Coming Home
by
Katrina
E-Mail: prosper4@hotmail.com
Disclaimers: Uber SAME SEX angst and LOVING AHEAD.
Thank you to my beta readers. This story would not be here without you.
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Unlike the romances one reads, it wasn't passion from the start. In fact, from the beginning, it was like we felt nothing at all for each other. Then everything changed. It was as if a small, almost invisible blaze had finally found the wood.
It really began on a warm summer evening, when I believed I had the house to myself. I had been looking forward to a quiet night after a rotten day of waitressing for unappreciative, low-tipping customers. I was an artist, but I had what my family called a "real" job. I could have debated with them on that.
After being on my feet for hours, I'd been dreaming of kicking back and relaxing. That night I knew I could even do a long, hot, bubbly bath without interruption.
No one was supposed to be at the house.
But when I saw her, I realized that maybe my day hadn't been so bad.
"You look like hell," I told her bluntly.
She just shrugged those powerful shoulders at me.
I gazed solemnly at her for a moment, deciding what to do, and opted to see if she would respond. For a moment I thought she was going to blow me off. But then, she sighed.
Her long hair hid her face and draped over her shoulders like a fine black shroud. The silky mane slithered down her back as she roused herself to answer. Her thin blue tank top was ripe with sweat, though she didn't smell unpleasant. The scent reminded me of warm spice in the air - not peppery, but sweet like pumpkin pie and salt. Her azure eyes were liquid and dark with unshed tears and lack of sleep. She resembled a bandit with the shadowed half-moons of her eyelids. Her face, usually tawny with health, was puffy and splotchy, with red spots marking her cheeks. She was trembling, so slightly and quickly that it was violent. I felt her shakes in my bones.
She'd been crying.
"Yeah, well," she said, as she wiped at her cheek, "I've been wrestling with angels."
I couldn't decipher that. "Angels or devils?" I asked, wondering at the biblical reference. I wasn't sure I wanted the clarification. From some stories I'd heard, I knew she had a history of violence in her youth, and she surely was no Jacob to be climbing heaven's ladder. But I didn't doubt her dreams were of dark things. There were clues in her actions, I thought. At night, if she didn't have a companion of some sort, she went to bed late and arose early.
The idea of nightmares was just a supposition on my part. She never talked of her dreams to any of us, least of all to me.
The dark woman sighed so deep in her chest it was a moan. "Neither," she replied. She leaned against the dining room table, her palms flat and wide against its pale surface. "Both," she said.
"Oh, that helps," I said in mocking tones, surprising myself. "Now I absolutely know what's wrong." My inner critic chided me. Why was I saying anything? I had plenty of other, more pleasant things I could be doing. That bath was calling.
Her response was muffled but blunt and meant to be cutting. I could have been offended, but I was in too bad a mood to be. The day had been long and tedious. Instead, I told her I'd love to, but the vibrator needed rest.
I was as startled by the comeback as she was. That was a quick one, for me. Smart retorts usually came days later. The good news was that the joke got a tiny but actual chuckle.
I hesitated, wondering if I should press the advantage. Then, with a spurt of bravery I didn't quite own, I placed my hand lightly upon her shoulder. "Wanna talk about it?"
I asked the question as gently as I could, but she winced anyway.
Why do the strong always act so pained at the mention of talk?
But she didn't shrug me away.
Instead, she deigned to look at me. She shook her head. Then the morose woman backed away from my hand and the counter. She sniffled.
I couldn't believe it was her sniffling.
I knew little of her pastimes. I'd never inquired about what she actually did for a living, though there were times she was gone for days. But as long as she brought in her share of the house check, I didn't care. The woman, however, was a natural athlete and a great one for sport - whether on field or off.
Up to this point I'd believed nothing ever got to her. She was an icon of impassiveness. She was sometimes so Amazonian in her total stoicism that I often forgot she could bleed, let alone hurt. For some reason I retained that notion, even though I had seen parts of her run red now and then.
Despite myself, like everyone else in the house, I'd taken to watching. It wasn't only because she was easy on the eyes. She was an intense, vital woman, and every task she took on seemed to have more meaning - more power, because it was Her.
On field, in brutal coed, amateur bouts of the new rugby - a mutant, sometimes bloody adaptation of the original, the game had finally found its place in the States - she was particularly savage and gorgeous. She looked breathtaking in that black and gold uniform, which was amazingly skimpy for an article of clothing that got as much of a beating as it did. She was an excellent and clever player. She should have been a professional, but I guess her other job called to her as much as the game did. To observe her play was intellectually stimulating, and in the company of my friends, I'd shouted myself hoarse more than once.
Not that she noticed. She was never home after a match.
During the games she would smile so broadly, so viciously. It was a grin of a wild thing that sent shivers up my spine. When she smiled...oh, it was a sight. It was like a piece of heaven escaped. There was just enough hell to make you want it or frighten you to death if you were her opponent. She gave no quarter and took none. If she got hurt, she made sure that *they* got hurt worse in return.
From what I could tell, there was no fear in her - only a vibrant confidence in her skill and a glee in the sport that sometimes gave me tingles. Even her opponents thought she was something special.
Off the field...well, that's where we didn't click. I lived my life in the same house, but outside the robust sphere of her influence.
I'd met the occasional sport or two in the morning while eating breakfast. They were usually fans of hers and wore their love marks like trophies. Though it wasn't like they always had something to show. Sometimes it was just that they looked so... so... I don't know... extremely satisfied. It was as if, in that one night, she'd made all their dreams come true.
And it wasn't exactly that she was popular, so much as she was... immensely compelling, to either gender, in an exotically untamed fashion. Yet despite her obvious attributes, I never seemed to be affected by her - that way. Except for maybe the day I met her.
I remember thinking that I knew her from somewhere. But after several unsuccessful queries, I was convinced it was just one of those unfortunately awkward things.
She must have resembled someone I knew. Only I couldn't think of anyone. But she made it abundantly clear that she didn't know me from anywhere. While she was never unpleasant to me when we did socialize, she also kept her distance. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought she was afraid of me, but that was a silly notion that I discounted early on.
I knew I was being overly sensitive.
We were truly opposites.
Friends from old times would come to visit her at the house, and she would warn them not to tell stories. But they would sometimes confide in me.
I have a way with people. Maybe it's just that I really am a good listener, even though I can hold my own in a conversation. Perhaps it's just that I have a trustworthy face. They would talk of interesting things, despite her caution.
She, apparently, had come from a fairly well-to-do family. She had wanted for nothing. But there were problems. Her eldest brother died of mysterious causes early in her life. She didn't deal well with that. She took to the streets and made a name for herself, but not the kind that gave people warm-fuzzies.
How she wound up at the house, I still didn't know.
Despite her rough-and-tumble youth, which only lent credibility to that untamed, dangerous air that always surrounded her, she was spectacular to look at. That was half her shock value, I think. The impact of her presence alone stunned her victims into awe. Then she conquered with the quickness of her mind and sensuality.
Meanwhile, I reeked of rural background.
I didn't resent the assumptions people made about me. They were mostly true. I was from a small town. I was a people person. I did like vanilla sex.
Which was not a bad thing, to my thinking. Though maybe such was not as exciting to the people who hung around her. From my perspective, however, one could add flavors to vanilla, so I didn't feel any competition. Still, I liked to think that I had my mysteries and that I was attractive enough. And it wasn't as if I lacked my own fantasies.
I wasn't nearly as straight as I looked.
It was just that I never brought my own partners to the house, so nobody really *knew* what I liked. But I'd learned my lesson. I'd lost one too many date prospects to her unintentional influence.
She drew them like bees to honey.
That did tend to irk me. Though I didn't hold it against her. She *was* very beautiful. And I was...not. At least, not the way *she* was.
I was a peasant compared to her.
Though I guess that didn't explain why we hadn't quite connected.
Maybe it was just that we never hit the same emotional wave in a room.
Or I wasn't her type. I suspected that was it, so I never sought to change our situation.
I was creative - writing, poeting, sometimes singing (though poorly, I admit). I thought of myself as a performance artist. I was usually laid-back in my communication with others, but sometimes I liked to get out there and do my art. My friends jokingly started calling me a bard because they caught me at an impromptu session in the park. I was just telling some old stories to a few kids, but the nickname stuck.
People thought me sweet, though I did have a fierce temper. It just didn't spark very often. But when it did....well, it might be pride to say it, but even she'd backed off. Though maybe she was just respecting my space. Unfortunately, I'd awakened way too early that day.
I'm not a morning person at all.
I suppose the lack of sensual heat could have been anything. Time of day. Moon of the year. Or simply roomateitis. Though I know for a fact she and Julie Harrison fucked on more than one occasion - loudly and right above my room. And then there was Peter Wainwright, my best friend from when I was way young.
Even gentle Peter, normally an excellent cook, had fallen under her spell. He had been her bad boy for a month. It had been hell for me and the housemates. The food had been terrible.
I'm sure that's why they broke up so amicably. She was affecting his art. Or maybe we simply complained enough. Besides, she introduced him to that nice buff chick soon after.
I didn't know. I rarely thought about it and hardly worried. The fuck-me vibe apparently wasn't happening for us.
But it was a relief, in a way. I didn't have to worry about being one of the heartbroken after.
So our relationship wasn't sexual. I could live with that, though sometimes I did wonder what it might be like...what she was like.
When I'd asked Peter about her, he'd just smiled and handed me a piece of banana nut bread. As I waited for the answer, I took one bite and moaned with bliss because the treat was so moist and sweet, with just the right amount of crunch. He'd wiped a crumb from the side of my cheek, said that she filled him up and was far better than the perfection he'd just handed me.
I was jealous, but only for a moment. Then I realized he'd been exaggerating and gave him a sly small punch in the arm. "Nothing can beat this," I'd said.
"Some things you just have to feel for yourself," he'd responded.
"Not likely," I'd replied. "She can barely abide me." I swallowed another lovely bite. "This, however" - I waved the small bit that remained meaningfully - " loves me." I looked thoughtfully at the bread, then polished the last bite off with a happy grin. "Or better stated, I love it." Peter gave me a quiet smile and another piece of the delectable food for the compliment.
Our distance from each other was well known to the housemates. Though I wished she and I could at least be friends, as I was with everyone else. The fact that we weren't gave me an intense sense of loss that I couldn't quite place the reason for. I could get along with almost anyone.
But I had my friends, and she had hers. Lots, it seemed. Her companions ranged from ultra-intelligent to sweet to scary and tough. I got along with most of them. Just not with her.
I knew some of her friends were just fuck buddies out for an adventure. From what I was told, she took them to some mighty wanton and satisfying places. They were certainly loud enough. There were times I thought her bed was going to bust right through the house's thin walls, what with all that forceful grunting and pounding.
I believe, whatever may have been going on in there, she was always the top. Though I couldn't prove it. She just seemed the type.
Like I said, nothing ever got to her.
Tonight, however, was different. She looked like she'd been kicked right where it mattered. I knew this because there wasn't a bruise on her, except in her eyes. Her lips were curved in an interior kind of pain. She looked worse than I could have imagined.
It was definitely heartbreak, of some sort.
Whatever else she might be, with that I could empathize.
I tried a different tack.
"Wanna beer?"
She looked a little startled, as if she hadn't expected such a question from me. And she hadn't. I tended to stick to cider or 7Up...something bubbly, but without the alcoholic kick others seemed to prefer. She was aware of my preference. All my roommates were. I can't even begin to tell you how often I was the designated driver to some rollicking party.
I never told anyone the reason for my teetotaling ways, but surely they'd guessed. The secret was, I didn't always hold my liquor well. I'd zonk out after a couple of cupfuls. Besides, I hated feeling out of control. So I chose not to drink. And they usually needed me alert - just in case, anyway. So I tended to use drink medicinally, instead of socially.
This was a rare offer I made to her. It was also medicinal. She wasn't the only one who'd had a bad day. This once, I seemed to be hiding it better.
She stared at me with those anguished blue eyes, analyzing my sincerity. Her lips pursed in speculation, and then she nodded curtly. She was up anyway. Might as well.
I knew that was what she was thinking.
In a couple of steps I was in the kitchen. A few moments later we were out on the back porch, looking at the stars and feeling the warm wind brush lightly against our skin. The almost white housecat accompanied us, buzzing past our legs to jump against the fence guarding the house. I didn't want to think what creepy-crawly our Cougar, the longhaired fluffball, was chasing, but this was the time of early grasshoppers. Poor buggers.
I propped my legs on one of the empty, dirty white lawn chairs and wiggled my toes. Despite the heavy emotions in the air, the freedom from shoes felt nice. I considered whether I should disturb the peace that had developed between us. I took a small sip of the bitter liquid and remembered why I wasn't a strong beer drinker. She sighed beside me. Her own long legs were crossed, and in this season of shorts, they were smooth and ran tan to almost dark.
I envied her, since I freckled rather than tanned. That was the curse and joy of being a redhead, even an almost blonde one like me. Even now, though my hair had turned a burnished gold because of the sun, there was that strong hint of red. Of course, if a body didn't believe me and mistook me for the average blonde, I had a nice curly patch of proof elsewhere.
The night frogs had taken to conversing, one rising pitch to one falling. The house lights, those that were on, were in back of us. The orange glow made her hair appear even darker than normal. I turned my attention away from her, took another swig and set the bottle heavily on the arm of my chair. I was determined not to be the first one to speak.
"There's the Big Dipper," I said, pointing up at the constellation with my beer.
So much for waiting. But it *was* my favorite star construction set - if only because I could actually find it. I didn't really know the others, not until later.
I felt her giving me a sidelong glance. I ignored that. "You think it's half full or half empty?" This was a good question for openers, the type for backyard philosophers, I thought. It was safe.
She snorted and, ever the pragmatist, responded, "It's not any kind of full."
"Mm," I replied, waving my bottle. "I dunno."
She turned toward me and seriously said, "What? Are you thinking there's milk up there? They are just stars. You know, big ol' balls of gas vying to be the center of gravity."
Man, that had some cynical overtones. I shook my head. I'd never claimed to be firmly rooted in reality. "For you, maybe," I grunted before I drank. "To me, they're something totally different."
"Oh?" she queried, not quite tolerantly. Now she was leaning heavily against the armrest nearest me, beer hand dangling carelessly.
I smiled for what felt like the first time in hours and scanned the heavens, enamored. "Stories," I said. I burped gently, then continued. "Those stars are just full of stories. There are whole worlds out there..."
She didn't let me finish.
"You mean planets. Life 'out there' hasn't been proven."
"It's not the proof," I said as I waggled my beer hand at her. "It's the 'what if?'"
She blinked owlishly at me. Then she grunted and turned around in her seat. I heard the drop of the empty bottle and the popfizz of a new one being opened. I wondered if it was always going to be like this between us, this spare communication that seemed to go nowhere.
I regretted that. It felt like a deep loss for something so time-limited. We hadn't always been roommates, nor were we going to be.
Maybe I was just trying too hard. We were two people in a group household. There was no rule that said we had to even be nice to each other. That is, as long as we did our chores.
I settled back into my chair with a sigh, feeling the disappointment. It was as if we were missing something fundamental, something important, but I wasn't sure what.
Nor did I really know how to go about fixing it. If it needed fixing.
We sat there for I don't quite know how long, with me nursing my single drink and her well on her way to a third. I'd gotten comfortable. Cougar had decided to take on the occupation of bellywarmer instead of grand hunter and was settled on my lap, purring.
It felt good to run my fingers through the cat's soft hair, and inane as I knew the remark was going to be, I turned to comment on the sensation. "He's so soft."
She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. The bottle was tipped back to her lips, and I had the weirdest urge to be that beer.
I turned my attention back to the safety of petting the cat. But my mouth started to ramble.
I do that when I'm nervous.
"I had a horse this color once," I commented, drawing from a memory so distant that the details were a little fuzzy. "Well…it was really a pony. I think." I looked back up at the stars, letting my fingers do their thing for Cougar and drifting. "And it wasn't really mine." I found comfort in the twinkling lights. "Though I did get to take care of her." Cougar stretched against my hand, and I found myself getting the feeling.
The story feeling.
I loved that sensation of inspiration.
I started getting into the rhythm. "Actually, I was kind of afraid of horses. They're so tall." My beer-swilling companion snorted. "Well, they are." I blinked in memory. "Especially when you're little." I paused for effect. "I remember this one time…My dad ran this rental stable, and sometimes he'd let me help him.
"That could be fun. Depending. Mostly I got to help muck the stables, but sometimes he would let me take a ride out. Just to keep those beasties in shape. My favorite was this one pony." I lifted my hand to measure. "She wasn't as tall as the others. My dad let me near her because he said we had an…affinity." I grinned a little to myself. "Plus I was short.
"I got into the habit of taking her out the most, and I babied her. You know, with apple treats and stuff." There was an answering hum from my tall dark companion. She was listening.
"Anyway, I was getting ready to take her out one day, and there were some visitors. The owners." I stroked Cougar's head gently and slowed the pace of my telling. "And some buyers. This girl and her parents." I paused. "They were going from stable to stable, you know, checking out the merchandise, and they finally came to the stall where I was brushing this pony down."
I was caught up in the memory and couldn't stop.
"And I was aware what they were there for…Dad had warned me." I paused and took a drink. "I think it was love at first sight." I took a breath. " I mean, who could help it? She was perfect." I blinked back a sudden urge to cry. "She looked so beautiful.
"I remember the voices mostly. It was like listening to a brook, right until they were close. 'That's the one,' this girl was saying. I remember feeling…I dunno, like a bit of knowing was sliding through my body. They could see me, but I couldn't really see all of them because of where I was standing. So I stepped out, you know, just to say hi. And to find out who was doing what. They were all kind of celebrating the decision and making their deal. And I remember this girl glancing back at me, and it was as if the world went on pause. She looked at me, for just a second, as if she knew what I was thinking. And I was envious and angry because it was all so easy for her."
I shrugged. "So I ran out of the barn. I was so out of it right then because everything hurt. I ended up crying on my bed for like a week, but not just for the pony. A couple of days later she was gone."
I sipped my beer. Then I shook my head and laughed a bit. I turned to say something else - and time stopped.
She was staring at me with glittering sapphire intensity. Her expression held a touch of wonder, as if she'd just discovered a new color. Or a rash.
I didn't know what to make of how she was looking at me, so I stared back, but not in challenge. I was more curious than anything. Why was she looking at me that way? It wasn't like the story was that bad. I tried to figure out what was going through that nimble mind and whether to be offended or not. When the staring match went on longer than I was comfortable with, I shifted in my seat and lowered my gaze. I couldn't tell if the buzz I was feeling was the beer or my reaction to the way she was looking at me.
When I glanced up, she was *still* giving me that bizarre look. I felt heat crawl up the back of my neck. "Oh, God, not a blush. Please, not a blush," I thought. But the thought was too late, and the warmth spread swiftly to my cheeks.
I brazened it out, however, determining that to thwart the stare I must stare back. No matter what it took. Only this time I played it smart and didn't look her in the eyes. I looked at her forehead.
Which led me to looking at her cheeks, which led me to seeing, as if for the first time, the way her eyes crinkled at the crease. My heart softened at the sight of those moist edges. I could sense in myself the depth of her weariness, her sadness. Then I found myself tracking the soft line of her lips, which were slightly open. She licked them - not intentionally, just the way someone who was a little parched might. Her color was high, making her cheekbones stand out. The earlier blotchiness seemed to be gone. I'd never noticed the way her throat moved before.
Suddenly, I wasn't just staring; I was feeling inside the way she was formed, the softness and hardness of her edges. My fingers wanted to reach out.
Before I could consciously think of it, despite Cougar's surprised protest as he was dumped from my lap, I was up and then kneeling beside her. My fingers, rather than touch where they weren't invited, gripped the edge of her chair.
Neither of us spoke. She lifted her hand, the one not occupied with drink, and grazed two fingers gently along my forehead, along the line of my brow. The touch was unexpectedly gentle and tentative, as if I weren't quite real.
Warmth slid back down my back and wrapped around to embrace me.
I captured her hand with mine,before it could drift away. Her palm was cold and damp. I held it carefully, loosely, lest she attempt to pull her hand away.
All the noise around me had disappeared. Except for the startled sound of her breathing and the loud slamming of my heart.
Then I stood, slowly, but with decision. I didn't even have to pull. She stood with me.
I couldn't hold her gaze. It was too powerful, and I would have had to look up at her because she was taller than me.
That didn't matter.
I knew, in this, she was letting me lead.
I took the bottle from her hand and set it on the porch's rickety table. "I don't expect anything," I said. I began to walk. Her hand grasped mine, still cold. I knew what would happen next was important. I was afraid to say the wrong thing, but more afraid to say nothing at all.
"I'm not asking for forever." I pushed the handle, and the glass door swished open. Cougar made his dignified way into the house as we entered. "Or for you to say you love me."
I didn't turn to look at her, though I felt her stiffen and resist for a moment. I thought it was because she hadn't even thought about the issue. Everyone knew the rules with her. Even I'd heard of them. The words I said were her very own, adjusted for my temperament. She usually just said, "This isn't for forever, and I don't love you." Her very rules, I semiquoted. She was the one who had laid them down.
Maybe that was why.
She shut the door behind us. I think. I know I heard the solid swoosh-chunk of the door closing. We passed the kitchen. There, Cougar abandoned us in favor of his never-ending buffet of cat food. Then we continued through the dining room, past the arched passage and into the connecting hallway where the stairs were located.
I was heading for my room.
And still she followed.
It was like she was in a trance. Though I hadn't done anything special. Docile was not a word I'd ever associated with her temperament. I was amazed and feared a ruse.
We took the stairs. I still hadn't looked back. I was afraid that if I did, she would falter.
I was afraid that if I looked back, I would be the one to stop. I knew this was an insane thing to do.
And despite a few light warning jingles in my head, I really didn't want to halt what might be my only chance to find out what the mystery was.
So we reached the top, the part where the banister's post was coming slightly unhinged. I twisted the knobby-looking thing tight, for luck, and took a breath to make my tummy settle. Twisting the knob was a house joke, but we all played it. Especially when we were worried.
Besides, the action made sure the banister stayed where it was. I believed in handrails.
We passed the other rooms, including the bath, as we made our way to the one place she'd never had entry before. My knees felt quivery.
My voice shook when I finally found myself facing the closed wooden door of my room. I cleared my throat and turned. "We're here."
She looked at me as if she couldn't quite believe she was there either. I guess she'd never had any intention of being anywhere near my bedroom. Security in the relationship went both ways. We used to know where we stood.
Abruptly, my mouth felt dry, and my palm was sweating into hers.
I looked over the railing, at the fireplace wall in the front room downstairs. The dappled stone was suddenly interesting. I knew I had to say something.
"Look," I dithered. Then I met her gaze. "You don't have..."
Her fingers covered my lips. "I want to." The velvet tones of her reassurance sent a tropical jolt through me.
I nodded in understanding, and the rough calluses of her fingertips tickled as she removed them. I could feel the warmth where their pressure had been.
That was enough. I opened the door behind me. The sweet herbal scent I liked wrapped me in its soft tendrils. Its rich aroma reminded me of the woods at home. I wondered, briefly, if she enjoyed the smell too, then decided that wasn't anything I needed to know right at the moment.
First things first.
I stepped forward to her, instead of back into the room. She met me halfway. Our mouths touched softly together. There was little pressure, just a feeling of the changing moment. Her lips were flavored with beer, bitter but supple. Neither of us strove for dominance. We simply tasted. I let my mouth open a little when her tongue brushed tantalizingly by.
Her kiss was divine. A part of me wondered at the simplicity of it all. Another bit reveled in the delicious promise of intensity. *Oh, this feels nice.*
It had been a long time.
We separated from the testing. Our gazes met. The feeling, though not wholly, instantly electric, was warm and satisfying. It was enough. This silent agreement led me to grasp the waistband of her shorts, and I tugged, guiding her into the pale of my low-lit place.
I always left a small light on, except when I slept. I hated entering a darkened room. Especially when I was alone. I carried with me the ghosts of my childhood, a vague suspicion of nighttime predators.
Under the dark of the covers I usually felt safe. I didn't know why. It was always so.
Except now there was no guarantee, even in that quiet space. I couldn't help thinking that I was taking a great chance. I felt a rush of fear shiver through me. I could lose her, I thought ridiculously.
I was aware that I'd never had her. And this wasn't having her either. I was simply another face - not even her friend.
This was comfort sex. There was only the moment, and she would be gone. I knew it.
I knew it.
But fear and knowing could not make me hurry.
We stopped at the same time, by the bed. She stood close to me, and I could feel the heat of her body reach toward mine. I felt a nervous jangle in my gut, and I found myself staring at the sleek expanse of her shirt. Again, I felt that push inside to touch her. My hand reached out of its own volition, to spread palm-down against the gentle curve of her waist. I stepped closer and found myself wrapping my arms up around her.
And I stood there, almost leaning into her and breathing.
She didn't have to do a thing. I held her loosely, so she knew she could go. Any time. Any time.
I was nigh unto tears.
And then, like a cool wind picking up on a sultry day, she pulled me closer until my head pillowed itself upon her breasts with a sigh.
We stood like that for days, but it was really only a few minutes. And something - a silent creeping awareness - finally woke inside me and wound itself tight into my heart until it ached.
I wanted.
I had always wanted.
I wanted to be the one.
I wanted to be the one she came home to.
I wanted to be the one she wanted.
I wanted to be the one to fill her up - to chase away the sour dreams.
I wanted to be her best friend, her cheerleader and her lover.
I wanted to be known by her, as fully as a human being could be known.
With all of me I wanted. And needed.
But wanting and having are two different things.
However, there was now. And she was holding me as if she would never let go.
My hands began doing slow-motion humming caresses along her back, and we moved. Slowly.
It was as if we were dancing to music that was playing within us. My music was held in the moment. I was gliding to the soft tattoo of her heart, to her steady inhalation, to the soothing rocking motion of her body.
I think I could have moved like that forever and been content.
Then her hands were on my neck, guiding my attention up. Hot, moist, tiny kisses began raining on my forehead, my cheeks, my lips.
I felt as if sweet brands were being made by each brilliant touch. Where she left, my skin would miss her. I closed my eyes, just to feel them all.
When those soft caresses landed on my lips, they would linger. At first for short enticing moments, then for rich pieces of longer.
With a particularly delicious contact of our mouths, I felt the first broad hint of more than comforting warmth flare bright and startling within me. Then, with sultry intensity, she said, "Look at me."
And I did, ardently willing to lose myself to her gaze.
There was an infinite hesitation when I think she meant to say more, but words must have failed her as much they fled me. Our lips were drawn together again as if they were magnetically, irresistibly pulled. This time, I surrendered myself with my eyes open, drowning in the tasty sound of her pleasure.
When her lips strayed from my own and down the curve of my neck, a voluptuous, burning need for skin on skin deepened in me. My hands, which to this point had happily covered the cloth of her back, now searched for greater contact.
She made room for me. Her fingers covered mine where they grabbed the hem of her shirt, and between kisses we lifted together, still dancing, until my hands achieved their joy. With more than curious interest they covered the points of her breasts. I drew small circles with my palms, enjoying the stiffness and my own reaction to the sweet motion. Then I felt my shirt moving and lifted my arms above my head to make it easy.
Our lips were out of contact far too long.
We were breathing each other, and time spent away from each other was time without oxygen.
When we were skin to skin from our bellies up, we could, in soft moaning gasps, breathe again.
She felt so good.
Her addictive touch drew me out in heady drunk like sweet wine and made me gasp with its fire. The memory would be haunting, I knew. I would forever dream of how she touched.
The sway of her breasts, the way the heavy brown-rose tips brushed against me, summoned an acute yearning in me. Craving, my lips drew a humid line down from her mouth to her neck to the sweet points that were driving me wild with their unintended erotic caresses. There I slowed, savoring the taste and privilege of her time. My tongue loitered passionately, laving those two delectable buds, one after the other, in carnal token of what was to come.
Somewhere deep within I knew this skin - the olive-hued map of her body and soul. Yet it was new to me, this soft terrain, and I felt a rapidly building and frightening need to stake my claim, to have her, even if it were only a small part. She moaned and pressed my head forward to a supple breast, as if she wished she could feed me. Tender instinct carried me forward. I began to suckle as if I could draw milk, and I almost wished I could, just so I could taste more of delicious her.
Then came the point where standing was not enough anymore. She moved with me and bent. The bed's surface molded to our will and weight. It made a surprised squeaking noise that caused us both to grin. Our touching became saucy, impertinent.
We laughed gently together, bonding in good humor. I hovered over her and pulled away for a genuine look. No words could do justice to her beauty. The evident tracks of her life only enhanced her comeliness. I found myself curious, wanting to know, and opened my mouth to question. She laughed again, caressing me, calling me back to the present her. Her laugh was sweeter than music and contained the universe in the wholesome noise. It threatened to break my heart.
I had to content myself with a belief, a hope, in later.
Faint light sculpted her body for my eyes. She was gorgeous in the half-nude, beguiling and all too real. My hair was long enough that, as I was bending my head a little, the strands hid her breasts. It was respite I needed, and I tried to call back control that I no longer had. One knee was between her thighs, while the other and my palms were to the outside of her body. She only appeared vulnerable.
The look she gave me caused me to feel weak and breathless. My skin flushed in the braze of her heat.
I moved deliberately, and my hair teased her. I should have known better.
Her smile of pleasure and the way her hands covered my body curled a sweet, unique cry from my throat. With one commanding touch from her, my usual silence was broken. Oh.
From then on I surrendered to her gentle compulsion, not quite sure when I'd lost the momentum.
We were kissing again. I wasn't aware how I arrived at the next point, only that I felt laid open, with layers of my need unfolding to her. Her touch was like coal, searing me with erotic fire. Pulling me, leading me.
My body may have been on top, but now she was the guide in our journey. Here first, and then there. It was as if I were the wilderness to be explored, and she were the expert pathfinder. Even half-dressed she found undiscovered places in me. It made me quake to think of what would happen when we were fully naked to each other.
She would know all of me then.
I vowed, desired, prayed to know all of her in exchange.
Let her feel me, too.
That inner supplication was held in my open kisses to her.
I was aware of a change in the way we smelled. It was intoxicating, ferocious. The rude scent permeated my room. Primitive half-memories, half-dreams followed, almost convincing me that we had been here before.
Bizarrely, I felt the sharp sting of anger, right then, even as I felt myself being satisfied by her touch. Did she give this much to everyone? Why had it taken so long?
"You feel so good," she purred. Her joyful words pulled me toward her again, but I wasn't quite ready to give up the ire I felt burning in my chest. I rocked against her and kissed her hard, without warning. I wanted her to forget, at least for the moment, that there had ever been anyone else but me.
Or was it me who wanted to forget?
Somewhere in time, her hands unbuttoned my shorts. The pleasant pressure of her fingers snaked between and past the band of my clothing. Having successfully invaded past the last barrier, she caressed me there, unhurried. It was not to tease me. Her bewitching gaze, gone dark with knowing, glistened and captured mine until all I could feel was her - all the way through me.
Complaint melted away. It didn't matter who was first or last, or even when. The now mattered. In this moment we would finally have what we needed.
I grimaced ferally into our next hungry kiss. With her firm guidance, I wriggled my out of my last piece of clothing. Between solemnly wild kisses I helped her in turn, until there was only our presence to be felt.
To be completely naked with each other was electrical, a shock that slowed us to an awed, mutual silence. We held still against each other as our bodies acknowledged the incredible, unexpected fit of the other.
It was perfect - a bottomless, welcome sensation of comfort and desire that stole my breath away. My heart eased, unconcerned with matters of the future. Here was home. I would be content with this, even if it never happened again.
With gentle sweaty pressure, we began to move as one. The undulating rapture of the moment drove us into a dance far more mature and authentic than I could account for. I lost myself to her deft charm and played her to my own rhapsody.
We shifted positions, as lovers sometimes must.
She was above me, savory and ready. Her musky scent and the evidence of glorious silk filled me with a delirious thirst. To quench it I gave her a soft, long, round kiss meant only for her. In response she made a sound that shivered right through me.
She made such noises to my own panting quiet. I loved it, for the music of her pleasure was so rawly hers and spurred a riot of recognition within. I felt as if such calls were - had all along been - only for me. Each sultry purr and gasp amplified my desire for her...as it always had.
I clenched her to me and sated myself with her essence. Our loving was infinitely good, mystic. I was spread for her sacred pleasure, and she was exploring me with a luscious skill of her own.
In time I was arching sensuously against the thrust and caress of her powerful summoning. With groaning, sliding circles of my hips and mouth, and tender, wild timing in her touch, we found a holy rhythm. As I opened myself to her, I understood what Peter had meant. She filled me with her loving, past the mere senses. She spoke to me, a rough chant of my name sweetened by her spiral exultation.
That was my undoing. I found my true voice: her name upon my lips.
Heaven rolled over me, sparkling me out into its distant golden fields.
When I finally returned, all was quiet, save for our stunned breathing.
•••
I awakened to the bright of unfiltered daylight. I raised my hand in a blocking effort and squinted. Morning.
Since when had I ever opened the shades to dawn? But despite the golden intrusion, there was a surprising lack of resentment. Tender lethargy and happiness held me in their warm clutches.
She was still in my bed. This was a massive accomplishment.
I did not gloat, though. Her presence did not mean permanence.
But even the forming loss that the day promised could not faze my contentment.
She still slept, I thought. Even in sleep she seemed powerful. I made a small count of her breath. It was slow and even.
This was good.
There was a glow to her skin. The marks under her eyes seemed to have vanished, despite the fact that we had not had much in the way of sleep. Our loving had been, for all the fiery energy between us, restful...a haven from ordinary cares.
Pleasure in a job well done washed over me, and I lay my head back down against the crease of her shoulder.
She held me cradled. I was tucked against her side, my body half covered hers, and the weight of myself apparently did not disturb her.
For this, I was grateful.
At that moment, I could not imagine any other place I wanted to be.
Even with the light casting itself in my face, I fell asleep again, fearless and safe.
When next I woke, the room seemed cavernous. It missed her too.
The covers, which had been so neatly tucked around me, I cast off. I did not care where they fell. I needed to be up, out of this too-empty room.
My stomach rumbled a direction. I felt myself agreeing, though I mocked myself and my half-aware dreams. Would I present myself as another of her trophies? Even though I was normally gregarious, I realized I did not want to see the others just yet. And I wanted to see her only if... if...
Perhaps today it would be better to eat out. My emotions were running hard. I could no longer predict what my actions would be. And I wanted to hold the magic of our time, short as it was, to myself.
I dressed myself in a soft green terry robe and grabbed some summer clothes. The only evidence of her presence was her scent, which was still on me, and the languid wash of almost-noon light in my room. I left the windowshade up in remembrance. Just for today. Then I opened my door, intending to flee for the bathroom.
She was there, like a miracle.
Dressed like myself, except in blue, she held a tray in her hands. It was heaped with food that smelled glorious. Fresh bread, eggs, juice and more were there to tempt me.
It was as if she knew what my first thought, aside from herself, would be. But then, she would. I was notorious for my meals.
She smiled and lifted the tray like an offering. "Peter made this for us," she said as she stepped forward. She kissed me softly, owningly, like a longtime lover. I kissed her back, surprised and feeling delusional.
I backed up and stared, with my mouth opening and shutting like a carp. Surely I had something to say, but no words would come.
She stepped into my room with a confident smile.
I looked back out, unsure. The hallway seemed unreal and wavery because of the tears I fought, so I shut the door.
Then I turned. She had set the tray down on a clear portion of my bookshelf. "You're here," I said. My voice sounded high and displaced. I immediately felt inane and shy.
She faced me, suddenly solemn. For a while we simply looked at each other.
Then she opened her arms to me.
"I'm here."
I crossed the distance between us, to be engulfed in her solid embrace.
My face was wet.
"Why?"
She kissed me as if she'd finally found someone to be with forever. Reassuring heat cascaded through my body. She squeezed me tight. Finally she whispered, "Because it was time to come home."
And we had.
•••
(c) December 1999, Katrina