He tugged me back down and pulled me into a kiss. And while my old teacher would insist that a sample set of two was not the basis for a scientific conclusion, I felt very confident in theorizing--based on that second kiss--that the first was definitely not an anomaly.
We kissed, me straddling him as he leaned back against the sofa. We kept it slow as I enjoyed this, just this, feeling his hands in my hair, feeling his heartbeat. Reveling in a moment of being close to someone I never thought I could ever be close to. Being intimate with someone I never thought would allow that intimacy.
So we took our time. There were breaks, for that necessary little thing called oxygen, and even then there was nuzzling and kissing, as if the goal was to touch as much of each other as we could, to get as close to each other as we could.
Even when it went further, it wasn't obvious at first. It was his hands circling my waist under my shirt. It was my hands pushing up his shirt. It was shirts off and more kissing, skin to skin. His hands on the sides of my breasts and then his hands wedged between us, cupping my breasts, and my hands on him, everywhere on him.
More kissing. More touching. More exploring. And then, finally, down onto the blankets and the pillows, belts and buttons undone and zippers pulled and trousers pushed over hips. More touching. More exploring. That last bit of clothing following the rest. Soft sighs and whispers turning to moans and gasps, and occasionally a hand on another hand, no words spoken but the meaning clear. Slower, just a little slower. I want this to last. Even that seemed to stretch to infinity, the tease and the exploration and those hands of wordless warning.
Then came the point where slower was pointless. Where even a touch was too much, and I arched back with, "Gabriel, oh God, Gabriel," and I was still riding those waves when he pushed into me, and that was...
Beyond words. Beyond thought. Beyond everything.
LOVE
Gabriel was dreaming. Perhaps that is not entirely accurate. It was certainly nothing like the bizarre landscape he'd seen in the mind of the condemned man. Nor was it even what Olivia said dreams were, the mind conjuring up places and people and events that never existed. This was, instead, a swirl of memories, his own interwoven with Gwynn's.
He started by replaying those hours downstairs in the parlor. Feeling Olivia's fingertips on his skin. Hearing the sigh of her breath against his cheek. The arch of her body under his hands. The way she said his name. And how he'd felt--that most of all, the indescribable way he'd felt at having won her. Torn between "Why the hell didn't I make a move sooner?" and knowing that it had proceeded at exactly the pace it had needed to proceed.
Then he realized he was dreaming, and it was like a slap in the face, that cold rush of fear that he really had dreamed it all. He woke with a start, reaching out, certain he'd touch empty space. Then he felt her there, naked and nestled against him, and he lowered his head to the crook of her neck and inhaled, his arms tightening around her before he drifted off again.
When it happened again--the memories and then the fear--Gabriel woke a little more forcefully, a little more afraid, and he tightened his grip too much. Olivia half woke, enough to kiss him and touch him, her fingers running over his chest. They made love again, both still drowsy with sleep, not a word exchanged, as if this too was part of the dream.
After Olivia fell back to sleep, Gabriel lay there, reflecting on his own choice of words. Making love. He'd never thought of sex that way. It wasn't deliberate avoidance of the term--it just seemed to him that "making love" was a euphemism not unlik
e "passed away." A term used when one wanted to avoid acknowledging a biological fact of life by adorning it with a fancy bow. It was simply filling a biological need that was little different from eating or sleeping, but you didn't call it sex or, worse, fucking, but "making love," despite the fact that love was rarely involved. In his experience, the act required no emotion at all. It was pleasurable enough, but not unlike the need for food and sleep, something that had to be gotten out of the way lest it interfere with the forward motion of life.
With Olivia, he finally understood why they called it lovemaking, and he used the term automatically. It was the correct one. That was all.
When he slid back into sleep, he found what really did seem like an actual dream. He was kissing Olivia, and despite the darkness, he knew it must be her because he felt all the things he felt when he kissed her. It was a lovely kiss, sweet and deep, and yet while sparks of it reminded him of Olivia, it did not feel exactly the same. That was what made him think he might be having one of those anxiety dreams she'd mentioned.
But even when he mentally hesitated, his body kept kissing her as fervently as it had before, responding as quickly as it had before, that animal part of his brain urging haste before the logical part pushed it back, wanting to enjoy the lead-up. Except here, too, it was different. It felt as if he was struggling to squelch that physical arousal, needing to squelch it rather than enjoy the build.
"I think we should..." he began, his voice ragged. Except it wasn't his voice at all, but the one he'd come to know as Gwynn's. He blinked hard, and as the darkness cleared, he found himself lying in a meadow with Matilda looking up at him, her arms around his neck.
"You think we should do what?" she asked with a teasing lilt.
"Go riding," he blurted. "I think we should go riding."
Matilda laughed, her eyes dancing with amusement and mischief, and that was when Gabriel saw Olivia in her, her laugh echoing Olivia's when he'd clumsily told her she was "something."
"I would very much like to go riding," she said. "But I suspect it's not the same sort you're offering."
Gabriel felt Gwynn's cheeks burn. And it was not the only part of him that burned as she said that, a white-hot flame of desire licking through him.
"Whenever you're ready to go further, Gwynn, so am I. I just don't want to rush you."
"Rush me? No. I--"
I'm fine with anything. It's you I'm taking it slow for.
That was what Gwynn wanted to say. Except it was a lie. They were fae. They did not see sexuality as humans did, as something to avoid until marriage and then do behind closed doors, under the sheets, in the dark.
Gwynn didn't hold back for Matilda. He held back for himself. Because he was terrified that he'd be less than she expected. That he was not Arawn.
In this regard, as in so many others, Gwynn was outmatched. Arawn's lovers saw no reason to keep silent, singing his praises loudly enough that Matilda heard and teased Arawn about it. No one talked that way about Gwynn. There was nothing to say. He'd spent his youth pining for Matilda, losing himself in his studies and his duties. Once they got together, he realized his lack of experience might prove problematic. So he proceeded as slowly as possible. Building his skills, he told himself, though he hadn't progressed much beyond kissing, telling himself he hadn't fully mastered that yet. Which was a lie. He was just afraid.
As Gwynn fretted and worried, Gabriel saw more of himself than he liked in the fae prince. Gwynn wasn't more than a few years younger than Gabriel, but listening to his stammering made Gabriel feel like an old man watching a boy and thinking, Was I ever that young? The answer was no--Gabriel had never been that young. And yet it was, in a way, as if he was looking back on a younger version of himself, from a time so distant that he couldn't quite believe this had been him.