He's smiling broadly now the way he couldn't before when the turn of events was still sinking in to his consciousness. Marlowe called him; she must have gone out of her way to get his number. She wants to see him, or so he assumes - she didn't say no when he said he was coming over. A roll of film rewinds in his head. He goes back to the moment when he stood outside the photo booth with the pictures in his hand, confused and coldly angry. Then he goes back even further to the moment before she left, the moment when she pulled away from him and licked her lips. He stops there, freezing the frame in his mind, replaying it over and over. He hits the gas pedal and speeds up.
When he arrives at Marlowe's apartment building, he parks on the street and calmly gets out of the car. The anxiety that was there in the pit of his stomach is no longer; Lucas is at peace. He knows what's going on; he knows what he hopes will happen. He steps up to the panel of buzzers and presses number 211.
"Lucas?"
"Yes."
"It's open. Come up."
He does. He skips the elevator and takes the stairs two at a time. When he arrives at her door, he stops for a second, laughs at his luck, smiles, and then knocks on the door.
Marlowe has changed clothes. When she opens the door, the gust of air swirls the hem of her soft yellow cotton dress around her knees. She's wearing shoes too, buttery brown sandals with a low heel. No makeup, no jewelry; she's short of elegant, but she looks pretty and rested and very comfortable in herself. This dress, like many others, has been waiting in the back of the closet for the night when a certain man made her feel like a certain kind of woman. This is that night.
"You look nice," Marlowe comments, taking in his linen shirt and creased khaki pants.
"Roderick," Lucas explains. "You look fantastic."
Marlowe smiles. "Caris. She lives across the hall, behind you," Marlowe says, pointing over his shoulder.
Lucas doesn't turn around to look. "Can I come in?"
"Oh. Yeah," Marlowe replies, opening the door.
When he walks in, she backs up; Lucas turns to close and the lock the door himself. He smiles at her then, and she smiles in return.
"Dimples," she remarks softly.
Lucas nods.
"So, I called a couple of places for dinner. Do you like Chinese?"
"I already ate dinner."
"Really? Oh." Marlowe blinks at him as her train of thought grinds to a full stop. She had a plan, and now she has nothing but a man standing in her apartment, staring at her. She'd forgotten how his stare can affect her when she lets herself be unnerved like she is now, rubbing her hands together like she's cold. "Okay. Sit down. Do you want a beer?"
"We can go out if you're hungry."
This is your opportunity, Mo, she thinks, looking at him. But would it really be any easier? He won't stop looking at her like that, like he's about to eat her alive, and then she would be unnerved in public and probably do something stupid. Eat me alive, she repeats silently. Her face heats up; her eyes widen.
"What?" Lucas asks.
"Nothing. Sit down. I'll be right back." Marlowe goes to the kitchen and hesitates in front of the refrigerator door. She shucks off her shoes, opens the door, and tries to think. She knows enough about Lucas to know that she shouldn't doubt anything she reads from him; in some ways, he's as obvious as the nose on her face. He didn't come over to talk; he came over to stay. "Sex," she murmurs, pulling a beer from the rack. She shuts the door. "Sex."
It's not a bad idea, Marlowe thinks. But . . . She wrinkles her nose, counting off the days since she met him. "Four days," she whispers. She whips around suddenly, worried that he's eavesdropping. But he's sitting on the couch like she asked him to, waiting. "Well, I can just say no," Marlowe mumbles, pushing her shoulders back. "No - that's all I have to say."
She strides barefoot into the living room with his beer and her half finished one in each hand. "Here you go," she says, handing him a beer and sitting down. Her sofa only has two cushions, but she sits as far away from him as she can, even removing a pillow to wedge herself against the arm of the loveseat. Love seat, Marlowe thinks, pursing her lips.
Lucas glances at her.
"Nothing." She takes a tiny sip of her nearly warm beer. "Thanks for coming over."
"Thanks for having me."
Having me, Marlowe repeats silently. Hoochie. That wasn't an innuendo, but she can't pull her mind away from the idea of sex. Marlowe pauses, frowning; she realizes that this isn't Lucas' doing. She's fighting a mental war with herself over her own feelings. He isn't doing anything except drinking his beer and staring at her. Suddenly, just like when she was on the phone, her silence shatters and all of her thoughts spill out in a jumbled flood. Her brain just can't take the self-imposed tension any longer. "I like you, but I'm not sure what to do with you exactly. What is this that we're doing?" she asks, waving her hand back and forth between them.
"We're not doing anything," Lucas says lightly, resting his beer on his thigh.
"And that's okay with you? Just sitting here, not doing anything."
"Yes."
He isn't lying. She studies him carefully, but there is no deception behind his gray eyes.
"Why are you so uncomfortable?" Lucas asks.
"I don't know," Marlowe replies in a shrill voice. She laughs nervously and touches her fingertips to her lips. "I don't know," she repeats in a quiet, somber tone.
"Do you want me to be here?"
"Yes."
Lucas nods. "That's why I'm here - you called. I came." He shrugs and falls silent.
Marlowe settles into a smile as warm and soothing as the sultry summer air filtering in from the window behind them. This is exactly why she likes him, because he doesn't stand on ceremony, because he doesn't evaluate or judge her. He takes her as she is. She scoots over on the sofa, leans in, and kisses him on the cheek. "Thanks," she says softly.
"You're welcome." Lucas' eyes skate over her face and stop on her mouth. He flicks his gaze from her mouth to her eyes and back again. "I want to kiss you," he whispers gruffly.
Marlowe falls silent, breathing, letting loose her desire with each exhalation. It's okay to want him now as it wasn't before when she was adding up the days. He isn't worried about days; he isn't counting them up to take the measure of her womanhood. This then is the power that she saw in him that night in the kitchen at Roderick's house: his freedom also makes her free. She doesn't have to second guess herself. Lucas isn't going to falter; he isn't going to change unexpectedly from one moment to the next.
So she kisses him simply because she wants to, simply because it feels right. He kisses her in return and they go back to the photo booth and then beyond it, to a new and uncharted territory where there are no boundaries and no thoughts. There is only the sensation of skin on skin and taste layered upon taste. There is only his hand drawing her legs onto his lap, and his fingers circling over her knee and then up the long plane of her thigh.
Something sharp and heavy flourishes in the silence. They are pierced by the sameness of their natures; they draw closer, touching each other, recognizing each other in the darkness of need. It is the specific need of one for the other that drives them to a deeper, feral kiss, the kiss of claiming, the kiss of one wild thing mating with another. A storm rises between them, fierce and urgent; they ride out to meet it like pagan deities.
The phone rings in the kitchen, a foreign sound from a distant country. Marlowe pulls away, but Lucas closes in on her, pressing his mouth to hers.
"Don't answer," he orders softly.
Marlowe stares at him, shakes her head dumbly, and shakes off his hold. She rises in a daze and stumbles to the kitchen. She can't get used to the weightlessness of his loving; she isn't ready. She grasps the phone like a drowning woman clutching at a life preserver. "Hello?" she says raspily.
"Help!" Caris cries. "You were supposed to call back. Harris is on the other line right now!"
"Caris," Marlowe says. But the name doesn't mean anything to her. "Caris," she repeats, searching for recognition.
"Marlowe? Are you alright? You sound sick."
"No," Marlowe protests, licking her lips. "I'm fine." But she isn't. She's on the threshold of something monumental, something from which there is no turning back. "I'll call you later, okay?"
Even if she had something else to say, she wouldn't be able to. A thick strong forearm snakes around her waist from behind. Lucas' body weight bears down on her, pressing her belly against the edge of the counter. Marlowe's throat goes dry; she can feel the blistering heat of his naked skin through the thin fabric of her dress.
He doesn't speak. He closes his hand over hers and pulls the phone away from her ear. Then he spins around and backs up against the counter, dragging her against him. Marlowe can hear Caris' voice like a faint rustle of wind; there is a beep and a click when the handset is returned to the charger. And then there is silence.
When the phone rings again moments later, Marlowe is miles away from the thought of answering. Her clothes are being stripped off; they flutter to the floor in front of her. And then it feels as though there are five sets of hands on her, touching her everywhere. But there is only one pair of lips on the back of her neck, and one set of sharp teeth teasing her, threatening to pierce through her skin. Her chest heaves; she prances like a young mare feverish with heat.
He does pierce her then, but not with his teeth; Marlowe's breath hisses through her clenched jaw. One demanding hand closes over her left breast. When his other hand skims over her belly and dives down, she parts for him like the red sea.
Every muscle in her body tenses and tightens. Marlowe grits her teeth. She can't see him or touch him; there is no where for her hands to go but to her face. Her fingertips dig into her cheeks; her palms press against her eyes as though she cannot bear witness to this excess. Indeed, she cannot bear it. There is too much heat, too much depth, too much friction. Her legs tremble violently; she would collapse if she were not anchored to him. "Stop," she almost pleads. "I can't take it."
He doesn't, of course. Words are meaningless to him now; everything he wants to know, he can feel inside of her and taste on her salt slick skin. Lucas shoves his feet beneath hers, steadying her and lifting her higher, trying to give her more.
When more arrives, Marlowe screams like the wild thing she is. The scream explodes from her core, from her essential self, from the place Lucas has invaded, claimed, and occupied.
Lucas grabs her by the hips and quickly turns them, pressing her belly against the counter ledge. One hand dives low again; with her pleasure in his grip, he takes his fill.
Marlowe's head drops to the countertop. She's insane with sensation. Against the cool tile, her heart pounds wildly out of synch with the steady rhythmic pulse that goes on and on and on.
