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Oh, that sinful, obscene mouth.
The moment she heard his voice and saw the lazy way he stood, a cigarette in his hand as always, everything came back to her. Miami. The dance. The pool. The hotel. His room.
She can feel a hot prickle crawling up her skin as she tries to register everything he says while he reminisces about his speech class in high school. This feels like watching him doing an act. And she has seen him on stage—plenty of times.
Maybe it's because he's telling her only a few feet away, making this all more personal.
Sure, Midge. You should swim the river Nile.
Her heart is beating violently against her chest, her stomach is in knots and oh God, is she salivating? Does she have anything in the corner of her mouth?
She’s acting like a giggling schoolgirl with a crush as she squirms. (Behave yourself, Midge.) Her eyes shift between his dreamy eyes and his red, kissable lips. Of course she wants to listen. Lenny has the talent to make anyone who listens become immersed with every word he says from how expressive his face is and the lively way he speaks and the way his eyes twinkle.
But every time her sight sets on his lips, those words that come out of his mouth become obscure as she struggles to pay attention.
Fire ignites inside her, sending burning tingles all over her skin and sweat beading her neck. Who turned up the heat?
For a moment, she almost forgot how to breathe. Her mind takes her back to the way his body was pressed close to her as they danced in Miami, his warm hand enveloping her arm. She thinks about the mixed scent of his enticing spiced cologne and cigarette all the time and right now, her nose can detect it again—much more overpowering now since he's right here in flesh—talking about zoos and humans are animals and getting hit with erasers and chalks and half-eaten apples by his teacher, making it all interesting with his delivery even though it’s clear where he’s going with this.
He never told her about his childhood, did he? He rarely tells her anything personal. There are so many layers of him she's yet to peel. So many things she doesn't know about him. Lenny Bruce is always an enigma to her, a puzzle to solve and yet at the same time, they just get each other.
Apparently no connection runs deeper than sharing a cigarette and facing the same quandaries. Once you’ve been shoved into the same patrol car together, you’ve basically just gotten yourself an ally for life. Is this how men bond during war?
She reminds herself that this is special to her. She gets to see a little glimpse of him even though his whole point of telling her is to teach her a valuable lesson, not to open up to her (he’s always all about business, frustratingly). But at least she’s getting more idea of who he is. Where he came from. She knows Lenny Bruce (a fraction of him but still) but apparently there's still Lenny Schneider from Long Island she needs to figure out.
She would be focusing on his words if her attention doesn't keep diverting towards her full awareness of how red his lips are (that goddamn dirty mouth), how brown those eyes could be in this lighting (like honey), the dimples that deepen when he speaks, those crinkles around his eyes, the warmth and levity in his voice, the neatly gelled curly hair that she may or may not have dreamed of touching and running through and tugging until it’s mussed. Possibly when his head is buried between her…
Her mouth goes from watering to... cotton dry all of the sudden. Probably from inhaling through her mouth like a dog in a leach.
She needs air. Fresh air. Maybe a drink. Or that cigarette in his hand.
His hand.
Yes.
This is completely fine. She's fine. Sure, those hands are big. One hand is the size of her entire forearm. Which means it's the size of her foot.
And those fingers are long and slender.
She wonders what those fingers can do.
Her cheeks go aflame as she resists the urge to bite her nails. For one, she’s very much into cuticle care and two, she's already acting too obvious and she needs to tone it down.
The corset she's wearing underneath her dress suddenly feels too tight and itchy on her body as Lenny does that lopsided smile as he recounts what his teacher did while her knees are buckling where she stands, having to balance herself on something or else there's a risk of her stumbling and falling on air. She's not known to be the most graceful but she can't afford to die out of embarrassment right now.
He's already suspecting something from the way he smirked when she admitted that he does make her nervous. Inadvertently confirming that she felt it too. Whatever he’s feeling.
Unless it’s just her wishful thinking.
Something must have shifted between them ever since that fateful evening in Miami. A new unspoken energy has woven its way into their dynamic, sparking like a lightning. She knows it and he definitely knows it. He always knows what she's thinking, what she's feeling, what she needs.
God, does he know what she needs right now? What's on her mind right now?
"So, tonight, Mrs. Maisel—" He inches closer to her, which is not advisable for the sake of her heart and her appearance. She can't be sweating on stage later when the spotlight is on her. His octaves drop and his voice is laced with mischief, like he knows exactly what impact he has on her. "Your version of erasers and chalk and half eaten apples will be me staying for your gig."
She's surprised that she's able to sound coherent as she says succinctly, "No." Granted, it’s only one word so far but from how dry her throat is, she's surprised that she still has a voice. "This isn't Bellmore."
"Everything is Bellmore," he says playfully. His words are innocent but he makes them sound so crude. Her mind swirls with what other things he can do with that mouth. This man radiates sex.
Her lewd mind is cut off by Boise as he tells her it's time to start the show. Maybe it’s good that Boise interrupted her thoughts just in time because God knows where her head could drift to.
Lenny’s cherry red lips quirks into a smirk, his eyes gleaming at her. "I think it's time to start the show,” he teases.
Oh, she's fucked. So fucked. "Fine," she says defeatedly. "Stay. But do not sit where I can see you."
Of course, Lenny being Lenny, always pushing her buttons as he grins wolfishly. "Oh, I'm definitely gonna sit where you can see me."
Double fucked.
Turns out she has nothing to worry about. If it were anyone else she would have probably been annoyed but when Lenny does it, tossing a bunch of things he could reach at her while she’s doing her standup, it all just feels like a private joke and it is a private joke to them. Instead of making her bomb, his frolic surprisingly takes the edge off.
Funny how coins and crumpled napkins and swizzle sticks can make her feel so supported.
She's always expected to act like a grown up as a mother of two around others but with him, he really brings out this other side of her that's more what she is on the inside. Youthful, fun, reckless. For God's sake, she's not even thirty yet.
Lenny stays until the end of the show, probably enjoying himself with all the burlesque dancers putting on their show. Isn't his ex-wife also a stripper, if she's not mistaken?
Her mind just had to go there. She curses herself.
As she puts on her coat and is ready to leave, she's stopped by the sound of his voice behind her.
"You were immaculate as always."
She turns her body towards him, tying the strap of her coat around her waist. The smile is automatic the moment she meets his gaze. "You had fun with your little buddies there? I certainly had fun having swizzle sticks in my hair."
He chuckles, so melodic in her ears. “You pulled off the look though.”
”Maybe it could be my signature style.”
“Hey, it’s the sixties. Anything is possible. If you want to start getting revolutionary, now is the time. Get those swizzle sticks. I’ll be more than happy sticking them in. Or tossing them.”
She rolls her eyes though her mouth can’t help but quirk into a smile.
“But I have to say watching you perform took me back to where I started. I don’t know if you know this—”
“Oh, I know.” She bites her lip. “Joel first exposed me to the world of comedy when he took me to see you at the strip club you performed at.”
Lenny’s brows arch up. “Did he?” he enunciates slowly.
She nods, pulling her hair out of her coat. “My hair was blonde at the time though.”
He suddenly looks piqued with interest. “I would have loved to see that,” he says, sounding suggestive. He crosses his arms, staring at her. The way he’s gazing at her is so intense that she feels naked. “So your first impression of the comedy scene is from my show.”
“Terrible idea because you really raised the bar.”
He looks at her pointedly. "You didn't seem at all nervous like you proclaimed to be on the stage earlier.”
She shrugs. "Contrary to what my family says, maybe I am a good actress."
His mouth curls downwards as he nods in agreement. "Maybe. You managed to fool me."
Her toes curl in her shoes. A coy smile dances around her lips. "I did, did I?"
This is giving her a feeling of déjà vu as she finds herself in some sort of staring competition with him. They just stand there, eyes perusing each other. His gaze is heated, like he’s taking the time undressing her with his eyes. Daring her to look away. But two can play the game.
He’s the first to break the silence. “Blonde Midge, huh,” he mutters under his breath, like he’s making sense of it. “Shame I never got to see that.”
The nerve of this man to continuously make her blush. What is this newfound effect he has on her?
She tucks her hair behind her ear. “Who knows? It might make a comeback someday.”
He steps closer, drawing a sharp breath from her. His eyes shamelessly roam over her, his brows shooting up in approval. "What do you say we get outta here? I have a theory to test."
She narrows her eyes. "What theory?"
"Am I still making you nervous?" he whispers, his breath hot on her skin.
The cool brick against her back pokes her everywhere, probably going to cause a bruise but she barely feels it. Not when her entire body is on fire when he's all pressed up against her, his mouth is scorching on the skin of her neck, close to her ear.
She lets out a soft whimper, her fingers combing through the curls on his head. "A little bit," she teases, tilting her head back to give him more room. Fuck, she can't feel her legs. They're as numb as her cheeks from the brisk New York air that rolls into her.
He huffs a laugh, nibbling her ear now.
"I've thought of doing this since—oh—since that night in Miami," she admits, barely able to keep her eyes open. Her head is in complete daze.
"I've thought of this since that day—" He grazes his teeth on her earlobe, his voice thick with lust. "That day you first bailed me out."
Her brows knit together. "You had a wife."
"Yes, I was aware of my predicament, thank you very much." Somehow his hands manage to weave their way under her skirt, grabbing her thighs until she's lifted and able to wrap her legs around his hips. "This isn't how I planned our first kiss. But I've thought of this far too long. Too agonizingly long."
A snort escapes her. "You kept a diary and wrote an elaborate way you want to kiss me, mister? Careful, people might think you're soft on the inside."
He pulls away just to give her a chiding look. "Now, now, don't be mocking me right now, Maisel. Underneath all this surface—and I will deny this if you tell anyone—I'm actually a romantic at heart."
"Who's currently mauling me at the back of the strip club's building." Not that she's complaining. Then she adds in a pressing tone, "Schneider."
"I'll let you off the hook for now for calling me that simply because you look absolutely drop dead gorgeous in this red dress,” he says gutturally.
Her cheeks must be covered in pink right now. "Why—"
He interjects with his mouth, his soft lips caressing hers gently like he's taking his time. She really doesn't expect any sort of tenderness right now. Again, they're in a dirty alley. Not a place one would act all tender and gentlemanly.
They both probably look disheveled and debauched right now with her undone coat and his loosened tie and her bruised lips and his frenzied hair.
She's not sure what they're doing. Where this is going. Whether this is a one-time thing or a frequent thing. Something they do to blow off steams.
But she would be naive if she thinks this could turn into something. It's deeply ironic how easy it is when she's around him and how they make sense, yet the stakes are higher if they become involved for too many reasons. The list would go on and on, probably as long as the Mississippi river. Two comics together? A disaster waiting to happen.
Which is such a pretty waste considering how he ignites her every cell in her body with his kisses like no other while providing the feeling of safety and warmth with his cologne and something else that is uniquely him.
She's so drunk in his kiss, tasting the tobacco and whiskey and everything in between on his tongue.
Her breathing is ragged when he peppers kisses along her jaw now.
"Schneider," he says bitterly mid-kisses, "means nothing to me now when the man who I apparently inherited the name from is absent throughout my entire life.”
Her chest aches. "You took control," she notes.
"I took my mother's name."
She smiles, her hand lowers to his nape to massage it. "Bruce suits you better." She can't imagine someone with Lenny's suave to bear the name Schneider. Lenny Schneider.
Not quite as fitting as Lenny Bruce. A name that could only belong to someone who owns every room he walks in.
His mouth finds her throat. "Bet it suits you too more than Maisel."
Say that again?
In an instant, she acts out of her own volition as she shoves his chest and stares at him wide. The heat spreads across her cheeks again.
It doesn't take long when he breaks into a laugh, tears-in-his-eyes-clutching-his-stomach kind of laughing. "I'm kidding! That was a priceless look.”
She's not sure if she should be relieved or disappointed—why would she be disappointed?—but she finds herself poking his chest over and over while he's still chortling, his face burning red. He’s a comic who makes jokes. How the hell did she fall for that?
Her face turns a deep shade of scarlet. "You are so—"
So... what?
The realization hits her. She's blanking out. Dumbstruck. Tongue tied. Since when does she run out of words to say? This isn't her.
He has that cocky grin, like he knows he's getting on her nerves so before she could let him comment something witty about this—there are probably a thousand witty remarks in his head while she's still blanking out—she clutches the crisp material of his collar and surges forward until they meet in the middle.
That ought to shut the man up.
The bastard is still smiling when she's kissing him though. Smiling. Or grinning. He could be smirking too. That goddamn patronizing smirk.
And apparently she still fails to shut him up. "Got you nervous there, did I?"
"You are so irritating," she says against his lips.
"Ah, but you like it when I'm irritating," he quips, adjusting her higher against the wall and pressing his body closer so he can let go of her thighs and cup the side of her neck. "Don't you, Mrs. Maisel? Gives me a little edge."
Both of her arms snake around his neck, hoping she doesn't fall. "Shut up and just kiss me."