“From Nothing to One”
“…I am the distance you put between
all of the moments that we will be…”
– Leonard Cohen
"Rome" – her gasp is the only audible sound in the otherwise silent room. A gift, as his fingers slowly slide into her.
The vein on his forehead pulses and his eyes focuses on her supple lips. They are slightly parted, just enough to see her tongue moving in her mouth, undulating like a tide. Her eyes close in rapture and he allows himself to watch.
Finally, he can stare.
Roman catalogues every single one of her movements, every spasm, and every breath.
She tilts her face to the side, and her angled cheek brushes against the cotton of her pillowcase. He spots the creeping blush that adorns her skin. He wants to chaise it, taste it.
His fingers twitch harder inside her.
A lock of her hair manages to escape her messy updo. It is wet with her sweat and daring him to touch it, almost mocking him. He quickly glances at her face, checking for any sign of disdain, and with an unusual boldness, he permits himself to trace it. Ever so slowly, he winds the curling lock around his finger and tests how far he can pull the golden spiral without her reacting.
His fingers glide deeper into her.
He did not anticipate they would end up like this.
Gerri splayed on the bed, legs parted, hands tangled in the sheets, gripping hard until her knuckles are white, Roman hovering above her, wonder in his blown dark eyes, his moving fingers between her thighs.
The night started as it usually did for them. A glass of whiskey, sharp and short, just like her words that burned his spine and hardened his dick.
They went straight to her bedroom, something about needing to lie down, get off her feet, ease her lower back pain, whatever the fuck, at that point, he stopped even listening. The tent in his pants pressed painfully against the metal zipper, and all he craved was to let it free. He attempted to tease her, when he walked behind her up the stairs, staring at her ass, smirking. But his brain was already a mush of ridiculous gibberish, so she halted him coldly, almost throwing him into her room. He ended up on his knees by his side of her bed in no time. His focus solely on the ever-growing erection.
And while Gerri got comfortable, taking off her shoes, moving through her room nonchalantly, not paying any kind of attention to his miserable existence, she called him a pitiful pillock, as useful to the world as a sewer rat that crawled through life without a purpose. Her voice wrapped around his throat, squeezing the air out of him as if it were a string of her pearls. She talked and talked while his hand pumped to the rhythm of every scathing syllable.
Only, just only, when she finally settled on her bed, reclined against the headboard and dignified him with an impatient glance did he come on the spot, hot, fast, panting and blissfully ashamed.
The single mere release she had allowed him this week.
He was a mess.
His body vibrated, arms resting on the mattress for support, taking some of the weight off his knees. He was aware there would be bruises on them; her hardwood floor was not forgiving. But fuck if he cared. He would wait for the contusions to become the worst shade of purple to document, to cherish. He would even use it as ammunition, an unwanted distraction that would be thrown at her during another boring meeting where he will have to endure not having her by his side.
Gerri was quiet, waiting for him to catch his breath, watching his bent head, his long fingers moving through his greasy hair, willing herself not to touch him, as his body kept trembling. She regarded him with endless bewilderment, this young man always overwhelming her space, throwing himself entirely at her mercy, sharing so keenly his deepest and purest desires, and yet so removed from the intimacy that it entailed.
She had done her good deed for the day.
He was satisfied and now she felt restless.
She fought the tingling sensation that spread all over her. Her own body like a traitor revealing a hidden lust. The uncomfortable wetness that pulled between her legs made her move. She uncrossed her ankles, pivoted her pelvis down the mattresses and shifted her hips.
Like a hunted animal, he smelled the faint musky scent of her arousal and his mouth instinctively watered. The wish to bathe in it was boundless. He inhaled deeply.
With some effort, he got up, and while avoiding her intense scrutiny; he locked himself into her en suite bathroom.
Quickly he washed his hands and splashed some cold water onto his burning face letting the droplets slide down his neck, dampening the collar of his dark blue shirt. He looked at himself in the mirror, crumpled shirt, soiled with cum pants, and a very satisfied grin on his lips indeed, a sewer rat.
Against his better judgment, he undressed. Not for the first time, his clothing ended up in her overly stylish hamper only boxers covering his otherwise naked body.
He was staying the night.
She had sent the driver home.
When he finally emerged from the restroom, he expected her to be clad in her satin pajamas, probably half-asleep. Glasses off, her body under the covers, fidgeting with a book while waiting for him to decide if he would sleep beside her or choose one of her guest rooms. It was always a tossup with him. She never had minded. Never commented. She simply accepted it.
They’d had a terrible day, which was just another drop in a very draining month on top of a wearing year. He knew she was tired, living on the verge of exhaustion really.
She should get some rest and yet she had not moved. Her body laid motionless on the bed, eyes closed, skirt gone, legs bare, the first few buttons on her silky blouse undone, and a frown on her forehead.
There was something about her. Something that made his stomach clench with dread and his fucked-up dick twitch with excitement.
Gerri was as rigid as a board from her neck to the tip of her toes. When her eyes opened piercing right through him, he felt the wave of tightness emanate from her and hit him straight in his unguarded heart.
The anxiety that gripped him was overwhelming; it felt like a blanket being shaken out in his gut. His heart pounded against his throat, he had to swallow the weak whimper that threatened to arise.
He needed to be at her service.
His unfocused brain ran rapidly through several options; he could call a masseuse for the back pain she whined about earlier. Fuck, he could probably rent an entire spa for a day or even a week just for her, but she would just dismiss him. Who has the time to take a day off during a shitstorm? Maybe order some food, which could bring some comfort. He briefly wondered if she had even eaten today. Her day had been packed more than usual. They shared a calendar now, not that he checked it, no, but it was frequently useful when he didn’t know where she was or with whom. Tomorrow he would make some stupid ass standing order so she would have food delivered every day to her office. Oh whiskey! He could get her another glass, but he had a feeling it would have the effect of pouring gasoline on an open flame and set her nerves further on fire.
His mind was spiraling and his body started to loiter. She was losing her patience; he felt it in his bones. However, there was this desperation weighing in him, a deep ache inside him that would only be quieted if he could just help her release some of that awful tension she displayed.
He made an executive decision, willing his mind to comply.
He was ready.
Slowly, with all the confidence of an abused tissue, he approached her.
Her eyes narrowed dangerously, glancing from over the rim of her glasses, trying to figure out his next move. What was it that he still wanted from her?
He got to the side of her bed, knelt once more before her and meekly requested, “Take off your glasses, Gerri”.
She hesitated, considered him with weary eyes and a questioning brow.
“What?!” she rasped in surprise.
“Just… do it,” he asked, impatient and unworthy but as determined as ever.
He counted the heartbeats of her motionlessness and waited. When she finally complied and placed her glasses safely on top of her book, he put two fingers inside his mouth and sucked, lubricating them for her.
Her legs parted. An invitation.
He could do this. For her, right now, he would do anything. The realization simultaneously frightened and thrilled him.
She was so open before him. Just the sight of her was driving him mad and he could feel himself going off the deep end as the seconds ticked by.
His palm carefully touched her knee, wandering further up, forming goosebumps in its wake, her bare skin smooth, appeasing his own nerves, his wet fingertips leaving imprints on her inner thigh. He sensed the muscles clench beneath his touch, a light spasm as he ever so slowly neared her heated core, a perceptible pull guiding his hand, and with one slow yet clumsy movement, a part on him was inside her.
Now his fingers are warm, coated in her sticky wetness, moving relentlessly in and out of her. Bringing the utter pleasure that etches her face.
She throws her head back exposing her neck. He observes in fascination the speeding beat of her pulse point, the rush of the blood that he’s helping to pump. He wishes to suck at it, bite into flushed skin, draw droplets of her blood and drink it all up. His lips part but the rest of him stays immobile. Unsure how much he can really give her, how much she still demands.
A bead of sweat catches his scrutiny. It slithers from the back of her neck and disappears at the beginning of her cleavage. He can almost taste its saltiness as he licks his lips and readjusts the position of his knees. He devotes his attention to her chest heaving with every breath she takes. A glimpse of her graphite bra mercilessly teasing his sight. The curiosity to see all of her is overpowering, making him quiver with longing and he wants more. Craves the opportunity to witness more of her bare skin.
He untangles the lock of her hair from his fingers, and with very shaky movements, he tries to open the buttons of her blouse. It takes time but he is determined to complete the task. Secretly cursing the person who invented the tiny, slippery knobs. Why did there always have to be so many of them?!
The first, second, third, and the fourth button follow. He finally exposes her upper chest unveiling just enough, and for now it will suffice.
There is so much to see, so much to stare at, so much to memorize.
Lace, silk and flesh.
The dark material is a stark contrast to her alabaster skin. Her full, round, and heavy breasts surge rhythmically. He wishes to be crushed underneath their weight being totally annihilated by that softest part of her.
The imprint on her bra is a lacy maze that he focuses on. Intensely he studies every swirl of the intricate pattern.
His face nears her skin; he smells the last trace of her perfume that clings to her like a leech. His nostrils flare, and the tip of his nose slides against her collarbone. Her scent is hypnotic, and Roman closes his eyes, for the briefest second, to absorb the intoxicating cloud of Gerri that surrounds him.
Urged by her panting breaths, his lips touch her flesh.
He kisses and licks every mark, every wrinkle, every freckle, connecting them all with the tip of his tongue. Drawing invisible wet lines upon her making her shiver.
His mouth ventures further south and the roughness of the thin material scrapes against his lips. He presses harder into it, willing the skimpy clothing to engrave its flair upon his mind.
She arches against his mouth, thrusts her chest firmly into his face. A hollow sound emerges from the back of her throat when he finally bites into her rigid nipple. The small bud is taut and firm but trapped inside the mesh prison just like his erect dick confined and abandoned in the silky jail of his underwear.
Roman swirls his tongue around her pink nub, sucks it relentlessly into his mouth wanting to free it, wanting to be it.
Insentiently, her hand grips his neck, anchoring herself to him, her fingers stroke through his hair, tugging at him for good measure. Her body feels foreign to her own mind, floating in the fog of hunger, the sensations he evokes almost impossible to tame. She is losing the fight over total control, nearly offers herself in sheer surrender.
He fumbles with another button of the damn blouse, wanting to unveil the rest of her. When he almost succeeds, he hears a sharp intake of breath and her body stiffens beneath his lips. He senses her fingers close around his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, yanking at him forcefully. A cutting pain rips through him pleasuring him immensely.
She is demanding his attention.
Reluctantly, he pauses his ministrations. A wave of worry washes over him. Is this it? Did he uncover a new boundary that she was setting for them? For him. Is this all there ever will be between them, a spray jet of his hollow words mingled with her thorough blankness?
The thought of putting an end to this squashes him with fear. He does not want to leave her being. Not now that he was finally able to get himself so close, that he had learned how warm she can be, how inviting. He has always wondered what home feels like. Could this be his?
Breaking any physical contact seems unbearable, so he rests his cheek on her breast and with enormous effort, his shy eyes settle on hers to await her scrutiny.
Her gaze is raw and her lip swollen, berated by her own teeth. She takes a deep breath, as if to speak, trying to voice her disapproval, yet she lets the precarious seconds run by trying to gather her thoughts. He doesn’t wait. He cannot stay still and starts fidgeting again, grasping at her abused garment. The rising, unwanted panic guides her in halting him. On instinct, she shuts down like the filing cabinet that he accused her of being.
Their eyes meet again and with the barely perceptible movement of her head, she says no. The most untainted denial he has ever received from her. It startles him. Confusion written all over his face. Sad black orbs pleading at her.
She has to avert her eyes because his piteous expression is too much for her to handle. How can she explain to him that she feels like a fraud? He sleeps in her bed, demands her attention, that she so clearly gifts. He gives her the real power she so often evaded, and yet here, right now, when he is finally able to go beyond his needs, she hesitates to lay stark bare before him, with his fingers still palpitating inside her. The irony is not lost on her.
As a lawyer Gerri does not hide, if there is an adversity thrown her way, she does not deflect. She analyzes it, lays all the options on the imaginary table of her mind, and finds a way to fix it.
Yet with him, she wears an unusual shield that serves to protect her from losing her sanity. From losing herself in the thrill that this crownless prince gives her.
Gerri tries, so very much, not to want Roman Roy.
All of him.
His ceaseless attentions, his irritating jokes, his clumsy gestures and all his endearingly frustrating words combine with the lusty looks he gives her, and lately her whole world gravitates fully around him, spinning them both in a loop of uncertainty and perilous elation. She feels protected from all of it when there is still a tiny barrier between them, even if it is only a designer blouse she bought some odd years ago.
His reaction, however, is very predictable. His face buries in her chest, and a whimper escapes his lips. He whines against her blushed skin. He wanted more, and the refusal feels foreign to him. In continuous protests he bites her just above the hem of her bra, and then lets his tongue sooth over the mark.
Her strangled moan is his clue. His teeth sink into her skin once more, and despite herself, she hates him. Hates that this little shit is able to unlock her tells. No one really figured out how much she relishes mixing pleasure with pain, just like the blend of vodka and vermouth in her martini. Another secret revealed that is solely theirs, that he shelters in his mind for later to obsess over and over and over again.
In hasty movements, she manages to catch his wrist that keeps tugging at her clothing. She seeks him out and the silent question is thrown at her once more. She concedes and forces herself to voice it.
“There is no need,” she explains quietly, and the words mingle with the heavy air that surrounds them.
“Ehm, no, no, there is,” he argues, with a shit-eating grin, his face now hovering above hers, feeling her erratic breath upon his cheek.
There is a newly found excitement for him, a challenge. Now all he craves is to know if under Gerri Kellman’s cashmere armor, hides someone who is like him, a little broken, a little lost.
“Oh, yeah?” It’s a breathy question, because she is still unsure, of him, of them, of their own limitations. They might crash and burn and their ashes could be scattered as confetti in a celebratory party with all of the people that want them gone. Want their newly gained power.
“Yeah,” he echoes with as much confidence as he can. His determination for bringing her to absolute exhilaration is stronger than ever.
Slowly, he leans forward just enough for the tip of his nose to caress hers. The briefest touch elicits a gasp, which he wants to capture. Her lips part and his face is so close to hers that he can feel her warm breath inside of his mouth. He stares at her sinuous lips and observes as her tongue darts out, wetting the bottom one, followed by a light scraping of her teeth, and just the sight of it makes his inside’s stir. Adamantly, his chapped lips imprint upon hers. The ghost of a kiss seals another silent deal they made amid themselves.
“Okay….” A whisper of affirmation and she relents once again, because denying him is harder than anything really is. “Focus.” Her tone clipped, she notices the way his expression changes, the eagerness he displays for her voice to direct him. She could easily talk him through it all, guide him, teach him how to touch her, how to be with her. And she supposes they will do that soon enough. Tonight, though, tonight it would not be fair to him. If he is willing to take this step, it has to be done by himself, no pressure, no games, no steely guidelines from her.
Her fingers close firmly around his wrist, with some effort she moves his hand away from her form, molding him to her own will. The precarious balance he is in shifts and his body almost ends up on top of her. She gently pushes him back, touching his arm, squeezing the flexing muscle there, nails lightly grazing up to his shoulder. Her fingertips meticulously roam upon his skin, learning every bit of it, and he wants to unzip it and donate it to her. It has no worth to him, if she does not own it.
She does not stop, not when he is like a marble statue, finally inert enough for her to be able to infinitely caress his warm, perfect body. No guilt, no hesitations. Her palm slides above his erratic heart, the traceable beating of it giving away his perpetual struggle. The attention he is offered makes him feel undeserving. His eyelids close, and he is hiding from her in the darker places of his mind.
There is no need for it, not now when something has shifted between them, when the simplicity of their desire has overtaken them and they have decided to take a next step toward utter devotion. She wants him with her.
Her fingers swirl around his nipple, his body leans toward her giving her better access to grip the small bud and twist it. The gasp of pain is rewarding to her ears. She knows his tells, too.
Their eyes lock and a deeper understanding passes through them. A shaky breath leaves his lips. He gives her space and her touch continues, gliding down through his spare chest hair, above his stomach, a finger twirling around his bellybutton. Her hand still wanders dangerously low, across his navel, almost grazing the hem on his underwear, just right there. He holds his breath and tenses waiting, anticipating.
In an instant she stops. Her touch is gone, his exposed body is left bereft of her scorching attentions, and he all but scoffs at her. That teasing bitch.
He wants to beg for more, if he weren’t already on his knees, he’d drop to them for she is his praying altar. Her eyes shimmer and a tight quirk of a smile appears on her face. He swallows the supplication that forms on his tongue and focuses on her hands.
She smooths the fabric that still clads her. Straights the crumpled material in a maddeningly slow fashion, and he is bursting from expectation. Her fingers work on her blouse and her eyes never leave his. The scale has tilted; she is baring herself from the last shield. She raises a little, loosening the last button, removes the shirt along with her wet bra, and lets it all land carelessly at his feet.
His eyes roam freely over the newly offered body, his breathing is labored, heavy, and his mind is trying to catch up with all the sensations the sight of her evokes in him. “Fuck, Gerri.” His mouth precedes him, “So fucking beautiful,” and the creeping blush on her neck and cheeks is a reward to his idiotic brain.
He tries to stand, his muscles ache from being in beggar position for what seems an age, but he has no care in the world, his sole focus lays before him. Her legs widen and he crawls on the bed, nesting carefully between her thighs.
He keeps her gaze for several seconds and when he is sure of having her complete attention, he lowers his head, kissing her skin. His scruffy cheek brushes against her belly, the spiky shadow leaving marks that stand out against her paleness. The tip of his tongue traces the long caesarean scar across her soft navel. She sighs, her fingers interlacing in his hair. He inhales her scent, fully focused and consumed by the moment.
Her leg bends on the matrass and he grabs it to bury himself in her.
Now there is only her essence.
That first stroke between her labia is tentative. His tongue running along her slit, opening her up in one long lick. Her hips jolt upwards, teeth sinking into her lower lip to keep herself from emitting any sound. All her attention narrows to her core. He keeps her still, a vice grip on her hipbone, digging nails that will leave a reminder for the morning light.
She releases a shuddering breath full of desperate need when he opens her again with newly found determination. He is nibbling at the sensitive flesh, his mouth full of promise and greed.
His tongue circles her swollen nub, bringing it between his lips and sucking it with fervor. He is relentless, her taste a musky addiction. He would gladly add it into his morning coffee, a teardrop of Gerri mingling in the bitter beverage. Nothing better to run in his veins.
His hold is constricting. She wiggles a little and frees her hips from his grasp. She starts to sway with his mouth, undulating with a pace he has to catch up to. He guides his fingers into her opening, rippling pleasure runs through her and a searing moan leaves her. She bucks against him, her pelvis arches, urging him to thrust deeper and faster, changing the angle, chasing the endless ecstasy. His mouth takes her all in, sucking and licking her numb with religious persistence.
The pleasure is almost terrifying; it feels dangerous, threatening to absorb her completely until she no longer exists. But his relentless fingers, oh those beautiful long and nimble fingers are moving in and out of her, giving her just the right amount of pressure, his tongue on her clit flicking with a staccato that matches her own breathing, and there is nothing else but this young man driven by determination to push her over the cliff. She lets herself fall, through the abyss of pleasure, hoping that no matter what he will always catch her, save her, her very own human armor.
He feels her contract around him, a kinetic force that envelopes his whole being while her whimper echoes in the room, and her body shatters in completion.
Roman is an awe.
Never in his life has he felt such an ecstatic sense of satisfaction on bringing something to completeness. A genuine smile forms on his lips while he takes her all in.
Gerri is undone.
Her hair is a tangled mess, her brow glistering with perspiration, her chest heaving with every breath. He is compelled by a force that surges from his deepest need to take it all away. To steal every puff of air that comes from her lung and gives her life.
His fingers slip out of her with one last light, graze above her clit, a ghost of pressure on her nerves that sends another wave of pleasure trough her. His palm settles on her mound, his hand stills, and he finds an utter peace while his fingers start to caress the spares hair there.
Carefully, he rises. Bracing himself on abused knees, he positions himself above her. Trying as much as possible to align their bodies together. His torso gently brushes against her. Her sensitive nipples harden at the tickle of the few hairs on his chest. He closes the miniscule space that there is still between them, propping two elbows on either side of her head for support. He leans down and when his lips touch hers, she groans right with him.
He starts gently, cautiously, but it isn’t gentleness she wants, not now, not after all this time, after what he did for her, for them. She hungrily pushes back, opening his mouth with her lips, deepening their connection. Her tongue thrusts past his clenched teeth in fierce desperation and she tastes herself through him. Her hand grips his neck firmly, as if to keep him from escaping. Her sudden passion like a raging fire engulfs him and he lets it burn him down.
‘till only breathlessness is left between them.
He lays his forehead on hers while they both try to steady their erratic breathing. It occurs to him that it might be the first time in his completely wretched life that he has gotten so close to someone. So infinitesimally close that he does not know where her breath starts and his ends. The vulnerability of it makes his skin itch.
She nudges his nose with hers and he lifts his head up.
Her eyes finally open and what he finds is a reminder of a clear sunny day of Croatian sky. Piercing ice blue orbs see right through him. He is cellophane, a transparent film of nothing that she can tear all apart. Use it. Eat it. He would not care. Why can’t she just eat all of him? Consume his entire existence as he had asked her already.
He demands another kiss and she is only happy to comply. This time their lips slide languidly against each other, the rush replaced with the necessity to reaffirm their newly discover freedom. He cannot stop kissing her, his persistent lips tug at hers, suckling her bottom lip gently into his mouth, her teeth sinking into his pink flesh.
Her leg glides up, just above his hip, and his semi-hard length cuddles between them. Soon, he supposes, they will find a way for even that to happen. For now, what they have achieved will suffice.
With the motion of a feral cat, his whole body disentangles from hers, and he flops, unceremoniously onto his back, bouncing off the soft pillow, panting with exhilaration.
She accommodates him. Shifting on the matrass, creating space she knows he needs. The distance between them will lessen, as the night progresses, their sleeping bodies in search of comfort their awake personas always evade.
“Rome.” His name is a breathy moan that catches his attention. She feels boneless, liquid tranquility lulls thorough her, appeasing her overactive mind. She is pleasantly exhausted, a smile she will not hide spreads across her face, and she turns her head towards his, another gift, only for him.
Between their spent bodies, she lays her hand palm up, opening her fingers in invitation, just like she had opened her life for him to hold onto. She feels him tense and a part of her understands his hesitation. A part of her wonders if it is regret.
Regardless, she leaves her hand there as a lifeline for him to grab in need.
Upon exhale, he relaxes. With closed eyes, he reaches for her trusting they will always find a way towards one other. His palm touches hers, and wordlessly their hands lace.
Their intertwined fingers cement an invisible bond of trust, loyalty and care, the fundaments on which they had built their partnership.
They do not know if the sun will come up in their world tomorrow, what kind of shit-show of a crisis they will be forced to battle through, who to kill, who to spare.
There is a relief in knowing that they do not have to face it all alone.
Alone they were nothing, and together they are one.