by Ani Keating
“Tell me what you want, Elisa,” he whispers as the feather sweeps back to my breasts and nipples. Round and round. They tighten, they hurt, they need something stronger and, though comparatively small, they lift the rest of my body toward his hand.
“I don’t have the words,” I gasp, and he smiles. He drops the feather and lowers his body over mine. Skin on skin for the first time.
“No, I suppose you wouldn’t, innocent as you are. Let me give them to you. Repeat after me.” He brings his face close to mine.
“Mouth,” he says.
“Mouth,” I whisper, and his mouth closes on mine. His lips are hot and wet. They mold, coax, flex and enfold my own.
“Tongue,” he says between kisses.
“Tongue,” I breathe back, and his tongue dances with mine again. Soon, his pace leaves me behind.
“Throat.” His lips travel over my chin, hovering and waiting for me to speak.
“Throat.” My voice is part of the silence, my breathing too loud to allow any other sounds but his to interfere.
“Skin. Perfect skin.”
I say it back, and his lips trace my collarbone.
“Shoulder.” He blazes a new path and plants soft kisses there.
“Now the hard words, Elisa. They’ll get harder and harder. Say them,” he commands.
He speaks and moves, my words sounding more and more like pleas. He stops at my breasts. His mouth closes around my left nipple and pulls on it gently, while his hand pinches the other one. Kissing, sucking, biting, some bites light like nibbles, some harder than even his pinch or the quill’s tip. My tremors turn violent. He moves to my other nipple and sucks hard, alternating between sharp bites and gentle rolls of the tongue. Every muscle below my waist flexes and burns. Every flick of his tongue sends a new jolt through me, and right as I’m reaching a precipice, his mouth moves lower.
Belly. Belly button. Waist. Hip. Hipbone. Thigh. I repeat his words in a daze. Every time his lips touch me after a word, the pulse between my legs beats faster.
“Speak up, Elisa,” he says, and only now I realize that I missed the last word. The final word. The one that is making the world go around. He says it again—carnal, dirty, vital—as he hovers lightly over the knickers he chose that are now trembling. His hot breath inflames my skin. I know he is waiting for me. Oh, what the hell. I repeat the final word like it’s a call for salvation, and he presses his lips and nose into my knickers. I writhe and he pulls back. The pleasure becomes painful. Please. Now, I beg him in my head.
“These have been wet all day today, haven’t they?” he asks. My moan is confirmation enough and my hips lurch toward him on their own. “I’d like to shred them but I’ve grown rather attached.” He slides them off in one swift move. Naked for the first time, my hands fly down to cover myself.
“None of that.” He shoves my hands away not at all gently. He looks exultant. His control is slipping too. Good, he can’t wait much longer, and frankly, I will go up in flames if he does. He starts a trail of kisses inside my thigh. His destination is obvious. Once there, he blows a warm gust of air that makes me hiss. He places a small kiss on my pubic bone. His stubble tickles. His words rain on me again, sentences now, commands, dirtier and, oddly, more romantic. More intimate. Some I can repeat, some I cannot. He continues undeterred and finally, finally, he is at the center where the frenzy is at its worst.
His mouth closes on the spot at the same time that one of his fingers slips inside me. My cry rends the air and I grip the bed cover. My hips start to writhe on their own. He restrains me with his other hand and sucks in rhythm with his finger, sending another cry in the air. Then his tongue takes over, circling, and a second finger joins. The pressure of his mouth increases. My thoughts break. Faster. Deeper. Harder. I’m tensing. Rising. Falling. Tunnel vision. Darker at the edges. Breaking. Burning. Calling. Fire. Ice. Air. Aiden. Aiden. Aiden.
A scream is echoing on the walls and in my head. I crash back on the bed. Was I levitating? As the world resurfaces, I still feel his mouth on me but now in kisses, like a soothing, hushing motion.
I feel new. Almost sacred. Benediction through sin—what a concept. I gaze at him, and he looks victorious. He traces kisses up, up and up until he comes flush against me, face-to-face.
“Hey,” he whispers, his voice bending under his own need.
“Hey,” I whisper back hoarsely.
I wonder if he can see the worshipful adoration in my eyes. He kisses my lips and my single rational brain cell registers where his mouth has just been. I can’t quite care. His desperation breaks through the kiss, and he knots his fingers in my hair, pulling at it almost angrily. His teeth clamp down on my lower lip and his tongue begins an encore performance inside my mouth.
When he breaks the kiss, his voice is guttural, husky. “I need you. You still want this?”
“Yes,” I say confidently, “more than anything.” I sound needy even to myself. How can I crave him so desperately after what my body just went through? Although, maybe it is precisely because my body knows now, and it is finally free to soar and fall.
He watches me for an instant, as if he cannot believe it. There is something new in his eyes. Beyond the raw need, the beast, the darkness—something far in the back that is seeing the light for the very first time.
He rains kisses on my nose, my eyelids, my cheeks. His hands travel down my body. Their caress is unbearably sweet. Different than his previous demanding possession. I get lost, focusing on the dusting of hair, rough against my newborn skin, and the flexing of his muscles on my chest, my belly, my thighs.
From somewhere near or far, I hear the scrape of a drawer opening and closing. My eyes focus as Aiden edges himself between my legs. He tears the foil of a condom with his teeth and slides it over himself without needing to look at what he is doing.
“Don’t worry, I’m clean,” he says. “But knocking you up would be a new low, even by my standards.”
I don’t know what he means but since I only have one rational brain cell left, I tuck it away. “Umm…I’m clean too,” I mumble.
He chuckles. “Somehow, I wasn’t very worried.”
I blush. Way to be an idiot, Snow. He comes back to my mouth, all humor gone, and his hands move to my lower back. He massages every spot on his way down, around my hips, my behind and my thighs. My muscles—already Jell-O—relax and my eyes close.
“Eyes open. I want to see you. Always,” he commands. He sounds strained, at the far edge of control, and I feel a small amount of pride. Okay, I’m not that bad at this. His hands continue the massage, and my hips sink sleepily against the covers where he holds them. Then, in a sudden movement, he slides inside me. The feeling is bewildering. I stop my cry on its way out. Not because it does not hurt, but because this is not a moment for a cry or for a cliché glass-breaking scream. This is my resurrection and, I have a feeling, perhaps his redemption. These are moments when the soul does the calling and the body must listen. My fingers dig into his arms and I breathe. He watches me with awe, then kisses my lips.
“Almost there,” he says gently, and I realize he has remained silent too. He thrusts deeper and stops as he reaches the farthest confines of my body, into dark, unknown places. At the full, achy feeling, my teeth clamp down on his lower lip to ease the impact. He gives me time to adjust. Slowly, I release his lip, kissing it, afraid that I hurt him. He smiles.
“Beautiful, Elisa,” he whispers. His husky voice turns my name into music. I relax, and he pulls back slowly. Despite the ache, I feel empty immediately and want more.
“One more time,” he murmurs, and now he flies inside me without stops. My fingers dig again into his arms but I’m adjusting. It’s not pain exactly; it’s a desperate ache that wants more of him, not less. He rests again. Of their own accord, my hips shift needily against his.
He smiles a pure, unadulterated smile and
starts moving over and over, without any stops this time. There is only fullness and a slow rhythm I can follow. I let my lungs free and moans that have nothing to do with pain surround us. I wind my arms around his neck and he wraps my legs around his waist. My hips move hesitantly at first, but he guides them until they undulate eagerly against him. He picks up his rhythm and I falter, trying to keep up. I cannot.
He reaches a sharp crescendo, harder, faster and fuller than before. He grasps my hips, tilts them up and thrusts in the same motion, blindingly exquisite and impossibly deeper. I jolt to the edge of the bed, my head lolls back and my hair tumbles to the floor. He grasps my shoulder and pins me down so I don’t move. Then his hand closes around my throat. Not enough for me to lose air, but enough to lose everything else. With every thrust, I gasp for oxygen. His grip loosens, and he kisses my throat. Another thrust. Two. Three. His teeth clamp beneath my ear and my blood blooms there. My moans change to cries as my body builds. My insides begin to convulse and clutch against him desperately. He puts more weight behind his thrusts. Six. Seven. My vision darkens, my ears ring. Eight. Nine. I explode. One single word fires through my lips. His name. He thrusts once more and comes with a cry of his own, convulsing and, at last, stilling on top of me.
We stay like this—it could have been minutes or hours. The sound of our harsh breathing fills the air. The scent of steel mixes with sandalwood and cinnamon. Tonight in our no-man’s land; we stopped time. No clocks. No past. No future. Just this one bubble, shimmering at the edges.
Slowly, consciousness arrives. At first like a taste in my mouth, then a thought, then an afterthought. I move through my thoughts, rushing over past fantasies, ex-flames, ex-versions of me. Nothing compares. All that I find on the other side is a new me. And, despite all the paintings, I only now feel like a masterpiece.
I cannot move my limbs but I turn my head and kiss the top of his where it is still resting on my chest. He stirs and moans incoherently. He rises slowly with me still soldered to him, and rolls on his back. My hands are lost in the expanse of his palms, my fingers twined with his.
He opens his eyes. They are peaceful, content. For once, nothing is raging there. He reaches behind me and pulls out. The hollowness left behind must show on my face because he smiles.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon. I think I found where I want to be buried.” His voice is hoarse and husky. He chuckles at his own pun.
“How are you feeling?” he asks then, in a serious tone.
I smile. “You’ll need to teach me some words for that.”
“I’d rather hear your words first.” The V appears between his eyebrows. I reach a finger to smooth it.
“Hmm, all right. Happy, content, orgasmic, ecstatic, surreal—” I start laughing because he rubs his stubble against my breasts and retaliates with a bite.
“Do you need a thesaurus, Elisa?” The V is gone and his eyes sparkle with humor.
“No, I like your dirty words better.”
“Elisa, you haven’t heard my dirty words yet.” He laughs and kisses me lightly. “Apart from your newfound struggle for words, how was the rest for you? Did I hurt you?” He sounds worried.
“Well, I don’t have much experience but from my perspective, things don’t get any better than that. I believe you would be better suited to answer that question, however, given your obvious authority and expertise on the subject,” I tease, in my most scientific tone.
He simply laughs, twisting and untwisting a lock of my hair in his fingers.
“Let me check something,” he says. He rolls me back on the bed, and flits to the restroom. He emerges back with a washcloth before I can sigh. Oh no. This will be mortifying. Why do you care, idiot, after everything you’ve just done with him?
“Let me see. Don’t be embarrassed. I just want to make sure you’re okay,” he coaxes gently. I close my eyes, pretend I’m invisible and open my legs. I feel him wipe the warm, wet cloth over me. It doesn’t hurt. It feels good. He shifts on the bed and I open my eyes. He has put the washcloth on the nightstand. I don’t even look at it. I know what I’ll see.
He cups my face, caressing my lips with his thumb. I smile. It’s not like I was waiting for my wedding night. I was waiting for desire to find me. And after all these years, find me it did.
He wraps his arm around my waist and brings me on top of him. I rest my head on his chest, inhaling his scent. Spasms quiver over his body like earthquake aftershocks. His erection presses against my belly but he does not pounce. Perhaps, he wants to give me time to recover. Or perhaps, he does not want to hurt me. Whatever his reasons, he simply runs his fingers through my hair, kissing it and whispering slowly. “‘She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.’”
His voice is soporific, as I listen to Byron’s poem, trying to understand why it reminds Aiden of me, and why he chose it for this night. With every word, my body and mind find a stillness they haven’t known before. Perhaps so does Aiden because the woman in the poem brings hope, reconciling innocence and lust, darkness and light. In her, somehow they coexist without contradiction. Much like they do on our embargo night. I have never spent much time thinking about my beauty. But tonight—part woman, part art—I feel beautiful, inside out. Awake, even as I fall asleep.
Chapter Twenty
Wide Awake
Close your eyes, Elisa, Aiden says.
I do, and he kisses my bare skin. My lips, my throat, my breasts. Suddenly, his lips leave me. I wait for them, but instead arctic air bites my skin. I open my eyes and all I see is blizzard. Heavy snow blinds me, as I stand naked in a white expanse. Ice crystals are blocking my airways. I look at my hands and they turn purple. A disembodied, blue, rigid hand grips mine.
Come back, Elisa, my mum’s voice calls me. At the sound, the blizzard turns into the Portland airport. I’m naked at PDX. Alone. No Aiden. No Javier or Reagan. Last call for Flight 602 to Heathrow, London. Flight 602. Passenger Elisa Snow… Elisa Snow… The disembodied hand grips mine tightly and drags me to the gate.
I jolt awake, gasping for air. I find none. My name is echoing. Elisa. Elisa. Two sapphire eyes meet mine as the world comes into focus.
“Elisa? Elisa! You’re fine. Look at me. Look at me.” Aiden’s voice is urgent, his hands hovering over my face as though he is not sure whether he should touch me.
At the sight, air finds its way into my lungs. It comes out in fast and shallow spurts, and a sheen of sweat gathers on my forehead. I have not moved an inch but even my skin is trembling.
“Elisa, you’re here. You’re safe.” Aiden speaks methodically, as though he is walking me through a survival exercise. “Breathe. Breathe.”
I obey, drawing in a deep breath of sandalwood and cinnamon air. It soothes my throat as my lungs start stabilizing.
“That’s good. Good girl.” Aiden smiles and his fingers brush lightly against my cheek.
I blink to banish the image of my mum’s blue hand and focus only on him. He is sitting up in bed, close to me. His eyes are vigilant, shoulders tense, spine rigid as though he is preparing to fight. The bedroom light is still on. The feather quill is still at the foot of the bed. Everything is the same. Except me.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod, suddenly embarrassed. I want to crawl into a fume hood and stay there at least until after June thirteenth. But since that would require not seeing Aiden, I force a smile.
“I’m fine, don’t worry. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“You didn’t.” He cups my face. “Are you sure you’re all right? Do you want some water? Food?”
“No, I’m okay. It was just a bad dream, that’s all.” I put my hand on top of his.
He leans in and kisses across my cheek to the corner of my lips, back and forth, back and forth. Light like the feather quill,
as though anything more might startle me. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” I respond a little late, focusing only on his lips. Talking about the dream would breach the embargo to its fullest and ruin every minute of fairy tale left.
“What is six-oh-two?” he asks, his lips still on my skin.
Oh, bloody hell! I was talking? That’s not my usual dreaming style. Reagan says I mostly just whimper. Well, at least this one is somewhat explainable. “Avogadro’s number. My dad’s favorite constant. Apparently my brain borrowed it for the dream.”
His eyebrows knit together and I can see the battle in his eyes: ask, don’t ask, embargo? At last, he nods but doesn’t press further. Maybe he wants the embargo to last a little longer too.
“So how come you’re awake at this hour?” I change tracks. “Can’t stop watching me drool?”
The beautiful, lopsided smile lifts his lips until the dimple forms on his cheek. “Something like that.”
“Do you want to go to sleep? It must be late.” I look at the night beyond the glass wall, wondering what time it is. It’s the worst possible question for me. How many hours do we have left? How can I leave after this?
“No. Unless you want to. I’m not the best sleeper.” He shrugs. But I know sleepless nights too well. Nights when the terror of your dreams is just as awful as reality. This is not one of those nights. And I’m wasting it on nightmares that would cause Freud to retire early, instead of ogling Aiden.
I scoot closer to him on the bed. He wraps his arms around me.
“So, if you don’t want to sleep, what do you want to do?” I ask, kissing the corner of his lips.
He watches me for a few heartbeats but does not pounce. Perhaps doing so on a woman who just had a nightmare goes against his morals.
“I want you to tell me something that’s not embargoed.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Anything.” He plays with my hair, giving me time to think. He is barely breathing, perhaps afraid of pressuring me.
