Harmony Ch. 02

And then she came back to him, turned into his caress, and smiled. "Okay," she said softly, and put her hand into his.

He would always remember the first time, yes, but also the second time. They were spooned together, his belly to her back, the sheets thrown off their bodies. She was dozing and he was marveling at her. The way her hair, such a brilliant shade of red, spread across his pillow. The way she seemed to fit into the frame of his body. How much smaller she was than him, the delicacy of her hands and feet and fingers. Her warmth, the softness of her skin, and all her curves. She seemed to be formed entirely of them, smoothness, roundness, of soft pliable flesh. He ran his hand gently over her arm, her hip, her thigh. Her breasts, the way they fit his hands, the dusky pink hue of her nipples. He cupped one, feeling it firm and soft at the same time, like some ripe, succulent fruit.

She peered over her shoulder at him, smiling slyly. He felt a pinch of shame. Removed his hand and placed it on her hip. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be groping you."

She laughed softly, then took his hand and pushed it roughly against her breast. "That's groping." She let his hand stay. "I like the way you touch me. It's...I don't know. Reverent, maybe."

Yes, that was the word. He kissed her shoulder. "You are an inspiring sight."

"I'm inspiring something." She wiggled against him and he groaned a little. "You glutton," she teased. "Again? Already?"

"No, no, no. The first time was for pleasure. This is for knowledge. I've got a lot to learn." He lightly kissed the back of her neck. She exhaled with pleasure.

"I see. About the female body?"

"No. About your body. I plan to be the leading expert. Extensive research is required." The soft spot just below her hairline was particularly appealing.

"What do you want to know?" she asked, her voice lower. She closed her eyes and tilted her head a bit, revealing more of her neck. He read the signal and nuzzled her there with the stubble of his chin, and her breath caught. He stroked her nipple in gentle circles.

"Does that feel good?"

"Yes."

He continued, kissing her neck slowly, almost lazily, but he was observing her closely, gradually increasing the pressure of his touch. She smiled with her eyes still closed, as if she were dreaming some pleasant dream, and her hand rose to her other breast. Her fingers rolled and stroked; he mirrored the motions. She was rocking her hips against him now and he sucked her earlobe in his lips, loving the little gasp it evoked. "Put your hand on top of mine," he murmured.

She did so, and he lowered them together down her abdomen to her sex. "Show me what to do."

It was the most erotic experience of his life thus far, letting her use his fingers, lead them over her flesh, teach them how to touch her. He would learn even more on his own, he was sure, but he wanted the best possible primer. He took the cues from her, a subtle touch at first, around and over the little ridge of her clit. Down her lips, hot and wet, drawing back up, more pressure, more motion. He could feel her getting wetter. Incredible, insanely arousing, how wet she could get. She moved his hand lower.

"Try two," she said, her eyes still closed.

He slid in slowly and she moaned. He moaned too, at the feel of her, slick and swollen, molded around his fingers. Where his cock had been. Would be again.

"Your fingers," she breathed, "are bigger than mine."

"And dextrous," he reminded her.

"Try this, then." She made a slight motion with her own, like a gesture to draw him closer to her. He tried it, was rewarded with a breathless smile and a shudder. Already thinking how easy it would be to do this while stroking her clit with his thumb, he tried it next, and she made a delicious, needy noise, rolling her hips against his hand.

"Fast learner," she managed.

"Mmmm." He nipped her neck.

"Oh, God." Her eyelashes were fluttering. "I think I want the rest of you now." She lifted her thigh back over his hip and then his cock was between her legs, resting against her. He withdrew his hand and she bucked her hips, sliding her wet warmth over him, and he fought the nearly overwhelming urge to push into her.

"Condom?" he panted.

"Oh." For a moment she looked pained, then rolled away from him and pulled another out of her purse. This time he rolled it on, positioned himself, and then got an idea. He ran the head of his cock over her, up to her clit.

She made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a moan. "You really haven't done this before?"

"No. You like that?"

"Yes, yes." She writhed against him. "But it's like you're teasing me."

Oh, he would like to tease her. He would like to get her to beg him. He slid lower again, entered her just a little, and just as he felt her beginning to stretch, he withdrew. She made a lovely sound of dismay.

"Is that teasing?"

"YES."

"Sorry. You know I'm new at this." He gave her a little more, let that wetness envelope more of him before he pulled out again, slid up over her clit.

"Calvin," she groaned. She was smiling, her face flushed, but moving against him with more pressure, as if searching for him. He did it one more time, until he got a breathy "please" that he would replay in his head a thousand times that afternoon. Then he let himself go into her, carefully, slowly, afraid of hurting her. It was a strange angle, a little awkward to move in, but he had an excellent view of himself gliding in and out of her. And he could still stroke her clit with his free hand.

"Oh, good boy," she moaned.

It didn't take much until she was coming, liquid moans and wonderful tension in her body, clenching in waves around his cock that milked him dry, leaving him amazed, stunned, in awe of how anything could possibly feel this good.

Making her come, he knew now--watching it, hearing it, feeling it--was going to become an addiction on a level he hadn't known since someone had first put a score in his hands. His first choice to occupy any sliver of free time.

"Oh, God, Cal," she sighed. "A plus. Summa cum laude."

"Give me something to aim for. I know I can do better."

She cuddled back into him, laughing, and he chastised himself: I can't be a jerk about it. She won't want to have sex ALL the time.

He would just have to be prepared, that was all. Ready at her behest.

She couldn't believe that he was so good at this already, so good at her. And sex with him wasn't like the sex she'd had with the boys who blurred together into a string of one-night stands. It was something far more intimate. He wasn't the person she happened to be fucking; he was Calvin. She liked him, she was immensely attracted to him, and the sex left her reeling from both how good it felt and from how much she wanted him, still, to touch her, hold her, be close to her Snuggled in his arms, she needed to go to the bathroom, but she didn't want to leave his warm embrace.

"Tell me I don't ever have to leave this bed," she sighed.

He groaned. "I have a library shift at one. It's--" he turned to look at the clock on his other nightstand. "Almost 11. So we have a little time. An hour or so." He smoothed her hair. "You can stay here if you want. I'll be done at 4."

"I want to, but I should probably go home and shower and put on clothing that isn't yours. I could meet you after your shift, maybe? For dinner or something?"

He laughed. "I would hope so."

"I don't know...I'm new at this too, remember? Do I invite myself to spend the night again? What if you get tired of me?"

"Ginny, I adore you." He said it easily, unworried. "I want you around as much as you want to be. Hell, I'll give you a key so you can come and go as you please."

"That's moving very fast."

"I don't care."

She leaned back into him and closed her eyes. "I'm glad," she admitted. "I'm happy, actually."

"Is that an unusual emotion for you?"

"Lately, yes." Or always. She had to push that little warning voice away.

She dozed in his arms until his alarm went off; while he took a shower she reassembled her outfit from the night before, shaking her head at her audacity. She would look like the walk of shame, embodied, but she felt no shame at all. She was happier than she'd felt in months. Years. They kissed for a long time at the door, finally tearing themselves apart with plans to reunite at the library when his shift ended. He got on the train and she walked to Brookline on air.

Cynthia was on the couch watching some old movie; Ginny liked that Cynthia generally treated her time off as time off, no prying questions about her activities or requests for something unless it was really needed, but Ginny always tried to check in with her a few times. When she popped her head in to ask if she needed anything, Cynthia glanced up, then grinned and paused the television. "You look like you've either had the best night or the worst night of your life, little lady. Which was it?"

"Best." She laughed. "I'll tell you more, I promise, but I need a shower and a nap."

In the shower, running her hands over her body, she relived his touch, every moment of the morning. She felt buoyant, even though she was tired; and happy, happier than she could ever remember being, so happy that she was able to silence the usual voice of misery in her head. Dried, curled up in her bed, she remembered how it had felt to have his arms around her, how safe he felt, and drifted off to a deep, contented sleep.

At the desk in the library, Calvin relived the morning again and again, trying to remember every detail, every wonderful little moment with her; at times he was grateful that only his upper half was visible from behind the desk. Almost no one came by the window. He tried to read, but kept getting distracted; she was in his head now, smiling, stretching, her hair spread across his pillow in vibrant curls. "Giddy" was not a word he would normally have applied to himself, but it was the most apt word he could think of now.

As the hours ticked on, he grew more anxious, waiting for her to appear, and when she finally did he understood where the expression "my heart leapt" had come from. She looked relaxed, refreshed, cool and collected; the little linen blouse she wore under her cardigan was loose over her breasts, her jeans tight on her shapely legs, and best of all, she was beaming, clearly happy to see him.

"I'd like to check out the librarian for the evening," she said coyly, leaning over the desk.

"He's all yours." He was already moving to close things up. "Did you get some rest?"

"I did, and now I'm starving. How was your shift?"

"Very, very quiet. Which was good, because my mind was elsewhere." He rolled down the window, locked it, and came around through the door to her. He caught the flowery scent of her hair and wanted to bury his nose in it. As they moved down the stairs he wanted to touch her, to take her arm or maybe put his hand on her back. He wondered whether she'd mind; he wondered what had gotten into him, as he was normally the least tactile person he knew. While he was thinking about it, she hooked her hand lightly under his elbow.

She was so easy for him to talk to. On the walk to the restaurant and at the table while they ate, she him more about the poetry he'd been reading before he found her. They argued about Auden and Eliot, Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath. He was thrilled to realize she could quote long swaths of poetry in three different languages, with a crisp German and a languid French accent he would never be able to master. He was seeing now the woman he'd only gotten glimpses of these last few weeks, the woman behind the cool, almost professional reserve she seemed to harbor like a shield. She was going on about Rilke when she paused, shook her head, and looked embarrassed. "Sorry, I'm showing off."

"Please, keep doing it. It's hot."

She smiled. "Not intimidated yet?"

"I get accused of showing off all the time. Why shouldn't you?"

"I wouldn't call you a show-off. You're just..."

"If you said monomaniacal, obsessive, or fanatical, you wouldn't be the first," he offered.

"I was going to say enthusiastic." She reached across the table to take his hand.

"And I like it."

He raised his glass. "To enthusiasm."

"To poetry."

"To music."

They headed out together into the night.

She loved that he had not raised a fuss with her about paying for the meal; she loved that she didn't have to have a drink to feel comfortable talking to him; she loved that he apparently loved her ability to quote much of the Western canon from memory; she loved that he was equally passionate about music, that he seemed to really listen to her, that he was tall and a little awkward and unshaven and didn't even try to play things cool. They walked back to his apartment and she took his arm again, which seemed to please him. She told him that when they got there, she wanted him to pick something for them to listen to, something he loved and wanted her to hear.

Inside the door, without a word, she stripped to her bra and panties, plain white cotton, knowing she looked alluring and simple, enjoying his eyes on her body. "What are you going to play for me?" she asked.

He pondered for a moment, then said, "We'll try Brahms," pulling out a CD and sliding it into his wall-mounted contraption. The sinuous strings filled the apartment and they laid together on his bed, on their sides, facing one another. The music was beautiful to her, but still foreign, like a language overheard, moving too fast for her to fully comprehend.

"I wish I could hear it with your ears," she mused. "It feels like eavesdropping on a conversation in a language I'm only half-fluent in."

"I can translate."

"What do you mean?"

He reached for the little remote that controlled the stereo, clicking it back to the start of the movement. His voice was quiet and even. "There's the theme...and he'll take it through the different timbres." He reached over to brush a lock of hair from her face. "Now the second theme...you hear how it's similar? Like a mirror image. Once that plays through, he'll change the key. It's called modulation...to the fifth."

His fingertips traced the shell of her ear, then down her jawline. Her neck. He kept talking while he touched her.

"This is called the development section. The original theme changes. Listen for that." He caressed her shoulder. "He's playing with it. Taking it apart and reassembling in fragments." Down her back, tracing lazy patterns on her skin. "Hear it? That's pushing the rules a little bit there. Fifty years earlier he couldn't have gotten away with that."

The lovely music; the intensity of his gaze; the low, easy tone of his voice; the sensation of his light touch, everywhere; all of it was hypnotic. She wanted him, but she didn't want him to stop talking.

"Now we're in the minor key."

His hand exploring her abdomen, the curve of her breasts where her bra cupped her skin. Her hips, her thighs, down to her calves. She had never been touched like this, with such care, such reserve. And he kept talking, going on about cadences and recapitulations and codas. "Now we're onto the second movement. Adagio. Another key, another theme. Minor this time."

How, how was he still talking, and in such a casual tone of voice? She could see that he he was hard as his fingers danced over the line of her panties, but he was looking right at her eyes and speaking easily. She would have thought, given his inexperience, that he'd be sloppily eager, a little clumsy; but he was supremely in control of himself and also, somehow, of her. It was so arousing that despite feeling slightly mad for wanting him, she didn't move an inch. She wanted to see how long he could do this.

Later she would understand that his mind was always moving and that when music was on there was always some part of him paying attention. Later she would know that he was disciplined, capable of intense, sustained focus, and competitive as hell. Later she would even recognize that he had a considerable streak of sexual dominance in him, that he liked control and anticipation and making her wait. But in that moment, she had only had hints of all this, and she marveled at him.

Halfway through the second movement, as she felt like a warm, syrupy mass of wanting, he said, "This is a secondary theme. If you listen--" he abruptly broke off. His voice hardly changed, and it took her half a second to register it when he said, "I need to be inside you."

She exhaled weakly. "Yes, please," rolling onto her back.

He held himself up on one arm and pulled down her panties. She unhooked her bra. Even when he reached down to the floor for a condom in her purse and rolled it on, he never seemed to stop looking at her. He entered her so slowly she could barely stand it.

"Like this?" he said quietly.

"Just like that," she sighed.

He closed his eyes in relief as he began to move, only for a few seconds, but she loved that little moment, knowing that she felt that good to him, maybe as good as he felt to her.

"You can go faster," she breathed into his ear, kissing the spot on his neck below it. "Harder. If you want."

"What feels better?" She felt him put more into his stroke and moaned at the sensation.

"Oh, that's good," she assured him, closing her eyes, wrapping her arms and legs around him.

"I like to do better than good." His voice was a low rumble; his teeth grazed her neck.

"Just don't stop."

It was like a dream, with the music in the background. She luxuriated in it all, arching up to meet him, rolling her hips, clenching her muscles around him, and he groaned, "Oh, I like that."

She felt her orgasm rising, let herself ride out every sweet moment of its approach, kissed him deeply, dug her fingers into his back, dissolved in release. Above her he gasped and swore; she felt his muscles tighten beneath her hands. They stayed together for a long time afterward, sweaty and pleasantly dazed. She kissed his shoulder and tasted salt. When he left her she felt a tinge of soreness, but she would have happily done it all again. She stretched, feeling wonderful.

"I guess I should buy more of these?" Calvin said, peering into her purse. "That was the last one."

"You can," she said, but already she was thinking; she had always made her past partners wear condoms, but she was on the pill, too. Every year around her birthday she got a clean bill of health and had never had any issues. If Calvin hadn't been with anybody else...she imagined how it might feel to have him without one.

When she told him this, he glanced down at the empty box and then back at her. "Are you sure?"

"As long as you're not sleeping with anybody else. But if you're more comfortable, we can keep using them. Whatever you want."

He caressed her cheek and she leaned into his touch like a cat. "I just want you," he admitted. "Any way I can have you."

They were awake long into the night, talking, listening to music, cuddling and kissing like teenagers; they could not stop touching, and as she finally drifted off in his arms, she thought, oh, it's been so long, I forgot what it feels like: I'm happy.

He woke before she did the next morning. Sunday. He eased out of bed, went to the bathroom, thinking of everything that had happened in the last day. Just twenty-four hours. A day ago, he thought, I had no idea.

He climbed back into bed and looked at her for a long time, carefully easing the off the coverlet. They had fallen asleep with nothing on, and now she was bare before him, her hair in a lovely tangle of sleep around her head and neck. Again he thought of the Ginny he'd seen so much of these last weeks, icily self-possessed. It was almost painful now to see her so intimate, so unguarded. He looked at her for a long time: her delicate hands, the little veins that crossed her temples, the play of light and shadow on her skin. He could not bear to disturb her; and yet the urge to touch her was overwhelming.