EXCERPT FROM BOOK IN PROGRESS ~ LOVE LETTER ~ continued from last week
So, he kissed her.
Kissed her.
Again, and again, harder and harder.
And Lauren knew truth and clarity and felt the peace that had left her world when those she loved died, return. Love and light cascaded back into the inky black abyss. She now understood why she ran, why she sought that dark underworld, it was because all she felt was darkness, and her fire play had been her way of gathering light, but it didn’t work, nothing worked, not even returning home and loving the elders, not her many friendships, not her art, nothing, nothing, nothing, until Rich. He was a hero, but she never realized she needed this hero to rescue her until he did, not from a fire like he did Judy or those young children, but from herself.
There was a fear that she hadn’t revealed, a fear she didn’t really know existed, the fear of not being loved, of not being able to love. He rescued her from that obliqueness, and became her sun, her light, her universe. She draped her arms around his neck, pulled him closer, open her mouth to him, open her heart and her life, no hesitation, no resistance. He loved her. It was real. The truth was in his eloquence. The man who economized his words, who strung his thoughts together in sequence, in a steady stream of logic and pattern, had spoken like a poet, her poet, her knight, her love. And she, who couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t now find the words, so she used her mouth, her kiss, showing her love in the slowness of her kiss, saying love you, love you, love you in the play of lips, in the swish of her tongue and tender probes, allowing the water to push her to him, her nipples touching his hairless chest, her pub skimming his groin.
At this moment, this instant of surrender the contrast of all that had gone before showed in sharp edged contrast. Though Lauren knew little of Judy’s propensity for lustful sate, and nothing of Bettyanne’s own salacious nature or Theresa’s sexual self-indulgence, she had experience the same ache and yearn, seeking to be quenched and instead finding more thirst, an endless circle of racing toward fulfillment and finding emptiness until now, until Rich spoke the words and she felt the truth in her own heart. Love was the fountain that satiated and healed, no facsimile in the guise of lust could accomplish the same.
He pulled her against him, closer, closer, moving until he was seated once more, and she straddling him, his hands in her hair, the kiss going on and on and then finally his mouth moved to her nipples, twirls and flicks. Her arching, head thrown back, their taut bellies meeting and parting, meeting and parting, in the swell and movement of water as the heat within began to build as the heat without warred with the cool air. Hot babbling water couldn’t drown out love sounds, not quite moans, not words, just breaths that had speech, just gasp-like murmurs and syllabic mutters.
Her mouth found his again, and then sought his scar, found other scars, treating each one to tender licks and expressions of love, and the his mouth found her scar lifting her from the water to kiss the entirety of the pattern, and then turning her to rain another pattern over the tattoo of feathers and claws, lifting her to reach the base of her spine and then lowering her ever so slowly, turning her back, settling her upon his lap and cupping her breasts to massage the spilling handfuls, watching her face as her passion grew, not lust, not the grope of sex, but heartfelt passion. He caressed her thighs, moved his fingers between her thighs, found her clitoris and played it with deliberated titillation, a song emerged of heavy breaths, of quicken pulses, and eventually gasps. In turn, she found the girth of his sex, fondled it, stroked, caressed, stimulated with promises of warm captivity, of glimpses of sate.
And then suddenly they both knew, the time had come, what they had prolonged, what they wished to savor but now needed with such urgency they could no longer resist. He began to nudge her bottom into position. But she stopped him even as she felt the hard tip of him barely controlled against one full thrust that would seal their forever.
With her eyes deepening in color, she sought his eyes, and placed her hands on either side of his face, her ability to speak returning, “I love you,” she said, not adding that she had never told a lover that, for in truth none had ever been a lover. There had been those few dalliances, some with the hope of love, with the maybe possibility that never had a chance of fruition. But she never loved. Rich was her first lover in the true vision of the word.
He grinned. “I know.”
“Don’t be flippant. I meant it.”
“I know,” he repeated.
“You stole that line.”
“Yeah,” he kissed her, swiftly, the strain of resisting showing in the tightening of his hands upon her buttock, in his voice so raw, in the quickening rise and fall of his chest. “Saw the movie, huh?”
“Like who hasn’t.” Her words were glib but she had the look of a woman in want, of a woman who yearned and craved.
To him she was the incarnate of his crave, and resistance shattered itself on the rock of desire.
“Lauren?”
“Yeah?”
“Hush.”
And she did. He kissed her once more, ever so tenderly, and then he entered her, a single thrust that he held for the length of a lovers’ eternity. Each watched the other, words of love spilling in starts and stops and gasps and breaths. Finally movement, the ageless parrying of in and out, his hands moving her up and down, her taut canal tightening against him, suckling, holding, reluctantly letting go and then starting over.
Around them the candlelight spit its flame, proudly offered its hue of flash and flicker along the planes of their skin, within the reflection of their eyes, dancing upon the bubbles churning around hips that undulated to an inner drumming. Again and again he plunged. Again and again she submitted to his welcome invasion.
Strong legs braced them as he stood and continued to pound inside her, continued their journey to fulfillment, not the spill of seed, not the spasms of sate, but the knowing it would be better each time, the forever of it would provide a depth of sensuality that could never be reached unless two souls were intimate, where in love. If there were no sex at all, the intimacy would remain the same, the closeness wouldn’t vanish, it would see them through the ugly and good, the rough and sweet, the nasty and nice, until they drew their last breaths, but to have passion, to have the physical expletive touched the deepest core of Rich, and he felt tears build, even as his body careened toward release.
Lauren soared like the eagle etched upon her back. The pinnacle loomed and the art of loving, the truism of it reached inside her and encouraged liberation. Together they floated toward that epiphany only lovers could find, that rareness of release that included rapture physically, mentally and emotionally all at once, and then they fell into it, reaching for more, prolonging the inevitable as much as they could, and then surging into the crest of it, clinging as they would forever cling through all the traumas and joys of their world.
Afterward, he kissed her tenderly, dried her with fluffy white towels as she in turn dried him, and together, without speaking, they found the Master bedroom, spooned on a waterbed that rocked them both into a blissful sleep, both uttering words of love as they drifted into that nothingness.
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