Harmony Ch. 05

(The next chapter--in which we'll finally get a little more insight into Ginny's secrets--has a lot of family shenanigans, so here is an episode that is...well, pretty light on plot, let's put it that way. Thanks to everyone who's been reading!)

It was a cold, wet, ugly December day; the light watery and weak, the wind sharp and biting, and she knew from the moment she woke up that it was going to be a bad one. She'd been dreaming about her parents. Her eyes were wet and she wanted Calvin.

For months she had been able to ignore, if not quite forget, all the reasons that she wasn't supposed to fall in love. It was easy to do that with Calvin; he kept her in the present in a way that she hadn't ever quite experienced, anchored her to the now and let her memories and fears recede. She associated him with happiness, with safety, with trust. But on this particular morning it was impossible for her to brush aside the fact that she'd been lying to him. She couldn't tell herself she'd worry about it tomorrow; the day felt heavy, leaden, inescapable. And even in the shame she felt about the lies, she wanted him, more than anything.

It was the last week of classes. Final exams loomed. She didn't normally worry about them, and she didn't now, but the idea of studying for them suddenly felt pointless. She didn't think she could bear dragging herself to classes and listening to her peers talk about banal things, their excitement for the break or how their exams were going to fuck them sideways. Who cared?

Instead, she just stayed in bed, watching the limp rain patter on her windowsill. In just over a week she was due to go with Calvin to New York to spend Christmas with his family. Burning curiosity had made her agree to this. She wanted to know exactly how a family produced a person like him, to see where he had grown up, to meet his parents and sister. At the same time, she dreaded it. Family happiness, Christmas traditions, inside jokes--the thought was exhausting.

She did drag herself out of bed for her late afternoon yoga class at the university's rec center. She slogged through the rain as the last of the daylight faded; she'd missed any hint of the sun. Executing the poses, she tried to focus, to find the sense of tranquility that yoga often brought her, but instead of looking inward she felt almost dissociated from herself. In the big mirrors she watched her body working, every muscle flexed to precision. Watched herself balance on one foot, the other tucked against her thigh, her hands pressed tightly together. The girl in the mirror was the very picture of youth and strength, and all she could think was that she was a creature of deception.

A week ago she'd been ebullient, dressing for Calvin's departmental soiree and looking forward to her night with him. Now she trudged down to his apartment in the rain, falling harder now and turning to sleet. She had her own key now, and she let herself in, knowing he would be working. He was at his desk, wearing headphones and transcribing something from the scattered pieces of staff paper piled around him; he looked up, smiled at her, and then went right back to what he was doing. She was grateful to find him so engrossed. In her current mood, she didn't want to interact with him so much as be around him. Just having him there was a balm, but she did not want to be the object of his single-minded focus just yet.

She settled on his couch with a book, one she should be brushing up on for one of her exams, but really she just watched him. He was clad in fleece pajama pants and an old white shirt, his hair was mussed from the headphones, his feet were bare, but he was as serious and attentive as if he were directing air traffic. For over an hour she glanced at the same few paragraphs and found her eyes drawn to look at him again and again.

And then he leaned back, stretched, took off his headphones, and came to sit next to her, flopping his big body down with lazy ease. He looked pleased with himself. "Hi," he said, smiling. "I'm glad you're here."

"Me, too," she said, though her voice didn't sound very convincing.

"What's wrong?" She could tell that he was ready to devote himself to fixing it with the same tenacity he'd brought to his music moments before. Calvin would slay all of her dragons if he could.

"It's just this time of year," she lied. "I hate exams."

"In a week, you'll be done," he said. "And then we'll go to New York. I talked to my mother earlier today, she's really excited to meet you. They all are."

She tried to push the day's bad mood away. "Will they care if I want to do touristy things while I'm there?"

He shrugged. "They probably won't want to come, but I'll go with you. The Professor might give me a hard time about it."

"He thinks it's silly to go skating at Rockefeller Plaza?"

"He wouldn't be caught dead on ice skates."

"You all never skated under the Christmas tree?"

"No. I should tell you, we don't make a big deal out of the holiday in general. We have a meal and give presents, but we usually don't have a tree or anything."

"I'm still going to make you go skating with me."

"If you insist, I'll indulge you."

She kissed him on the cheek. Then he cocked his head and asked, "What were your family holidays like?"

Not now, she thought. She tried to summon up the requisite coyness, but her reply came out flat and dispirited. "We went to the Caribbean. Get a villa on the beach."

He sighed. "Ginny, when are you going to tell me the truth?"

"How do you know that anything I've told you isn't the truth?"

"I tell you everything about my family. I'm taking you to New York because I want you to meet them. Why won't you tell me one single thing about yours?"

She opened her mouth to say something and thought: I can't keep lying. "Why do you think, Calvin? It's not a happy story."

"I suspected as much, and I'm sorry for that. I am. But I hate that I don't know anything about what your life's been like. What are you going to tell my parents when they ask you questions? Because they will ask." She heard frustration creeping into his voice.

But she could not respond, words frozen in her throat. She didn't want to have this conversation now, not with herself, let alone with Calvin. She stared down at her book, trying to think. Trying to stop herself from crying.

"Ginny?"

God, she thought, I'm such a coward. "I've had a terrible day," she finally managed, which wasn't a lie, at least. "and I can't bear it. I'm begging you to let me off the hook tonight. Please."

He would be the world's worst poker player; she could see everything written on his face as his irritation with her and his general persistence warred with his concern. She saw the moment the concern won out. "All right," he said, softening. "Don't cry, sweetheart. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," she said, wiping at her eyes.

"Let me be sorry about it anyway?" He raised an eyebrow, trying to tempt her into a smile, and the sweetness of him just made it worse.

"Cal," she said, "can you take me to bed?"

"Mademoiselle." He stood and did a mock bow, then reached for her hand. "My pleasure."

He pulled the covers back and laid down next to her; for a moment they both rested on their sides, looking at each other. She looked at this boy--this man--who had somehow, when she wasn't paying attention, become nearly her entire world.

"I love you," she told him. "I never say it enough."

"I know you do," he said easily, as if he'd never doubted it. She reached to run her hand over his chin, to pull him closer and kiss him.

"Whatever it is," he murmured, "forget about it. Forget about everything but this."

The misery of the day began to recede. This was his greatest gift, this ability to keep her in the here and now. She kissed him as if the world was ending, as if she'd never get to do it again, and didn't stop until he was inside her. She kept her eyes closed and it was as if she was floating on some pitch-dark sea, rising with the swells, disoriented, even lost. Above her she heard the catch in his breathing and fell into oblivion.

***

Calvin was careful with her over the next week, though he didn't see very much of her. He worried about her; she looked drawn and tired, not herself. He worried about their trip, that he was asking too much of her. He worried about all the things she wasn't telling him. He wished--not for the first time--that Ginny came with a handbook.

The night before her last exam, he called her. "Almost done," he said. "When you come over here tomorrow we can do whatever you want. Massage. Pad Thai. I'll even watch that French movie you've been bugging me about."

"That's sweet of you." But she sounded almost distant.

"You haven't seemed like yourself this week," he said, trying to sound casual.

"I know. It's not you, I promise. I just...I think what I actually need is to have my brain removed. Can you do that?"

"Not literally. But in the metaphoric sense, I think I probably can."

She laughed. It was a tired laugh, but a real one. "Then that's what I want. I want you to make me stop thinking about absolutely everything but you."

The words echoed in his head after she hung up. He chased them around a little, thought about what they might look like in practice. Make me, she'd said; not help me, but make me. Finally he decided what he was going to do.

The next morning he sent her a text, asking her to stop by his office on the way to her exam at one. When she appeared at the door he asked her to shut it behind her. Then he leaned with one arm against the door jamb so that he was looming above her. "How are you feeling?" he asked her. "Hast du alle dein Deutsch vergessen?"

She laughed a little at his atrocious accent. "I'll manage. Wish me luck."

"You don't need it. That's not why I wanted to see you." He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "I've gathered, from my extensive research over the last few months, that sometimes you like it very much when I tell you what to do. Am I wrong?"

A little bit of color crept into her cheeks; her smile looked a little more real. "Occasionally," she admitted. "Under certain circumstances."

He nodded even as he let his fingers curve down her neck. "Then I'm going to tell you exactly what you're going to do for the next few hours."

"What's that?" she smirked.

"You are going to go to your German exam and you're going to ace it. Absolute mastery, because you do in fact know German."

"And then?"

"When you're finished, you're going to hand it in. And the moment--the second--you do that, you're going to forget about it entirely. The only thing you're going to think about from that moment forward is me. Just me." He leaned down and murmured in her ear, his voice lower: "My hands on your body...my teeth on your neck." He let his lips graze the spot he had in mind. "My tongue between your legs." He brought his lips even closer to her ear. "Und...so...weiter." He pulled back and looked her in the eyes. "Verstehen?"

That, he thought, is her real smile.

"Yes," she said, suddenly sounding almost shy.

"Good. Text me when you're done. I'll wait for you out front of the music building."

"Okay." She cast her eyes downward as she left, as if she couldn't quite meet his gaze, but he thought he saw considerably more spring in her step down the hall.

***

It was only three o'clock, but these were the shortest days of the year, and the sun was already sinking, the winter light tinged with pale gold and red, and the wind made him glad for his old bomber jacket, lined with sheepskin. Ginny's cheeks were cherry-red when she met him at the T stop.

"How'd it go?"

"Fine, I think."

"Good." He leaned in, as if for a kiss, but slid past her lips until his mouth was just above her ear. "Your panties had better be wet by the time we get off the train." He nipped at the top of her ear.

She gasped and clutched at the lapel of his jacket, then laughed. He felt an intense urge to kiss her, bite her, but he checked it and instead wrapped his arm around her waist to pull her with him onto the train sliding to a stop. He led her all the way to the back of the car, resting his weight against the wall and keeping hers against him in the crowd. As the train screeched and rattled around them, he leaned down and said into her ear, "Are you thinking about all the things I can do to you?"

She pressed her lips together and nodded. When the train stopped he led her off and hurried across the street; as soon as they were inside his building, he told her to take off her coat. He took it, and her bag, throwing them over one arm with his own coat, and nodded at the stairs. "Go on, then."

She exaggerated her stride, perhaps, for his benefit, but not her speed; she wanted to get into his apartment. He felt a curious intensity of focus, as sometimes, but not always, happened when he was making love to her, the same intensity of focus that often came over him during performances, an ability to decide and execute without conscious thought, a fluidity between body and mind, an awareness of a dozen minute things all at once, a falling away of everything from his mind except the task in front of him, and a melding of physicality and thought and intention and reaction that he enjoyed like a drug.

He slipped his key in the lock but did not turn it; instead he pinned her against the door with his body and again hovered just above her ear. "Remember what I said about your panties?"

He unbuttoned her jeans, worked his hand past the waistband. She was slick, steamy, and as she exhaled and pushed back against him, he made an approving noise. "Good girl." And flipped the lock.

He pushed her past the threshold, dropped their things, kept her pressed against his body. "You feel me getting hard for you?" he demanded after he shut the door.

"Yes."

"You love how hard I get, don't you?"

"Yes."

He nuzzled the base of her neck with the stubble he'd deliberately left unshaven that morning. Then he said something he'd never said to her before. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

"Yes," she panted.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I want you to fuck me."

"Then you're going to do exactly what I tell you. You're going to answer any question I ask. And you're only going to come when I say you can. Understand?"

She made a noise of assent and he nipped the back of her neck. "I mean it. Don't you dare come until I say so. Tell me you understand."

"I won't...come until you say I can."

"Good. Get on all fours."

She knelt and he knelt behind her, worked her jeans and panties down past her thighs. She was round and ripe, wet and pink like fruit, and the sight aroused him enough that he had to take a deep breath to steady himself. He ran his hands lightly over her ass. "When was the last time you came?"

"Oh, I don't--Sunday? Sunday night."

He squeezed her ass, hard. "I wasn't there for that."

"In my head, you were."

"What was I doing in your head?"

"Fucking me." She wiggled her ass provocatively. "With your tongue."

"Oh, I like the sound of that," he mused. "I think I'll do that right now. But this time you won't come. Understand?" She made a dismayed noise, and he squeezed her again. "Say it."

"I won't come."

He savored the helpless, keening sounds he elicited when he tasted her. He was good at this now, making her ride the knife-edge of pleasure, bringing her closer and then back down again, backing away from her clit to lick at her lips and folds, pulling his tongue away to nibble at her inner thighs. She was crying out, slapping the floor; he could feel her tensing and trembling under his hands.

He sat back up again and took off his sweater. "You know why I did that?" He unbuttoned his jeans and began to run the head of his cock over her. She whimpered and writhed, arching back to meet him, and he denied her. "I'm a jealous man," he told her. "I want all of your orgasms. Every single one belongs to me. Every time you come, it's for me."

"Yes, please..."

"Yes, what?"

"I come for you, just for you, every time, please!"

He pushed into her, hard and deep, groaning at the sensation. She cried out. "Come for me," he demanded, moving steadily. "Right now."

He barely had the words out of his mouth before she howled and he felt her clench around him and had to bite his lip to keep himself focused. "Good girl," he intoed, kneading her ass again, slowing, stopping deep inside her. She moved her hips in little circles; it was what she did to keep herself going. Sometimes she could come again, moving like that. He loved it when she did.

"That must feel good," he said, rocking in tandem with her slight motions. "Tell me what it feels like."

"You're so hard. And...filling me up, like you're everything...the only thing I can feel."

"Good. That's all I want you to feel." He wrapped her hair around one hand, tugged gently at it. "You want to come again?"

"Yes, please."

"I love it when you do this," he told her. "I don't even have to move to make you come, do I? Come again for me, just like this."

She kept circling against him, saying, "Yes," through gritted teeth, almost there. He shifted his weight, leaned forward a little on his knees, and it was like pulling a trip wire. She exhaled loudly, shuddering with pleasure, groaning, "Yes, yes, yes..."

He gave her a moment to recover, stayed still. Then, even though it was against everything his body wanted, he withdrew from her and stood, breathing heavily. "Now get up."

As she started to rise, she tottered a little, and he reached to catch her. "Wait. Here, I've got you." He helped her pull her jeans off and then he picked her up as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Too much, huh?" he teased, his voice gentler. He kissed her forehead. As he carried her to his bedroom, he asked, "Do you need a break?"

She smiled at him wryly. "Only if you say I do."

That made him laugh. "Oh, good girl." But he sat her carefully on the edge of the bed before he finished undressing her, lifting her sweater over her head. He stepped out of his own jeans and boxers, then caressed her cheek. She leaned into it like a cat while he smoother her hair with his other hand. "I want to be in your mouth," he told her.

She grinned as if offered a treat. He loved oral sex, but unless he was in the right sort of mood, the passivity of it was often less interesting to him than what he could do to her. Sometimes she took the initiative and did it anyway, but he almost never outright asked for it. He watched her take delight in it now, running her tongue over the length of him, taking the tip of him in her mouth and then more, casting her eyes up to his. He groaned and gently squeezed her scalp, loving the opportunity to play with her hair, to brush it from her face and weave it around his fingers. "You like this?"

She made a noise of assent.

"Tell me why."

She broke from her task, covering his cock with her hand. "Because I can make you feel as good as you make me feel."

"Ah, but making you come is all I think about. It's everything to me. I'd be--" he was forced to pause as she did something wonderful with her tongue--"disappointed if you outdid me."

She gave him her sly-fox smile. "And I love your cock."

"Say that again."

"I love your cock," she said, moaning the words.

He took her by the chin. "But you really love it inside you, don't you?"

"Yes," she said breathlessly. "I love it when you fuck me."

He shoved her rudely away from him, onto her back, watching carefully for any sign of dismay, but she only gasped and broke into a wide grin. He felt a pang of intense arousal, possessiveness, need. She thought he was in control, but really, she was; he would have done anything in that moment, absolutely anything, to please her.

He spread her legs, then took her hips and pulled her down to the edge of the bed until he was flush with her. Her eyes were wide in anticipation, her lips parted, her fingers clutching the sheets, waiting for him.