You find him behind the makeshift livery. You find him because you sought him out against very clear instructions. It is indeed a fact that you understand your husband's objections, however flimsy and faulty they seem. For a learned man, there are times -- a frightening number of times -- when his arguments lie not in logic, in fact so far from it, that you do not follow. And you do not follow, but you understand.
"Mrs. Blithely," Morgan says, his face bright, his body smooth lines. His hat, for the most part, obscures his reddish hair, soft and closely shorn.
You would like to touch him, there at the nape of his neck, to play with the short hairs there, but action is stuttered with words. You must speak.You lift a finger to illustrate your impending point, putting your hand to use, stepping towards him, conscious (ever) of the excrement and mud beneath your feet, mixing into fertile soil.
"I am stuck," you say, and let your finger drop to Morgan's throat. You can feel the pulse there, and it grounds you when you would otherwise feel like a lung filling up, and up. "Mr. Blithely would say that I am stuck. Silence Rebecca he would say You are stuck on this-- Like a pin to a board!" You shout and Morgan's mouth tightens. You shouldn't shout, but the words are buffeting up in you, louder and louder. "The blood would rise in his cheeks, and his hand would shake, and he would feel, perhaps, yes, I think so! He would feel his leg more acutely, even wince. But I am not stuck, no, stuck implies stasis and oh, I am not still!" You take another step closer, illustrating your point. Morgan is still silent, so you take his hand, pull it free of his working glove and place it against your chest. "Every part is moving in me, and I can hear-- I can feel the thoughts in my head… fluttering?"
His fingers move against you and you feel it.
"Sparking!" You shout it and you do not wish to, but you are finally being heard. You could shout and wail until your voice was gone and Mr. Blithely would pat your head and measure it and lock you up again. Not possible in this place, you know, but he would lock you nonetheless, lock you in his mind. A picture. His little girl. His little experiment. He, perhaps, is the one who is stuck.
Morgan's jaw moves and you know, he would hear you, even in a whisper.
Your heart is pounding, you know, pushing blood to meet the air your body begs for. "I am moving forward, I think. A thing moving towards another thing. One person," (Morgan's hand twitches at your breast, your heart underneath) "moving to another."
"You shouldn't be moving towards me, Mrs. Blithely," he says, but he he watching your mouth, watching the air pass over your bottom lip. His hand is pleasant pressure. He moves nowhere but closer. You understand his words, yes, but you do not follow.
"There is nowhere I would rather go, Mr. Finn," you answer, because it is true, and you lift his hand to hold it again, feeling his own heart thrum strong through his wrist. You can feel your body answer in syncopation, blood coursing through the core of you, blood charged with… something. Something that calls out to him, and Mr. Finn, being a good and virtuous man, answers.
You lean in slowly, silently counting heartbeats before the spark and your lips crushing together. Yes! something sings in you, and, you cannot help it, you forget numbers and symbols and measures and all beyond the scope of Mr. Morgan Finn's mouth on yours and body, pressing in. This, your mind starts-- this-- and goes no further.
There is a part of you that continues to be aware of the earth beneath your feet, the quiet murmurs of horses, the distant sounds of voices. There are men and women not far from you, and they continue in routine, unaware of the cusp of revelation you find yourself perched upon. "Touch me," you whisper, trying to recall your voice to strength.
"Where?" Mr. Finn asks, his hands already at your waist, bracing the two of you to this spot.
The question thrills you. Sends shivers down the length of you. You press your thighs together, emit a strange, needful sound. Everywhere, you want to cry, but know that for the illogical desire it is. "Your mouth," you manage, palm to your throat, "here." The skin feels alive, tingling with current, and he matches it, mouth hard and soft at once, wet and soft. It is good, excellent really, and then-- a suction?-- oh, you moan, tripping forward and barely catching yourself on his waist.
His hand comes up to press a single finger against your lips. "Shh," he whispers to the shell of your ear. To quiet yourself, you bite down. You'd like-- very much-- to consume him, to take all of him inside of you, to feel how that feels.
"I can feel you," you whisper back, voice gone again, the words mostly air-- exhaled and brought back in, violently, "my body, it remembers the way you touched me. There is," your thighs are aching, pressing so insistently against nothing, "a slickness. A readiness."
This time, it is Morgan who makes a sound-- something low in his throat. Needful.
There is (and you are thankful for it) some cover near, the livery wall with its face to the woods. Mr. Finn takes you there now, kisses your lips, and touches you. Touches you until (finally) the shit and dirt and clamor of voices all disappear and you are (or become) an electric charge, fizzing and sparking against and around his hands.
"Don't you dare stop, Mr. Finn," you manage, feeling some pressure like the air before a storm building up in you. You mouth his neck as he did yours, tasting grit and sweat and loving nothing more. "Don't stop."
If you are stuck, then you would very much like to remain that way.