She observes him quietly as he tries to reassure her. Truth be told, she cannot think of any other term to describe that thoughtfulness of his, one that she doesn't recall having ever seen or experienced in the weeks and months spent in each other's company. Though quite delicate and kind at times, he's proved to be also way too confident and definitely smug in almost everything he does or says — such a different picture from the man who lies by her side, naked, under the same sheet that covers her own body.
The notion of intimacy is barely disorienting anymore — though the memory alone still leaves her pulse racing unsteadily, the hesitance in both her posture and gestures is the aftermath of mere uncertainty and fatigue, rather than second thoughts. There is no trace of regret to overshadow what has come to be, and she feels like she has to voice that sentiment quickly, again; the awareness of her previous permissions to proceed having been answers as true and honest as ones given at the mercy of want and desire is settling in. Of course it is. She's sweetly yielded to every touch, every look, all of his gentle and rushed words. Now, however, with that passionate haze dimmed like the flame of a spent candle, Clea understands the weight of it all more clearly.
Not a part of her heart or mind wishes for any of it to be unmade. How great it is, the way she's felt desired in his arms — how much her body has responded to his touch, his kisses and his attention, and how naturally she has come to trust him with it during the most intense moments spent so close. And most of all, how safe she's felt afterwards. Here, beside him, as his hand rests against her as though keeping her that close is nothing new to him.
She observes him stretching and moving his hair away from his face, and nods silently when he reassures her of the ache being meant to fade away in the morning. Yes, she has no reason not to believe him, but that's the one thought that makes her lower her gaze in a display of sudden, uncharacteristic embarrassment. Not the soreness, the ache or its cause, not even the nudity or his hypnotic touch — rather the implications those words carry, beneath that easy reassurance.
That he knew. That he's easily read her, most likely thanks to past experiences. Indeed, there has been no graceful or subtle way to disguise her inexperience from him once in his bed, not with his guidance and his queries. The thought bothers her more than she'd ever care to admit, and the fool such a realization makes of her is somehow an even worse epiphany. And so Clea instead decides to defer the matter altogether, with silence. It's a soft kind of embarrassment — the awkward thought has not even proved that much of a hindrance to their moment of passion — or so it seems to her.
She focuses on the lazy circles he draws across her skin, and they prove enough to have that one cloud in her mind dissipate. His touch anchors her there, as does the sheet over her body — if she's thought of sitting up and perhaps heading to the bathroom to clean herself, those things keep her there. For one more moment. One long instant there, lulled into feeling safe and spent. By instinct, if by anything else, she relaxes, and raises her gaze back to his face while her arm snakes under the pillow she's occupying, for more leverage for her head.
Oh, beautiful he calls it. That takes her back, to the vivid image of him hovering above her just moments prior, calling her beautiful then. And it's as if her chest fills and swells with adoration at the memory.
❛ Neither did I, ❜ she confirms, recalling the sweet desperation veiling his eyes at the request of her kiss. She's sensed it approaching for some time — for despite the lack of practical experience she carries, the girl can tell a lovestruck gaze when she sees one. All of his small gestures, the peculiar and sometimes off-putting courtesy and sarcasm, as well as the many glances he'd throw at her and at her lips, thinking himself unnoticed, like a thief in the night, take on a new shade in lieu of their latest predicament. A kiss — she had expected one as well, but nothing of the sort to follow that suddenly. ❛ That's not to say I didn't— I mean, I am sure I've wanted this, and have no regrets for how things have evolved. ❜
She wonders innocently, and briefly, what it might have been like — to have only shared a single kiss, and nothing more. To have walked away from his attic with only that small, stolen intimacy to take home with her. To have lain awake in her bed through the night, lost in thoughts, until the first ray of sun would filter through the curtains. Maybe she would have thought one kiss barely enough to satisfy them both — and she'd have happily dreamed of the next. The idea is laughable and quite naive now that she's in his bed.
His thumb moves against her shoulder, slow and unhurried in the many patterns it creates, and she lets him caress her that delicately, that reverently. The way he looks at her makes her smile — that singular and luminous light in his gaze is something difficult to name, but it speaks of softness and a touch of apprehension. She meets it with equal sentiment, and a bit of curiosity.
❛ I wasn't planning to leave, ❜ she says at last, with a voice quieter than she intends. A beat. Her gaze falls to his cheeks, and lips, and the neck and collarbone poking out of the covers. She tries to be suave, to sound sure of herself, though she'd have left his bed and his place for the first carriage back home if he had wished her to. She's glad that terrible fantasy is not the one she finds herself in. Doesn't it make sense for a lover to stay ? Though she barely understands how, she was once told that some prefer privacy after the act, or that some spouses prefer to sleep in different beds. It makes sense to stay — for the desire and love she harbors, and for the meaning of such a night. Also, are they to be considered lovers now ? Or perhaps something else ?
There will be time for that, she supposes. His demeanor tells her as much. For now, she tucks her arm further beneath the pillow and regards his unguarded expression with attention. ❛ You know, I never slept in an attic, ❜ she smiles. She has never slept with someone, either. The truth is, she doesn't know how she's even meant to find sleep with the weight of everything that has happened. The kiss, his mouth on her neck and chest, his hands, his gaze, that weight against her. The body is exhausted, though, even if the mind refuses to follow.
Her hand at her side moves then to her own hip, to intercept his wandering one — coming to rest over it with a light touch. ❛ I can stay. I mean it. I don't wish to be anywhere else tonight. ❜
