Chapter Text
Tonight she seemed ethereal, made even more beautiful by the passing of time and her unattainability.
Here he was, in her home, sitting with her parents and sister, listening to mindless prattling about floral arrangements over steak and wine when he could still taste her in his mouth and hear the echoes of her low, twinkling laughter in his ears. How silly, how foolish to think that his family's heirloom sat on her sister's finger when he was already wedded to her in his heart?
And yet, when his dark eyes swept over her as they had all evening, nothing in her serene expression betrayed that she remembered their passion of eight months past. Her gaze was modestly averted from him, focused on the other speakers at the table while her long, graceful fingers folded demurely on her lap.
He wanted to devour them.
Across from her, his body remained immaculately still on his seat, an image of the perfect gentleman he was. His jet-black hair was coiffed to the side, not a single strand out of place. Masculine hands gripped the antique silverware skillfully. He even ate politely as conversation floated around them.
But his starving, sinful gaze studied her face all evening, steady and unwavering, with the burning desire to imprint and devote every fine detail to his mind.
Beside him, Ophelia continued to twitter on about floral arrangements: the bride's bouquet, the bride's floral crown, the bridesmaids' bouquets, the flower girl's basket of petals, the entryway flowers, the altar flowers, the aisle decorations — before that evening, he'd never known so many damned flowers went into weddings. In the midst of her drinking and chattering, he'd only interrupted once to flatly object to her suggestion of the groom's boutonniere, a "cute way to match with the bride, Gomez!"
Squandering his fortune on thousands of flowers that would eventually wither and die after killing him with his deathly allergies, he could allow - but dictate his fashion choices? A line had to be drawn somewhere.
Ophelia's lip had pouted slightly, but her father's gentle warning quickly silenced what he could imagine was an impending tantrum.
Nonetheless, his resolute focus returned to the subliminal creature in front of him by then.
And just as she had done all evening, she refused to look at him.
"We also need flowers for the getaway car! Oh, we must decorate the windows and the bumper with petals. And I know just the type of..."
“—We’re all out of wine!” Mrs. Frump, rosy-cheeked and cheerful, shook the bottle upside down for its last drop. A measly drop plopped! into her half-full glass. “That didn’t last long at all! Morticia - can you bring some more from the wine cellar?”
There was a small huff beside him, signalling an obvious annoyance at the interruption. But his fiancée was soon lost in conversation again, tugging at her tired, indulgent father's sleeve with more insistent talk of flowers.
"Of course, Maman."
He watched her excuse herself quietly, rise from the table, and pause.
Her delicate fingers curled around the intricate patterns carved in her chair. "The red? The white?"
"The white, darling," Mrs. Frump smiled sleepily, raising her glass to the lights above them. "See if you can find the one from the Tripplehorns' party three years ago. I swiped four bottles of it under my dress."
She nodded - then her eyes, darker than midnight, met him in a quick, furtive glance.
His heart skipped.
And then she left.
A row of pendant lighting above their heads illuminated the dark and narrow space as she moved around silently. She touched nothing as if everything in the sparse and dusty wine cellar was potent and part of his cure.
There were more than five feet between them.
When she moved closer toward a wine rack attached to the wall, he automatically surged forward and stopped. Her back was to him; his nocturnal eyes noted those shoulders, sharp and shapely, tense ever so slightly at his movements. He automatically moved further back. She was quiet as she had been all evening, but the sudden heaviness descended upon them was a telltale sign of her awareness of his presence.
And their aloneness.
Together.
Every fibre of his being was thrumming with anticipation.
There were no chairs, so she turned and leaned against the wall, watching him. She was safe there.
"You look tired," she finally said.
"You look exquisite."
"You're thinner too. Have you been eating or sleeping?"
"No. Yes. Sometimes."
"How long were you gone? Six months?"
"Longer. Too long. Not long enough."
He spoke in bursts. His usual verbosity and flair for dramatics suddenly seemed out of place. Now that she was here - now that he was here, he didn't know what to say.
"You left without saying anything," her tone continued calmly, mildly. “Thing came and told me after you’d left.”
"I specifically instructed him not to."
"He said you'd been terribly sick in bed days before. And then you vanished without any goodbye."
"I didn't think you wanted that."
"Why?"
"You didn't want me," the bitterness could not be concealed.
"Is that what you think?"
"It's what you've told me."
"That's not true," she slid off the wall and approached him, then stopped, inches away. "That's not true at all. I never said that, Gomez."
His eyes were on everything but her. Frowning, distracted, unwilling to let his turbulent emotions sweep over and devastate the calmness between them. For once, he was grateful for the distance between them. He felt dangerous.
“Gomez?”
His gaze finally settled somewhere beyond her shoulder.
"Not in words, no. But in your rejection, yes."
"Did you leave because of me?"
"No," he muttered, and it was true.
"Then why?"
"I left because I could not reconcile the fact of being in love and near you without being with you. To gaze upon you with the knowledge that you would never be mine would be too torturous."
"Like now?"
He paused, considering it.
"Like now."
"What a predicament we find ourselves in," her airy musings, unbeknownst to him, preceded the deepening of her irises as she looked at him with concern. "You look ill."
"I feel ill."
"You're shaking."
"I am?”
His body, tense with the effort to stand before her all evening, trembled. His hand suddenly gripped the wall beside him as his feet swayed slightly, blood pumping and bursting through his veins.
Relax, she murmured, closing the distance between them with two strides, and he wanted to collapse against her, be carried by her into the ocean, into bed, into darkness, anywhere. He had been without her too long. He leaned forward and clung to her to stop her from vanishing. She was thinner and smaller than he remembered. Smaller than him. Soft. Cold. Her breath slowed and so did his.
They stood together, feeling each other's spines, each other's hair at the back of the neck.
And then time slowed.
"I've missed you," she whispered into his chest. "It was torture to be without you for all these months."
There was no reply from him. His fingers ran gently over her hair.
"You filled a void in me I didn't know I had."
Laying together in bed, her nature - her transparency had startled him. Her candidness was different from his; where he professed declarations of undying love and devotion at any moment, her confessions were quieter, calmer.
"You make me feel alive."
And just as momentous.
He closed his eyes.
There were two ways to progress from their last encounter: succumb to the distance that seemed to close between them, or cruelly force the distance wider.
To succumb would make those eight months of waiting fruitless and wasteful - they were spent to strengthen his waning willpower. It would show that those eight months had done nothing to improve the willpower that he had so carefully, so miserably crafted in her absence. But to succumb would be the most saccharine appeasement to that ferocious heart which thrummed against his ribcage for her.
Her presence was an undoubtedly immersive one: he was steeped in her every time, beckoned by her impossible allure and the vulnerability concealed beneath it.
Yet, even now, holding her in his arms - he knew that to speculate how it would be to fall into affectionate patterns was reckless and ultimately fatal. He'd not yet given himself to that death.
Not yet.
The truth was that she still had not said she would have him.
He could kiss her, touch her, swear his life on her but nothing would change. Without her admission of his belonging to her, they were right where he'd run away from eight months ago.
And it was all too obvious that the decision was hers.
"We cannot do this," the words slipped out before he could stop them.
Her body slowed in his embrace.
His hold on her loosened, and he took a loathsome step back, placing the smallest distance between them to kiss her forehead and gaze into her face. "I cannot keep you as my mistress, cara mia."
“I make a good mistress, don’t I?” Her voice was tinged with humour, but her weary smile was telling.
“My feelings for you are too intense, too sincere to keep you as a mere mistress,” he shook his head. “To hold you, kiss you, and swear my love for you in secrecy and then play a charade in front of others - how long could I do it? A week? A month? It would drive me mad to be unable to claim you. It would be a disservice to you and me.”
"If not your mistress, then what?" But she already knew the answer; her question was simply a way of her stalling what they both knew.
"Let me tell my mother and father," his hands took hers in his. "I will bear the brunt of the consequences of our deceit - whatever they may be. The only thing I ask of you is your love and promise that you will have me."
She turned her head from him, gaze faltering from their joined hands. "That's not the only thing you're asking of me, Gomez. I cannot do this to my family - my parents, my sister."
His heart skipped a beat.
She had not said she loved him, but she didn't say she didn't love him either.
If her immediate concern was her family, then...
"They will understand," he shook his head, kissing her knuckles desperately. "Once they see us together, they will come around. It may take some time, but I am willing to devote myself to re-earning their trust and faith in me - in us. I will be here every single evening, on my knees, if that's what it takes."
"You would do that for me?"
"I would do that and more, cara mia."
"Like what?"
"I will wear polo shirts and learn to golf for your father," he listed off with his fingers. "I will let him win every fencing match. I will learn to cook for your mother. I will even learn to appreciate her cooking. I will provide her with an endless supply of the finest wine made in Europe."
"Do you want me that much?" She whispered.
He laughed mirthlessly. "I have not seen your face for eight months and here I am - miserably enslaved to you just as I had been the first time my eyes laid upon you. I need you, Tish. I need you as eyes need sights to behold."
Her lips turned upwards. "You stared all throughout dinner."
"I wanted to devour you," he answered simply.
"It frightened me, Gomez - your intensity."
"It won't be the last time."
She laughed then, a low, rich reverberation that began in her stomach and echoed a warm tinge of delight in him. His dark and tender eyes were intent on her laugh in the dim light, romantic towards its rarity, its utter pricelessness.
He coveted her pleasure; he wanted to spend a lifetime chasing it - to be the cause of it.
"Say that you'll be mine and I'll take care of the rest," his fingers entwined with hers.
"You make it sound so easy," she teased.
"It will be worth it."
"So that's it then? We tell our parents, get married, and live miserably ever after in bliss?"
"That's it," his voice was rich and silky.
"You're so persuasive."
"It's one of my skills."
"Ophelia will never forgive us," her smile turned wry, sad.
"It may take longer," he admitted slowly, cautiously. "But I don't see why she won't forgive us eventually. Once she sees that you're wonderfully unhappy..."
"And the emotional damage?"
"We have not spent enough time together in person for it to be a great emotional loss. Financial, perhaps - but we'll get her those Juliet roses. Or whatever flowers she wants."
"She likes you."
"As her money bags, no doubt."
"I don't think you understand," her fingers, pale against his olive-tanned skin, ghosted over his masculine face pensively. "We spoke about it when your engagement was first announced. She was thrilled at the prospect of sharing your name, wealth, and bed."
He blanched immediately at the thought. "How gruesome."
"How vile indeed," she agreed quietly. "But she's grown quite fond of you in her own way since. She likes that you're a gentleman first and foremost. She likes your handsomeness. Your chivalry. The way you take care of yourself. Your accent."
"When did you have this conversation?"
"A month ago."
His hands caught hers gently, bringing it to his lips. "And what do you like about me?"
"All of the above," her eyes, darker than midnight yet somehow twinkling, bore into his. "And your fascination with life. You take pleasure in the smallest, unexpected details that are often overlooked. You're very kind and generous to everyone but yourself. You're attentive, intelligent, passionate, and warm."
A flush of warmth suddenly travelled to his face.
"I like your need to please me," she continued musing. "You try to anticipate my needs. You're always trying to understand me, my motivations, my fears, desires. I feel like you see me as a whole being, not just the object of your desires."
"Make no mistake," he pressed a kiss to the pulse point on her neck, unable to help himself. "I desire you greatly."
Her nose caressed his, "that too."
"Swear that I'm yours," his kisses were becoming heated now, lazy and languid as he knew she liked them. "Put me out of my misery and claim me. I will take care of everything else, querida."
She sighed in his arms, and he knew there was something holding her back still - something he could feel he was getting closer and closer to but remained beyond his grasp. He wanted to kiss it away, to erase the rest of her fears and worries with his steadfastness.
Their bodies stumbled together, eventually entrapping her perfectly between two unyielding, impenetrable forces: him and the brick wall behind her. He felt one of her knees draw up over his hips, her ankle lock around the back of his thigh. His hand, greedy and starved, caressed the generous expanse of thigh exposed under her dress while the other ghosted over her graceful collarbones in admiration.
Her slender hands tugged, yearning for more.
Her lips would be bruised by his.
He would make sure of it.
His kiss was ardent and long, all the pain and pleasure of the past year mixed in. Her body pulled him impossibly deeper into her and it made him euphoric. So close that even fully clothed, he could not discern where he ended and she began. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with each laboured breath and his hands itched to discard their pesky clothing to see, touch, and hold what he had only felt over layers of fabric and envisioned with imagination.
It had been part of his promise to ‘ take things slow.'
And apparently, they shared like minds.
Her hands travelled from the back of his head to his neck. Her nimble fingers struggled to undo the second button of his dress shirt, and just when he was about to help her, he heard a faint pop! when she ripped it open.
The button flew away.
He paused and looked at her, half-lidded eyes startled and amused.
"I apologize," she murmured demurely. "I'll have it sewn for you."
He chuckled darkly and pulled her in for another fiery kiss.
Lust thrummed in his veins, pulsating with every soft noise that escaped her, every touch, every brush of his skin against hers. Her delicate fingers slid under the fabric of his shirt, burning his skin. A sudden growl escaped him as he buried his face into her neck, kissing and biting and sucking every inch he could. He heard her laugh at his unsophistication, his caveman-like desire for her, and then her mirth soon disappeared to quiet moans.
He’d hardly a moment to revel in smug satisfaction because he was throbbing in need, in pain.
Everywhere, all at once.
“—Gomez,” her voice trembled with desire but her palm, a sudden hand on his chest signalled a need for them to regain their senses.
Despite his mad haze of lust, he acquiesced almost immediately, painfully, olive-tanned hands coming to rest on her hips. She was secure between his iron body and the wall behind her. Heat radiated off their bodies.
Every part of him throbbed.
He needed a moment.
Or two.
Anything.
His forehead tenderly rested against hers, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to catch his breath.
Her palm rested on his cheek.
He licked his lips embarrassedly and laughed raggedly. “Sorry, cara mia. I got carried away.”
“I can see that,” her whisper was breathless.
“Can you feel it too?”
“I can,” her smile turned sly.
“I’ve never felt like this before, cara mia,” he admitted, knowing his whole body was set aflame. “I have been thinking about our stolen kisses and moments every night. The thought of your eyes, your lips, your scent - I can’t help myself. You drive me wild.”
“I know,” she whispered, touching his face. “Mon sauvage.”
“Oh, Tish,” he groaned and closed his eyes, allowing her hand to drift over his face affectionately. “That’s not fair. That’s French.”
Her nose caressed his again, “You’re insatiable.”
He grinned. “And you’re dazzling.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I serve to please.”
“There is something else I haven't told you..."
The sudden shift should have alarmed him, but he was too dazed, too aroused. "What is it?"
The wine cellar’s door opened with a creak around the corner.
"I have a suitor."