Late Valentine Ch. 03

I don't think I've brought my music together with any man I've been with since Antonio. Which is not only long a long time ago, but a whole other dimension in the realms of time and, well, of love. I shake my arms, not because they're tense but because my muscles feel weak.

'What else do you play?'

I pick something else, searching for entirely the opposite mood, and the speed of the piece keeps my brain too busy to threaten any more unexpected unravelling, and I'm even able to finish the piece with a flourish.

'What was that? I recognised it but I can't think what it's called.'

'That was "Boxcar Boogie".'

I swallow, the dip in my voice echoing in my head. I hadn't thought it'd feel this way to play for him.

'Hey, are you alright?' He looms over me, bending so that his breath tickles the top of my ear.

I nod, unable to find my words. And let him manoeuvre me so that, somehow, I'm sitting on his knees, still facing the piano, his chest pressed to my back.

'Elizabeth, I came here to spend time with you. To get to know more of you. Not to be entertained, or in expectation of everything being somehow perfect,' said in a voice soft with kindness.

I let my shoulders drop. I am seduced, utterly, by this man.

'Now then, let's see what tunes I can butcher with my terrible piano skills, shall we?'

He starts off with a ragtime number I know, so I join in, jabbing my fingers onto the keys in-between his, the movements of his body unlocking something in my own. I've been almost fearful of experiencing this again, yet at the same time, afraid it would be missing. My thoughts end up muddling not just my head but my fingers too, crashing into his to create some horribly discordant notes.

'Saboteur, you. This is some of my best work,' he breathes.

His eyes are bright. I twist more and lean in for the kiss. This one is a proper kiss, not the polite brushes of earlier. I open my eyes to fill my senses with as much of him as I can get; the greying hairs over his ears; the rasp of his stubble on my cheeks, the press of his hand across my stomach. I reach for him, for everything of him.

+++

It's as though I can sense each small change and adjustment in her body as she relaxes and softens in my hold. The stool had looked sturdy enough to take the weight of both of us, and, regardless, I'd needed to hold her. To bring her to me or, if that wasn't going to work, to at least anchor her, since she'd looked so -- what? Undone? "At sea", hadn't that been the phrase she'd used in London? Something about playing the piano has done that to her. I spread my fingers over her belly, wanting to haul her closer still. And dive into the kiss, my heart vying with both feet to be first in.

I place my other hand across the twist of her neck, fingertips caressing the underside of her chin, drinking in the rise of her chest, memories of her beautiful responsiveness flooding back. Barely three weeks apart, yet they've felt an eternity. And have given me an unwelcome refresher in the studied loneliness of my life, sharpened by the profound ache of Elizabeth's absence.

The ludicrousness of it has not escaped me. Four days of knowing her, of exploring her mind and body, of watching her in the company of my sister and closest friends, have spoiled me with all the subtlety and power of a wrecking ball, and I've been seriously off-kilter ever since. I need to know if she's felt it too.

She kisses me back, meeting my energy with her own, tasting delicious. Like Elizabeth. We kiss and kiss, finding each other, sometimes barely touching, sometimes so searching it feels as though we could be lost. I move her around on my lap to give my cock some time out, almost surprised that my hand has found its own way beneath her blouse; her skin, with that unbelievably rich feel to it, seducing my thumb and fingertips.

I open my eyes. Wordlessly, she pushes her blouse open, then down her shoulders, revealing a pretty, cream bra. She's flushed along her collarbone and down into her cleavage and I kiss that pink trail, rather enjoying the fact she's a little bit constricted by the blouse still banded around her upper arms. I rearrange us somewhat until I'm tipping her back just enough to be able to kiss more of her. She wriggles, then sighs.

Her sounds make my brain light up -- something fierce and very urgent. My grip of her tightens. Her head drops down, perhaps watching my hands as they push the creamy lace up and over her breasts, lifting herself towards my mouth as I dip down to taste her. And then it's the sounds of both of us which fill her bedroom -- my lips on her soft, warm flesh, her panting, the rustle and slide of our clothing, the creak of the piano stool.

'Will this take our weight?'

Her eyes take a few seconds to focus. 'What?'

'Are we going to break it, or --'

'Oh. No. I don't know. I mean I've never, uh -- had two people sitting on it before,' her words rushing out in a coy heap.

The primitive parts of me cheer. I shift us again, testing it, but the joints feel secure enough. I suck her nipple back into my mouth, feeling her body tightening, fidgeting, in response.

This. This is what I've missed.

I suck harder, making her jump. Her hands clamp around my head so I suck again, joyous at the familiar delight of having Elizabeth in my arms. She moans when I release her, and I imagine how the cool, dry air feels on the flesh I've warmed and wetted.

But then she's pushing me away, pulling herself from my lap. She's got that look in her soft eyes; the one that's been behind my eyelids every time I've tried to sleep. It's some combination of desire, nerves, trust and curiosity. As if in slow motion, she draws her blouse down all the way off her arms until it drips to the floor, her bra following in short order. She stands, then sways. There's not enough space here, so we re-adjust until I'm sitting with my back to the piano and she's -- wonderfully -- undressing in front of me.

Buttons and zips are opened, fabric slides down her thighs revealing sweet lacy underwear I want to bury my face in. As she pulls her jeans free of her feet, she turns away, enough to give me a perfect view of her round bottom, and the starburst of freckles on her right hip.

'Come here.'

I touch the birthmark, as fascinated by it now as I ever was, and she moves into my hand, letting me pull her into my lap once more, her back to my chest, my palm sliding around her waist to secure her. She whispers my name, calling me Robbie. That she likes my childhood name, a name no other woman has ever called me, does funny things to me. I pull her closer, fixing my gaze on her right shoulder, the skin so smooth over her shoulder blade it could be alabaster. I kiss it, the pull of her body just too strong to resist.

'Spread your legs, Elizabeth,' I mutter, endorphins pumping through me in a swell of blood when she does as I ask.

One touch to her underwear sends my heart into overdrive. She lifts to meet my fingers and I open my own legs under her, forcing her wider still. The move surprises her and her thighs tighten as she struggles for balance. I take advantage, sliding my hand beneath the silk of her underwear to find her; deliciously wet and ready for me. I mutter her name. Maybe I do that more than once. It doesn't matter. All that matters is to make her feel as wonderful as she makes me feel.

I curl my fingers and she gasps, the tremor moving through her body, her tension a fine, satisfyingly palpable thing. I stroke her, luxuriating in her quivering heat, finding my way around her again.

'Yes?' I ask.

She replies by tilting her hips to me, searching for more of my touch.

'Elizabeth,' I whisper. Beseech.

Because how can it be any other? I want her. Always. The desire thumps me in the sternum so hard I almost see stars. I've prided myself on being such a rational man. So controlled. So well-mannered. Curbing the moments when I've wanted something which might unbalance the conventional life I've trapped myself in these past ten years. The thoughts push me to the edge and I'm suddenly desperate for more. I shove her from my lap, rough and not caring, yet holding her steady as I twist us around. Out of self-preservation, her hands brace on the piano and she's fortuitously, bewitchingly, in the perfect position.

I fumble, truly fumble at my fly, hand shaking uselessly with adrenalin until, blessedly, my cock springs free and I'm able to shove my trousers down my thighs. Which is when I realise I've neglected to divest Elizabeth of her delicate lace undies. I test them for elasticity, giving her a long, decadent stroke in the process. She moans, which encourages me.

'Yes?' I ask, kissing the shell of her ear.

She moans again and lifts her body to meet me.

'Yes, Elizabeth? You're ready for me?'

She expels a breath in a way that could almost be impatience. 'Yes, Robbie. Please.'

Her words detonate my brain. I yank the lace to one side and hold my cock at her entrance, taking a long breath to steady myself.

'Like this? This is ok?' as I bump my crown against her hot centre.

Her head drops. 'Yes. Like this. Now.'

And fuck if I can do anything other than let instinct take over, driving my cock deep until she is full of me, until her body is straining to take any more of me. I stay there, tight to her body until her muscles acclimatise to my presence. And, honestly, until I calm myself down, I need her to stay very still. Eventually, I pull her closer, drop a kiss onto the top of her shoulder, then her cheek as she turns her face towards mine. I use my hand to hold her closer, pressing us together, needing the communion of skin and bone and oxygen between us, forcing the final inch.

Her body shakes, and we begin. The age-old dance. One I'm not ashamed to say I've done many times before, with more than a handful of women. But this -- this, with Elizabeth -- is the most complete, overwhelming experience I've had. As if we already know every inch, every pore and cell of each other. I sink everything I am into her, only peripherally aware of anything other than her body welcoming me in.

+++

There's nothing polite or nervous about this and I'm loving it. Being fucked over my piano is sadly, shockingly and wonderfully new to me, and I don't want it to end. But -- and this is probably as shocking -- I think I can tell he's already close. How can I be that familiar with him? After a total of four days; maybe the fifth, sixth time we've done this together? It's ridiculous.

Then I stop caring about any of that as his cock both demands and coaxes an orgasm from me in a way no-one else has. I grip him, suddenly racing ahead of him as I drop hard into it, barely registering the short, sharp gasp from his mouth, yet gripping him ever more tightly, my hand tight on his backside, needing him.

'Yes, Robbie,' I encourage, just as he makes it, his body completely still for a few taut seconds before he lets it go. Everything. We fall together, far and fast, pulling each other to the very limit. The hot, liquid rush inside me feels beautiful. Like a gift.

As consciousness slowly re-forms, I'm surprised to find we're lying on my bed, my back to his chest, one of his hands stroking my ass, pushing at the underwear I'm still, miraculously, wearing. Although as he strokes, it becomes clear he wants them gone, so I help him until they're bunched around my knees and he can slip his hand between my legs again. The noise he makes when he finds the evidence of his own come is so unselfconscious it nearly breaks me. I reach back to stroke his thigh and am reminded he's still pretty much fully-clothed as my hand collides with the leather of his belt and the fine wool of his pants.

His hips shift back then forwards, his cock sliding in-between my legs, more of his fragmentary sounds spilling into my ear. God, this man. Can this be real? He moves against me in a gentle but deliberate pace that tightens my body all over again.

'How are you still hard?' I blurt out, just as disbelieving of my own response.

He chuckles, a low, calm sound, his breath tickling the back of my ear. 'I've no idea, but I am,' putting more power behind his thrust.

'Unbelievable. This whole thing, Robbie. It feels unreal.'

'Is that good or bad?'

I stretch my neck like a cat as he brushes a hand over my wrecked hair. 'Good, I hope. Unless you do eventually turn out to be a serial killer. Then all this'll turn out to be a real downer.'

His laugh is relaxed. I squirrel out of his hold to turn over until we're facing each other, managing to kick my underwear off completely to lift my thigh over his, encouraging his cock back into position. Its return makes both of us hum in appreciation, it feels that good. I kiss the end of his nose.

'You're still wearing an awful lot,' I complain.

He opens his eyes. They're still darkened and his hips begin moving with more intent. Then he stops, before drifting two fingers over me.

'Can you? Or are you --?'

I don't let him finish. 'Yes, Robbie.'

The pleasure is so intense it's almost pain as he bosses his way back inside, rolling us in one, sure move until I'm on my back, the metal of his belt buckle a cool impression against the inside of my thigh. I pull at the hem of his shirt until I've wrestled it as high as it'll get, bunched under his armpits. The feel of his skin on mine feeds the electricity between us.

'Fuck me, Lisbeth,' he breathes, whether in appreciation or instruction I can't tell, and, after another powerful thrust of his hips, I don't care.

'Holy shit, Robbie. Holy shit.'

+++

We'd slept for a short while. A cat-nap. Which, after a nine-hour flight, an afternoon walking around Elizabeth's neighbourhood and coming twice, I'd needed. Rather like the shower. I'd needed that too, before being anywhere close to presentable. And now we're stepping into a wine bar just a short walk from her flat, the picture windows onto the street streaming with condensation. I wait behind Elizabeth as she looks around for her friend. Nicky. Someone she's known since university. Walking here, we'd held hands, prolonging the physical connection, and I'm missing the contact now. I'm forty-two, and only now do I find myself wanting to hold hands with a woman.

'There she is,' and she smiles back at me before plunging in-between the stools lining the bar on one side and the tables down the other until we're almost at the back, and although we're here to meet her friend, my eyes can only see Elizabeth. Nothing else feels as fascinating. Seeing her in her element, in her city, is beguiling. Following her lead, listening to her descriptions and memories of the places we walk by, seeing her greet the shopkeeper on the corner of her street, the barman in this place, her friend -- all of it feels, well, it makes me want her more completely than ever.

It's later, over our second glasses of wine, when she leaves our table for the bathroom, when Nicky leans closer to me.

'This is when I'm going to embarrass you by asking you what your intentions are toward my friend,' she smiles over her wine glass.

I smile back, because I like her. She's got a strong mind and a sharp sense of humour. 'Oh yes? And are you asking?'

She laughs. 'Well, I'm guessing the fact you've flown here for the weekend should tell me enough.'

I nod, suddenly curious and full of questions. What does Nicky know of Elizabeth that she could tell me? And what is it I would want to ask?

'I've been good friends with her for over fifteen years and this is the first guy she's really let me meet since --,' she pauses.

'Since Antonio?'

Her eyebrows climb her high forehead. 'Yes, since Antonio. You're having dinner with him and Seth tomorrow night, right?'

I nod and drink the last of my wine. She does the same.

'Meeting the whole family, then.'

'No, not her mother or sister --'

'Those two.' Nicky snorts. 'They're not worth your time, since they're certainly not worthy of Elizabeth's.'

Elizabeth re-appears at that very point, showing no signs of having heard Nicky's last comment, touching my forearm with a confidence I like a great deal, as if it's something ordinary and everyday.

'Are we having another, or not?'

Nicky shakes her head, already dragging her bag over her shoulder. 'I wish I could stay here all night with you guys, but I've got a man at home I haven't seen since Thursday, and a project crisis to manage in the morning with my son. Once he remembers he's got homework, that is,' she grins, rolling her eyes.

I glance at my watch, surprised to find it's barely eight in the evening. Nicky declares she's happy to have met me and we share a quick embrace, followed by a much more heartfelt one between the two women, and then we're all standing outside in the cool air. It's a reminder I'm in Chicago and as we walk back toward Elizabeth's, I marvel that one thing -- being with her -- can feel so natural and familiar, when the other thing -- being in this city, this country -- is so unfamiliar.

'You ok?' she asks, her hand brushing over mine.

I smile. Really smile. 'Yes. Yes I am.'

+++

'Are you going to send me those photos?' I ask him as we wait for the train.

'Of course.'

I grin at him and he grins back and we're in severe danger of looking like a pair of grinning fools too old for such nonsense, but I don't care. He looks beautiful today. The charcoal of his hair and coat a perfect match, the dark red of his shirt an occasional flash of warm colour against the pale winter's day.

I'm still basking in the memory of being pulled into his arms for a photograph of us, or rather, of our reflections, in 'the Bean'. We'd been circling it for some minutes by then, Rob examining all the ways the sculpture distorts the cityscape and the humans all around it; me examining Rob, letting myself enjoy the fact of his presence in my city. So he'd caught me out when he'd snuck his arm out and around me, drawing me into his chest and holding his phone out to capture us. It was nothing that all the other people around us weren't already doing, but it had felt like something to me. I guess that's how all those moments are; generic and commonplace, until it's your moment; becoming yours.

The train arrives and we get on it, along with a ton of other people. Saturday afternoon, and it's predictably busy. We stand, and he fits me closer to him until I'm surrounded by his body heat. I'm not used to affection in public. Actually, better make that affection in general, since the most recent relationships I've had have hardly been relationships at all. Encounters defined by polite dinners, conventional theatre, vanilla sex. I turn away from those thoughts but bump right up against much more challenging ones, since putting a name on what's happening with Rob feels fraught.

This morning, I'd woken up to confusing sounds of broken conversation emanating from my couch; Rob's voice and a noisy mess of girly chatter and the clatter of utensils. It takes me a while to wake up, so I'd practically fallen out of the bedroom, still fighting with my motor skills and glasses, to find Rob sitting on the couch in boxers and a creased t-shirt, talking to his phone. His gaze had flicked to me, then over to the kitchen where my coffee pot stood next to a mug. God love him. Opening the refrigerator for the half-and-half, I'd realised he was Facetiming with Grace while she demonstrated how they were baking a sponge cake in that beautiful white kitchen back in London.

I'd shivered over my coffee, recalling the framed photographs lining the staircase down into that kitchen; Rob, John and Ginny captured in all their youthful fearlessness, together with baby pictures of Grace and Faith, before Rob had looked across at me again. A question in his eyes. Was I joining him? I'd taken a seat next to him. Onscreen, Grace was holding a wooden spoon up in front of her delighted face, talking at warp speed about all the ingredients they were using and how Faith had dropped the butter onto the floor, Mariusz's calming voice in the background. I'd spent more time watching Rob's face than the goings-on in London, at how he'd responded to Grace's every comment, demand and gesture. It'd felt so painful I'd had to leave him, glad of the need for a shower as a reason to escape.