Authors: Beatrice Donahue
The brandy, which scalded my throat at first, has ceased to burn. I like the feeling it imparts: invincible. Regal. I lie on my belly on the daybed, calves raised, ankles crossed, and take another sip. I feel different here, in this white castle on its hill. Eve has turned to the easel. She is stronger than Charles, I have no doubt. If she can be so strong, then maybe so can I.
For now, there is only us. For now, I won’t think of Charles.
I watch her as she works. Autumnal blue still glows overhead, casting shadows under the lines of her cheekbones. Her cap and jacket lie discarded in a pile of tweed and pinstripe by the gramophone; now she wears a camisole of cream silk with the grey trousers rolled beneath. Her feet are stockingless, ankles delicate. My heart swells and contracts at once, pushed and pulled by forces of gratitude and longing for this unlikely protector.
Longing.
I shift in my seat, watching the flit of her eyes between me and the canvas. Two seascapes lean against the wall behind her, but no pictures of the redheaded muse. I wonder again where she is now and who she was to Eve, and the same pang of envy and hunger returns. Exhaling, I cross my legs a little tighter.
Beyond the window, the light has begun its descent into that singular time of blueness which hangs each dawn and dusk between day and night. As I watch the sky change and think about the redhead, I finally understand what I want to be to Eve.
The glass sits empty on the floor. Pinching the top button of my blouse, I clear my throat.
She is bent at the easel; when her eyes flick again to me, she straightens slowly, still clasping her paintbrush, expression veiled.
My fingers work steadily down the row of buttons, and I hold her gaze.
“My darling, Rosebud. You don’t have to—”
She inhales as my blouse falls away. Without faltering, I reach around to the fastenings on my bodice.
Eve watches me undress. Every inch of freshly uncovered skin tingles under her gaze. When the air hits my breasts, she makes an exclamation in her throat and darts to a larger canvas leaned against the far wall, hauling it onto the easel, dipping her brush and making rapid strokes.
Her response is gratifying. I feel powerful. Dizzy with possibility, I remove my glasses. The action is rewarded by another sharp intake of breath.
My vision is softened by lack of glasses, warmed by liquor. My skirt and stockings join the mound of fabric on the floor. I stretch back out along the low sofa and focus on the faint sound of the sea and distant gulls through glass, but cannot escape the air against my bare skin and that same feeling of being wholly
seen
. My nipples, hard and sensitive, brush the cobalt velvet as I turn back onto my stomach. The air is cool, but I am flushed, my breathing shallow. As the light beyond the window drops rapidly away, the room grows heavy with blue and the fall of petals.
Her voice cuts through it, laced with regret. “If I’m to carry on, I’ll have to light the lamp.”
I close my eyes.
“Eve? Would you come here? Please?”
She must have crossed the room without a sound, because now I feel rather than see her stand in front of me.
I rise to sit. Perhaps this time of evening—before the night has found its star—is a time for soul, not mind. I take a breath, and reach up blindly. Clasping both her wrists, I pull her down to me on the daybed, and the pressure of her body against mine is electrifying. I feel the brush of hard nipple through silk against my own breast; the spark sets me trembling. She’s so near.
As her lips close over mine, I sigh in relief.
My fingers are on her back, quaking to finally touch her. I fist the silken fabric and clutch her to me as I finally allow myself to
breathe, breathe, breathe
the floral scent. As our mouths crush together, her hands travel to my face, cradling—careful with the tender side where Charles has left his mark. I fight a sob and breathe her in again. She is warm, and—I suddenly see clearly as the last light slips away—everything I want.
“I want you,” I tell her against her mouth.
“Darling girl. I wanted you the moment I first laid eyes on you.”
The confirmation is another caress. My nipples become harder still, and the pressure at the apex of my thighs grows, sweet and unbearable.
“You’re shaking. Are you all right? We don’t have to do this.” Her voice is raw. “You’re emotional; perhaps we—”
I cut her off with a kiss so fierce I surprise myself. I feel her start, then yield. The day has vanished from the sky overhead. We are together, I want her; she wants me. Everything is suddenly so simple, I want to laugh, breathless and freed. I tug at her camisole, and she breaks the kiss to pull it over her head, a wry smile appearing as I take in her lack of undergarments.
“Thoroughly modern.” Her mock-apology is an ardent whisper. She raises herself off of me to slide out of her trousers. Beneath them she wears what appear to be little more than two kerchiefs of white lace.
“More damned Paris fashions,” she murmurs, suddenly coy, and I am struck again by the wildly differing facets of her personality, amazed how they combine so seamlessly into
Eve.
I’m mesmerised, my hand already on the soft midriff above the scant fabric. She looks down at it for a moment, breathing laboured, then her skin presses back against mine; too perfect. I close my eyes to better concentrate on its feel, but hastily open them again, driven by greed to see her. I reach for her head and bring it closer.
This kiss begins as chastely as the last. I sense her hesitation, but my lungs are filling freely now. I open my mouth, infusing hers with my sigh at the sweep of her tongue across my upper lip before it slips inside. We kiss in the blue dark, beginning to move together, when the shrill ring of the telephone in the hall far below makes my muscles seize. Her hands are instantly at my face again, and she whispers to me.
“Ignore it.”
“He might come here.” My stomach twists, the bravery, which had started to build, beginning to dissolve.
“He would never dare. Trust me.”
I do trust her. I finally exhale, and kiss her fingertips. The ringing stops.
“I’m so glad I’m here. With you.”
It’s not about running from Charles. It’s about being with Eve. In the dark, I know she’s smiling, and I know she has understood. She always seems to understand.
“I’m glad too. More than you can possibly imagine, but... I want you in my bed.”
Her drawl is throaty and low; I feel each word as if she has cupped me between my legs. The same light tremor shakes my shoulders again as I realise I’ve wanted that since the first moment and find her hand. She pulls me up, and for an instant her lips are on my forehead. Then we abandon the easel and the dark sky for the landing and the circular staircase and finally, her bedroom.
She bends to switch on a lamp on the nightstand. In its sudden glow, my eyes are drawn to the blank space on the wall where three paintings of the red haired siren had hung. Confused, I drop my gaze. Several squares of paper are scattered, white on white across the bed before me. On each, simple charcoal lines combine to form a woman’s face, emerging from flowing fair hair. Beneath one, in perfect script, are two words.
English Rose
My lips part.
“I couldn’t wait—after you came here. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
She has come to stand so close behind me; her breath is hot on my neck as she lifts my hair, murmuring her apology into my skin. I stare down at the drawings strewn across her sheets and feel myself grow warm.
“I’ve had the picture I started up there today in my mind since you were here last, but I never thought... my head’s full to overflowing, Rosebud. Full of you.”
Slowly, she reaches around my ribs to my breasts and raises them gently, weighing them in her cupped hands. My heart hammers, made faint by the sensuality of the gesture and yearning greed for more. As her thumbs circle both hardened nipples, she whispers in my ear.
“The night I met you, I touched myself.”
I can’t catch my breath.
Roses. Iris. Eve
. Her tongue traces my earlobe. I lean back against her, suddenly soaked between my legs.
“Ev—”
The telephone trills again in the hallway below. Upstairs, earlier, I was scared. Not any more: I sit on the edge of the bed, pulling her with me. The ringing stops again, as abruptly as it began. Charles has not come to find me. Eve is beside me, bare thigh burning where it touches my own. My breath has vanished, and my sex aches.
“Eve.”
She reaches back and sweeps the papers from the bed. They flutter to the floor while with gentle pressure against my shoulder, she draws me down with her onto the soft white. Raised on her elbow, she wears a look I’ve never seen. The back of one hand trails across my stomach, and something deep inside me tightens unbearably. Her gaze on me is as gentle as her touch.
“Is this what you want?”
Yes, it’s what I want. It’s all I want.
My neck and eyelids are leaden.
“Yes. I want this. You. Yes.”
“Good, because it’s all I’ve wanted since the first moment I saw you in that awful place.”
I choke out a sob of laughter and close my eyes. I shiver as she plants kisses on each lid, at my throat, warm along my breastbone. I grasp cotton and sigh as her tongue slides down and finds my navel.
“You’re so goddamned beautiful, Rosina.” Her drawl against my skin sets it alight. “Touch yourself for me. How you would, alone.”
I feel my skin flush, but still open my eyes to look at her. “I don’t—I... at least, I never... not until I met you.” It’s hard to breathe.
“But you’re so beautiful, Rosebud. Let me show you.”
I want her to, so much. I release my grip on the sheet, and hold out my hand. She takes it, and I gasp as she places it between my legs, then waits.
Swallowing hard, I extend a finger; still clasping my hand to guide it, she trails it through the moisture. Slippery, and swollen.
Oh, God.
I hiss through my teeth, rock my pelvis back above the bed and fight to look at her. She’s smiling, lips parted.
“Touch me.” I would beg her, but the power to form sentences has deserted me. At first her fingers close over mine, but I slide my own away, biting my lip as hers land there instead. The contact brings a sensation of sharp but unfulfilled pleasure. I tense, back arching in anticipation. “Show me,” I gasp. “Please.”
She’s silent, but her fingers answer with light strokes over my sensitive flesh. I spread my legs a little wider and groan as she circles and teases, unable to keep my eyes open any more.
“So good... Eve.”
In one lithe movement, she lies on top of me. Her warm weight exerts the perfect pressure, skilled fingers slid between our bodies, making passes through my soaking wet sex. As she lowers her head to kiss me, the sensation of her nipples connecting with mine is electrifying. She moves fluidly, molten; the perfect temperature. Over, around, underneath. Inside.
Her bottom is round, high, and so soft I almost can’t bear the feeling it invokes. I slide my hands over the smoothness, stroking, and sigh out loud at the corresponding tug of longing low down inside. My nipples are hard against her body, sensitive to every motion, to every shift of her weight. Her fingers keep on moving inside me with slow thrusts while she rubs the most tender point with the pad of her thumb and our tongues explore each other’s mouths in slow, sensual passes. The urgency of the falling evening lies forgotten behind us. By the light of her bedside lamp, it is replaced with the desire to see, kiss, love every part of her, and have her love me.
Her next kiss is closed-mouthed, then she runs her tongue from my clavicle, up my throat and back to my lips.
“Stay here with me.”
I don’t understand what she’s asking of me. I’m here. The night is black beyond the curtainless windows, but I can’t ask her. I can only circle my hips, lifting off the bed now of their own volition to meet her fingers, and choke out
yes.
With the slip and slide of our bodies, the feelings build beneath her fingertips, and then she takes her hand away. Before I can protest with more than a whimper, she thrusts one warm thigh up between my own, exerting a pressure so delicious I begin to fall apart.
How could I have doubted I would know what to do with her? I moan out loud, winding my legs around her; this feels more natural than breathing. Mouths locked, I grind my wetness on her thigh, then bury my face at the crook of her neck and inhale, tracing the curve of her breasts with my palm. This feeling is so pure, I want to cry, and laugh, and scream, and I do. As I fall backwards against the bed, waves of heat have already begun to ripple from the point of my pleasure and outwards across my entire body. As she moves above me, I watch the sheen and bounce of her breasts and tip my head, arching to her, consumed with a want to share myself completely. I am beautiful with her; we are beautiful together.
“We’re so close,” I marvel through gasps. “I never... knew...”
Her answer is a wicked smile. She dips down again, eyes terrible and beautiful, and lowers her small, full breasts onto mine. The feel of skin against taut skin makes my eyes roll back.
“Eve... Oh. This could not be any better.”
Through my drooping lids I see her smile grow lazy; it makes the ache in my sex turn to a throb.
“Darling girl. You have no idea.”
“Oh, God. Eve.
Please
.” The words are barely more than a melded groan.
She scoots down to kiss my navel again, but her tongue doesn’t linger on my belly, tracing down my body, out to my hip. My hand rakes her hair when I feel hot breath against my thigh for the first time. My head is weighted to the bed. I struggle to lift it, to raise up onto my elbows, desperate to see her. Her breath is at the top of my legs, and I moan: sheer relief and penned desire.
Her eyes glitter. “Is this what you want?”
“I want. Please, Eve.”
My lungs are heavy. My thighs are wet. I grip her head as she kisses the backs of my knees.
“You are so beautiful like this, Rosebud. Let me see you.”