Conversations in the Dark

Conversations in the Dark

It took her more than an hour to get downstairs again, and he had settled on the veranda with a glass of his wine, looking across the quiet sea and waiting for the moon to rise. Waiting for her light footsteps on the wooden staircase, her scent in the dark.

Finally, when she sat in the spare chair next to him, a deep, satisfied sigh emerged from her. Wordlessly, he handed her a glass of wine, and she inhaled deeply before she took the first sip. "This wine is magical. How much do you charge for a bottle? You must make a fortune from it!" For a long moment, she kept the sip in her mouth before swallowing. "It tastes of... I can't describe it. Of honey, black currant and grapes, naturally. Of peaches and smoke. It reminds me of long summer nights, thunderstorms, freedom and... Well, I should stop babbling."

At that, he frowned, a tiny memory stirring somewhere in the back of his head. Her hair is wrong – the thought came unbidden and irritated him, as he liked her hair the way it was. When she put the glass down and looked at him, his heartbeat momentarily accelerated an extra beat and the thought, the memory, was forgotten. "What has changed?" he asked and was glad that he didn't need to explain himself. She understood what he meant. Even in the darkness, he could see that her cheeks had dimples when she smiled.

"Is it that obvious?" She held his gaze, and he nodded.

"You have changed. Something has changed today, and yes, it is obvious. At least to me," he answered. "You laughed more at dinner than during the past week. You talked a lot. And the faraway look in your eyes is gone. I cannot believe that my books did the change. So what was it? And – will it last?"

Now she lowered her eyes, got up and stepped to the balcony handrail. Her long, strong fingers wrapped round the dry, old wood, she stared into the blackness of the ocean. For several minutes neither of them spoke, but Carlos could wait. He had learned to wait early in his life, and sometimes, this ability still came in handy. Instead of asking questions or urging her to speak, he watched her and observed that even her body language had changed: she held herself differently, more relaxed in one way and more erect in another. She seemed to be more sure of herself, and he liked that change. He liked strong women, and she was definitely a lot stronger than she had appeared at first sight.

"I had time to think." She let the words drop into the silence between them. "For the first time in eight years, I had time to think without anyone interrupting me. It was a relief, and it was like someone had switched on the light in my head again." With a swift movement, she sat on the handrail, legs dangling, head tilted.

Ridiculous, but he thought she looked like a schoolgirl.

"When my husband and I kissed for the first time, it seemed right, perfect. I thought he was the one I wanted, not considering that... the circumstances had a lot to do with my decision." A deep breath. Obviously, this was not easy for her. "Times were bad when we fell in love, and a kiss meant a lot more because around us, people were dying. I won't bore you with the details. Only that much: we finished school and married quickly afterwards. We had a nice time for a little while, and everyone was very excited about us being a couple.

"I still believed I loved him when the first problems appeared. We had been best friends; I liked him a lot, but eventually I realised it wasn't enough for a marriage. We couldn't talk, we had the most different interests, his family is quite overwhelming and demanding, and on top of it, he chose a job that took him away from home more than half of the year."

Silently, Carlos refilled her glass.

"I'd always wanted children, and I was very happy when I found out I was pregnant. Then I realised that my husband wouldn't be there to help me with the baby and that there was no way to continue studying without his support. His job always came first. I considered ending the marriage, but decided to stay for the sake of the children. Maybe that was a wrong decision." Silence followed her words. Eventually, she continued, but more hesitant than before. "Well, for a little while R... my husband stayed at home more often, his mother stopped nagging, and I was too busy to regret that university was out of the question now.

"By the time Hugo was born, my mother-in-law had found out that she really liked nagging me, and my husband had found out that he liked an affair every now and then. Not to hurt me – he is a nice boy..." She interrupted herself with an exasperated laugh. "Hear that? I still call him a boy. He is twenty-eight, but he is a boy to me. He earns the money, but he does not take on responsibility. He doesn't want to hurt anyone, not on purpose, but he has no idea how to handle me. He wants fun and action, and the idea to stay at home for more than a weekend makes his head dizzy. He is nice and wonderful and lovely. He's the father of my children, and I love him dearly. As a friend. Unfortunately, I cannot leave him. He would get sole custody. I wouldn't be able to raise Rose and Hugo; I couldn't cope with that."

When she looked at him, it was more like looking through him. "Today, in the quiet peace of your house, I found out that I was about to perish between my husband's and his family's and our friends' demands. I don't want to perish. I want to be me again. And so I made some decisions."

He could barely see her face anymore; it was past ten, and the moon was just about to rise. "Which decisions would that be, then?" he asked as casually as possible. Her words had struck him – it was rare for a person to show such deep insight in one's own problems, and it was even rarer to talk about it so freely. That she did it made him wish he could take her into his arms and hold her forever.

Usually, he wasn't that emotional.

Tessa slipped down and stepped between his legs, a movement so unexpected he could do nothing but part his knees, allowing her inside his personal space. "I love my children," she whispered. "More than anything. But I have needs as well, and I cannot abandon them completely for their sake. I can't leave their father; but I would like to be with you for the time being. Is that... would that be all right? Do you still want me?"

Uncertainty, laced with shyness. A really intriguing combination, especially because he could hear in her voice that she meant what she had said. She had made a decision today, and it included him.

How he would go on with his life after she was gone, he did not know. But he knew he wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman before.

His voice would have been hoarse if he had answered her, so he got up and kissed her instead.

**********************

He had kissed often in the past ten years, since he had found a home and a life on this island. He had kissed young women and older ones, brunettes and black-haired women and redheads. Women mostly much smaller than him; never anyone as tall as her. He loved to kiss, and he always looked forward to this magical moment when the lips touched for the very first time. To him, a kiss was foreplay as much as main attraction since not all women he had kissed had landed in his bed afterwards.

Tessa's kiss was different. From the moment their lips touched, he was electrified by her taste, her smell, and her warmth. And he could sense her fear, her hope, and a fire burning inside her that surprised him. She had appeared to be a prudish woman, more shy than any other he had ever courted, and now he found out that he had been wrong. She was anything but prudish; nor was her kiss.

She did not hesitate. It seemed that now that she had made her decision, she would stick with it. Her lips parted and welcomed him, soft and warm lips, and a small, hungry tongue. Her hand slipped behind his neck and pulled him down, the other one sneaked up his shirt and whispered over his skin.

It was dark, and his eyes were closed, and he thought she was more real than ever before. Her heart was beating fast. Her breasts, small and with hardened nipples, were pressing against his chest. She had taken the lead, kissed him hard and demanding, as if she hadn't kissed anyone in a very long time. Pulling him backwards until she bumped into the handrail, she managed to sit on it without breaking the kiss.

Both of her hands went to his face, examined it, and he felt exposed to her, naked, although he had all his clothes on. Her fingertips followed his cheekbone, found his eyebrows and finally dug into his short hair. Her legs, a moment ago dangling in empty air, wrapped around his waist. He was caged, imprisoned, in her hands entirely, and he knew in that very moment that next year it would be hard, if not impossible, to find a new love for two or three weeks.

A growl emerged from her throat, and he felt the little hairs on his neck stand up. He wanted this woman in a way he had never wanted anyone else – entirely, completely, from head to toes and including her heart and soul. So he melted together with her, pressed his body against hers and hers against his, lifted her up, and carried her into his bedroom.

****************

Lights, candles shone when he placed her in the middle of his bed. She didn't weigh much, and the work in his vineyard, handling the barrels, had made him strong.

Somewhere on the way, she had kicked off her shoes, and now she wore only her skirt and the top. No sunglasses. Her eyes appeared nearly as black as his in the candlelight, and she watched him, waited for his next step.

He undressed whilst standing in front of her, and as slowly as he could master. Usually, he just threw his clothes into the next corner to get into bed as quickly as possible. Tonight, he had the feeling that he should give her every opportunity to revise her decision, to get out of his bedroom if she wanted to. So he unbuttoned his shirt as slowly as possible and realised that he liked her watching him doing so.

One button after another. Slowly, as he had promised himself. Carelessly, the fabric slid to the floor, and the only thing he now wore were his shorts. His erection was clearly visible even in the dim light. His length pressed against the thin fabric, and the touch of it was sweet torture and lustful torment.

Tessa came to him, knelt on the bed, and ran her fingertips over his tattoo. Maybe deliberately, maybe accidentally, her thigh only so slightly brushed across his groin, and he hissed with desire, but didn't move.

"Yellow, orange, and red. Black and green – it resembles a flower, doesn't it?" She traced the stalk, the petals, the leaves of his tattoo.

"A sunflower," he said, and yes, his voice was hoarse as expected. Standing still whilst she examined him was new to him. He was surprised how much he enjoyed to be examined.

"I have never seen anything like this. Not that I am familiar with tattoos, but this one looks nearly real. It moves with your breath; it seems as if the flower gets brushed by the wind. It's wonderful, Carlos."

He smiled – her poetic words for the tattoo pleased him. "I had it done nine years ago, in a tiny place in Barcelona. I had nothing but a black-and-white sketch, and the artist exceeded even my highest expectations."

Breathing on his skin, inhaling his scent, she kissed the centre of the sunflower. Tasted him, went higher, bit his neck. Found the corner of his mouth and smiled when she felt his breath hitch. Kissed him again, followed the shape of his body with her hands from shoulders to waist to thighs.

His shorts became too tight now – something he needed to change desperately, but not before he had undressed her at least partially. She didn't hinder him when he pulled the ribbon out of her pony tail and slipped his hand under the strap of her top. Slowly, he slid it down her arm, slow enough that she could have stopped him had she wanted to.

Instead, she pulled the top over her head with a surprisingly strong touch of aggressiveness. Naked down to the waist she knelt on the bed, something like defiance and challenge in her eyes. Her shoulder muscles stood out as if she had just mastered not crossing her arms over her chest.

His confusion at her behaviour must have shown in his face. With a bittersweet, sad little smile she said, "My husband... he likes bigger breasts, according to the magazines I found in his drawer. I know I am too skinny and too bony. Too many angles and not enough flesh, as he once phrased it when he was drunk. I'm sorry if you... if you are disappointed as well."

Slowly, he raised his hand and caught her before she could slip away from him. Now he knelt on the bed with her, looked at her, drank her in. "You are beautiful. I have told you that before. I say it again. Beautiful and adorable and marvellous, and your breasts are the perfect size – anyone who doesn't see that is an imbecilic idiot."

A genuine, mischievous smile crossed her lips, and she relaxed visibly. Putting her arms round his neck, she said, "Your voice has a sharp edge when you get angry. Usually, it is warm and gentle and even has a slight Spanish accent. Right now, you nearly sounded like the man you remind me of every now and then."

"If he weren't dead, I would have a strong word with him about being in your mind whilst I try to seduce you." Teasingly, he ran his hand down her throat and upper arm, cupping her breasts, squeezing them gently. Massaging them made her whimper, and she allowed him to press her backwards onto the pillows. When he took one of her erect nipples between his teeth, she grabbed hold of the bedpost, arched her back, urged him on. Only moments later, one of her hands landed on his still shorts-covered arse, searched for the hem, and went round to find the buttons.

His turn to whimper. He hadn't been with a woman for a year, but even if he had been sated, satisfied, she would have heated his desire with her demanding fingers, her lovely kisses, and her big, cheeky eyes. Brown, they are brown, he observed and wondered why he thought this should bother him.

She found the buttons and undid them, slowly as he had undone the buttons of his shirt earlier on. She teased him, and she knew it – she dropped her shyness, and her face was shining with delight as she saw and felt his desire. Her hand, hot and curious, pushed his shorts down – he kicked them off and stretched out on the bed, giving her free access to every part of his body she was interested in.

Apparently, she was most interested in his cock, which was more than fine with him. Finding his balls, squeezing them to the edge of pain, she forced another moan out of him before she moved, settled between his legs and closed her lips over his moistened tip.

Surprised, he forced his eyes open and watched her, only lightly touching her fair hair. One of her hands was on his hip, the other around the base of his shaft. She didn't move much, used only her lips and teeth, and it was pure heaven. There was no possibility of keeping his eyes open – he only wanted to feel and to enjoy and, hopefully, to keep control so he wouldn't spill in her mouth.

When she kissed him after an eternity of giving him oral pleasure, he tasted himself – none of his former lovers had done this before. It was very strange to savour his own lust – strange, but arousing as well. It made him crave for more. For more of her. And as he considered it unfair that she still wore her skirt, he pushed one hand up her leg, taking the fabric along until the skirt lay crumpled around her hips.

"Take it off," she whispered and lifted her bum just long enough for him to get rid of skirt and knickers in one go.

Her skin was warm, but she shivered. Either with lust, or with fear, or maybe with a little bit of both. "Make love to me," – another whisper, and he heard no fear in her words, just the need to be with him, to feel him inside her, on top of her, with his arms round her body, and his forehead touching hers.

Spreading her legs, he found her wet curls – darker than her hair – and her swollen labia. Tentatively, he teased her, dipped his fingertip into her wetness and smiled when she bit her trembling lip, letting no more whimpers escape. "Are you afraid the neighbours would hear you?" he mocked and slipped on top of her. "I have none." His tip just touched her entrance, and a heartbeat later, she had her legs wrapped round his hips.

"Not the neighbours – the children," she breathed, and he pushed, slipped smoothly inside her, filled her.

A push – and hold. "The walls are thicker than they look," he murmured. Push – hold. "Moan and scream. Whatever you wish, Tessa."

Push – hold. Faster this time as she pressed herself against him, met his thrusts, welcomed him. Their rhythm adjusted after only a few heartbeats, and he forgot how to think and how to talk, how to reason and how to mock. He just felt her body underneath his, her breath against his ear, heard her gasps and then her soft screams, mingled with his own sounds of lust. He held her as close as possible, felt like becoming united with her, and wished with all his heart this night would never end; that this moment would last forever, this moment so close before both their orgasms.

A second, a blink of an eye before he would have spilled inside her, she interrupted their dance simply by moving against the rhythm. When he thrust, she didn't meet him but moved away. He felt her hands pushing at his shoulders, and he rolled over, taking her with him until she sat on him, his aching, hard length still deep inside her.

She stared at him and rocked her hips, gently, barely visible. Circling, rotating, she watched him, and when she saw him pressing his head deep into the pillow with pleasure, she smiled and increased the speed only so slightly. "Did you really think I would let you off the hook so quickly?" she murmured, her hands resting on his chest. "It's been a while since I have had sex that has been worth mentioning, Carlos. I want this to last as long as possible."

"Precisely my opinion," he managed. Her breasts bounced gently, the nipples hard and rosy in the candlelight. Reaching up, he took them between thumb and index finger, pinching them, teasing them until she yelped.

Gods, how much I love getting fucked, he thought, for the moment denying that this was much more for him than a mere shag. Thinking about the fact that she meant a lot to him, that he had developed deep, very deep, emotions for her. I will get hurt again – he knew it there and then but ignored this thought, this fear, and just watched their joined bodies and finally came with her, kissing her whilst spending inside her and feeling her orgasm nearly as intensively as his own.

***********************

It was long past midnight when they decided that, for a first night together, it had been enough. They had made love again after the first time, and then again once more. Exhausted but ridiculously happy, he had pulled her into his arms, had fished for the bedcover and now bathed in the heat her body radiated.

She, already half asleep, let her fingers wander across his chest. Up to his throat, over his shoulder, and down his left arm her fingertips whispered. Where they stumbled over the bracelet he always wore and never took off. "I like this," she murmured. "It looks good on you. Strange that it is so cool although you are so warm."

"It is always cool," he answered, not willing and not able to tell her more about it. The bracelet was a necessity, and it had unusual powers. She wouldn't understand, and so he forced the subject to change. "I'm very sorry, dear, but I need to get up for a moment. Would you..."

"... let you get out of bed? Only if you promise to check on Rose and Hugo and then come back here immediately." Her voice was sleepy, and she didn't try to hold him back when he slipped out of bed.

Naked, he crossed the room and went to the bathroom, where he relieved himself and washed his hands and his face. The cold water woke him up a bit. He didn't want to doze off yet, wanted to stay awake for another hour at least so he could watch her sleep.

When he went upstairs to make sure the children were fast asleep, he heard a faint sound and flinched. It was a small sound, merely a chirping. A mobile phone. Not his. He didn't have one. Hers.

Maybe just a friend. Or her mother.

That time of the night? he thought. Highly unlikely.

Her husband, then.

To hell with those things.

But of course she owned a mobile, and he understood that she hadn't switched it off. Husbands got suspicious when their wives didn't answer the phone, especially if they didn't answer it at two in the morning.

Feeling stupid, standing in a dark room, listening to the breathing of two sleeping children, he went downstairs again and heard her voice, quiet and slightly angry. He had no intention to eavesdrop, but then, he couldn't deny his past. Back then, he had gathered any information to survive. Here, he wanted to know if she was happy to talk to her husband.

"... middle of the night! No, I told you they are asleep. It is not my fault that you didn't remember the time difference between here and Hawaii, Ron. Yes. Ring me tomorrow. Good night!"

He saw her stuffing the phone back into her bag, which lay in the corner of his bedroom. She stared at the bag for a moment, then turned and went back to bed.

That name... and the way she held her head, with her chin up, and an aggressiveness he hadn't seen before. She looked angry and determined...

That frown on her face... No sunglasses covered her eyes, of course not, and without them, her face looked so familiar in this light. He was reminded of Hogwarts' dungeons, of books, of the time when he had been a teacher.

Who did she remind him of?

Ron. Ron who?

Ron the husband, of course.

Then realisation hit him hard. That name, her husband's name, had finally opened the barrier to his memory, the one that had nagged him for over a week now.

Suddenly, he recognised her. She was taller than he remembered her, and the hair was wrong. But the way she moved... yes. Definitely. She had matured, but it was her. No surprise she had looked like a schoolgirl earlier on – she had once been a schoolgirl, and not just any schoolgirl, but one he had taught. The brightest witch of her age. Annoying and bothersome and asking endless questions, and had she really married that Weasley boy?

He stared at her, eyes wide and jaw clenched, and he couldn't prevent cold dread from creeping up his spine, forming an icy fist in his stomach. Hermione. This was Hermione Granger, and for one breath-deprived moment, he refused to believe it.