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I glance up at Grey over the book, his face suddenly sober despite the arousal needed to sustain an erection as hard as his. I take care to tend to his cock while reading as best I can, my eyes straying to him every time the words become too much.
Perchance he half prevailed
To win her for the flight
From the firelit looking-glass
And warm stove-window light.
I stop reading in an instant, feeling his gaze on my face as I recall breaking down as Marilla finished the poem, for unlike the cruel winter wind that caressed the flower, never to meet her again, I felt for the first time that the love of Marilla and Orpha and Harris would not blow away.
I steel myself to read the last stanza.
But the flower leaned aside
And thought of naught to say,
And morning found the breeze
A hundred miles away.
As the poem comes to an end, the love evoked dissipating into the ether as the wind and the window flower lose each other forever, I can’t help but close the book, dropping my head, feeling the words and remembering how it felt to hear them all those years ago.
The thought of the way Marilla loved me, a feeling so new to me, makes embarrassing tears tumble stupidly from my eyes. I watch as they fall onto my naked breasts and my belly below.
God, I feel so stupid…
Without a word, Grey takes the book from me, placing it aside, and stands up, still inside me, carrying me over to the bed and gently lowering me down. He pulls out of me as my back hits the mattress, his eyes studying the trajectory of my tears as he lays his body down next to me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, feeling a lump knotting in my throat. “You must think I’m a mess.”
Tears veil my eyes as I peer up into his as he leans over me.
“No,” he responds solemnly. “I like the way you are. I like the way you feel. It’s… new to me. Or… I haven’t been near someone like you for a long time.”
“What, a basket case?”
“You’re no more a basket case than me, Indie. Seeing you like this… makes me feel sane. And that’s not a feeling I experience often.”
I can’t tell if it’s the sheathe of tears over my eyes, but his suddenly look like they’re covered in morning frost.
“And I’m sorry,” he continues. “I go too far sometimes. I know that.”
“It’s not you,” I reply.
“What is it?”
I shake my head slowly as more embarrassing tears spill from me. “I don’t know.”
But it’s not true.
I can’t shake this feeling that our love is like that of the winter wind and the window flower, that soon enough, it will drift away, never to be seen again.
Not to mention that I feel so much trauma from things I never talk about, trauma which bubbles to the surface at the least convenient times. About my mother. My father. My stepfather. My ex.
And as little as I want to subject him to these stories, he feels like a conduit somehow, someone who blasts away everything on the surface, blasts away the walls I put up around me, leaving behind something essential that forces the truth to simmer to the surface.
“Do you feel trauma?” I ask as a diversion.
