alien language with her fingertips. If Stephen could be eloquent with his hands, she could at least try--try without words to tell him all she wished to say.
He nuzzled into her neck, breathing in the scent of her, sweet lavender and smoke over clean skin, and brushed her ear with his lips. "Were we at this wedding of theirs, right this moment, I would be watching you the whole time, thinking of this."
"I think," she said, the words half a whisper, "I can live with with that." Her fingers were trailing down his back, tracing along his spine, exploring each scar she found. Though she'd inhabited his body, she'd never realized how many scars he had, and she memorized them by feel.
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He could not say a word. His eyes said it all.
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She laid a hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath her palm, and leaned in to kiss him again--a soft, swift kiss, barely more than a brush of her lips across his.
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He was not neat in turning down the bedcovers, though, tugging them aside with no great care, and he would have done the same to the skirt of Susan's dress if she let him.
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Stephen's odd, seamless grace was not lost on her; she'd seen it at the shooting range, but here and now she could openly appreciate it. Her stockings followed her shoes as she watched him, searching for some sign, as though there would be a magic signal that would tell her what to do next. She wouldn't have dreamed she had it in her, to so thoroughly put her trust in another person, but at the moment she had complete faith in Stephen. He would know what to do, even if she did not.
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"This can stop now," he said. "Not that I wish it to stop, and not that I think you wish that either; but it has to be said." And, having said it, he drew her hands to his lips, kissing the back of each.
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Mutely she shook her head, and somehow found voice enough to say, "Gods, no, I don't want to stop." She squeezed his fingers gently, though for his reassurance or hers, she didn't know. Her eyes held his, steady as ever; they said, as much as her words, that she would go wherever he led. The idea of her being led would have seemed laughable before now, but now...now she needed guidance.
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Traditionally, he supposed, this would be the right moment to tell her she was beautiful. It seemed a foolish thing to say. He might just as well tell her the sky was blue. Instead he drew her down onto the bed and tried to show her.
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Her touches felt light to him, almost tentative, but his hands on her were sure and firm. They were a surgeon's hands, a cellist's hands, a swordsman's hands, for all their scars, and they were as eloquent as he could not be.
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