Ecstasy then is what Marlowe feels, not because the moment is perfect, but because it is so rich, so pure, so saturated. The fear of falling almost kept her from this. And it is now, after the fall, that she knows what this moment is worth. Even if after this long years of regret march through her mind like a line of soldiers, still she will say that it was worthwhile.
For her, there is no distinction between the fierceness before and the tenderness now, between the time in the kitchen and now when she is straddled over Lucas' strong thighs as though she has knelt down to prayer. He is sitting on one of her overstuffed bed pillows, his legs bent beneath her, his arms around her. Her arms are around his neck, her fingers tangled in his hair. A kiss hovers between their lips like a ring of smoke; when it dissipates, they kiss again and then pull back to admire their creation. Sometimes they smile at each other; sometimes they simply stare. Sometimes her breath catches when he pulls her closer and she can feel him deeper inside where he is stroking her like a bow slowly dragging over a violin. The fine string of tension in her body vibrates with pleasure, but she doesn't break. Lucas is a disciplined musician; he's playing her very carefully.
He delights in the way her breath stammers, the way her eyelids flutter like butterfly wings. Her lips part on soundless words that he can't hear but that he easily understands. This is Lucas' native tongue - the poetry of the body. What is spoken in touch cannot be misconstrued; what is written in skin cannot be erased or denied. Everything worth remembering leaves a tactile memory, a smell, a sensation, a scar - he knows this from experience. A life lived in thought is a half life, a dream life, a fable that can be re-written at any moment.
This is real, Lucas thinks as he watches her. This is permanent. He smiles when she shifts uneasily in his lap; she's needful now, ready. He stills her surging hips with his strong hands; softly, he kisses onto her lips a promise that stops her from pouting. "Lie back." Marlowe unfolds her legs and begins to rise when Lucas' arm circles around her waist and tightens. He holds their connection while he slowly lowers her onto the bed.
He gives her everything that he couldn't in their previous position; he gives her everything he's got. Every time she looks at him, he kisses her. Every time she surges, he meets her. He moves his arm beneath her, lifting her, giving her more. This is what he wants her to know: there is so much more to him, if she wants it. When finally he breaks her, she thoroughly shudders; her very bones shake. Lucas rides her through it; he rides them both to total release.
Marlowe wakes Thursday morning with a start, jerking out of the tight ball she usually sleeps in on the right edge of her bed. She glances at the clock like she usually does; it's eight o'clock. She throws back the covers, yawns. It is a moment before reality assails her, before she turns to find Lucas lying on his back on the left side of her bed, as still and quiet as a corpse. She blinks, nearly chokes, clears her throat. And then a smile takes over her mouth, a deep overwhelming smile that follows her all the way to the kitchen.
Coffee is waiting for her; her coffeemaker is set on a timer. The first sip is a little bitter, a little stale, but she barely notices. She's grinning so hard that her jaw aches. She rubs one hand over her unwashed face, presses her palm to her mouth, and chuckles. "Woo," she sighs, stamping her foot on the floor. She chuckles again and then laughs outright. "Good gracious alive," she chortles. She turns to the refrigerator, vaguely aware of the need for food, but when she opens the door she can't pull her thoughts together. Suddenly, Marlowe kicks up one of her heels and then steps back with a flourish. "Yeah, yeah, yeah," she sings, swinging the refrigerator door like the arm of an imaginary partner and dancing about. "Oh, oh, oh yeah! I got it. I did it. Go Mo! Go Mo! Go, go, go Mo!"
She's giddy with joy. The lover in Lucas is a man of untold sensual intelligence; she was shocked speechless over and over again by the things that he did to her last night. It was his extravagance that shocked her, his sense of purpose, his downright unabashed sexuality. "Nasty," Marlowe comments, snapping her fingers. She starts singing again, borrowing Tamara's phrase. "Lucas got the goods! Lucas got the goods!" She laughs like a girl.
"I didn't see it coming," Marlowe murmurs, shaking her head and sighing. And that is the secret of Lucas Klein: there is so much below the surface that can't be told. He is as deep and silent as the ocean, teeming with secrets that a woman can only experience by diving right in. Marlowe frowns slightly, thinking about how different it would have been if she'd gone out to dinner like she had planned, if she hadn't called.
"Good morning."
Marlowe's spine prickles at the sound of his voice; she turns around. Lucas is standing in the threshold of her kitchen, sleepy-eyed and naked. "Good morning," she replies. She can't keep herself from laughing. She leans her hip against the refrigerator door, looking him over, snickering. "Did you sleep well?"
"Yes. You?"
"Terrific," she says, blushing.
"I'm sorry," Lucas says, flicking his glance downward. "I can't find my clothes."
"Those clothes?" Marlowe says, pointing at his neatly folded pants and shirt on the counter. She'd picked up her dress and folded it as well, but her underwear is balled up in the pocket of her bathrobe.
Lucas grins, moving into the kitchen.
Marlowe cuts him off before he can reach the counter. She squares up in front of him and folds her arms over her chest. "I think this is a good look for you," she says dryly, mocking him. "Don't change on my account."
He smiles, flashing his dimples. There is a fine layer of stubble over his jaw; his sleepy gray eyes are very sleepy, very sultry. "You're holding my clothes hostage?"
"Why? You have someplace you need to go?"
"Back to bed," he murmurs. "We can both wear clothes, or we can both go back to bed. Your decision."
His tone is the same as always, quiet and even. But he's different. His eyes are brighter; his mouth is fuller, softer around the edges. His hand covers her hand on the tile countertop, his fingertip tracing ticklish letters on her skin. His name, Marlowe realizes. L-U-C-A-S. Lucas.
"You have a lot of experience with women, huh?" Marlowe asks.
"Some."
"Have you ever been married?"
"No."
"Almost married?"
"No."
"How many serious relationships have you been in?"
"Serious," Lucas repeats, considering. "None."
Marlowe's brow shoots up. "So you've had a lot of women, then. Not just some; a lot."
"No," Lucas says. "I pay attention."
He does. He had his perceptive spotlight on her all night last night. Marlowe purses her lips. "You're always like that, then? That's what you're telling me?"
Lucas blinks. "Like what?"
She studies him for a long time. He really doesn't understand that sex isn't usually like that, not just the first time, but hardly ever. Marlowe's jaw drops. "Good gracious alive," she whispers.
"What?"
"Nothing." She clears her throat. "Let's eat. I'm starving."
Marlowe spends the rest of the day adjusting to the unfiltered Lucas Klein. He doesn't say anymore than he did before, not in words anyway. But he touches her all the time, with his hands, with his mouth, with his eyes. She turned from the sink after washing the breakfast dishes and there he was, staring at her. He kissed her and then said, "I'm going to hit the shower."
They do ordinary things. They watch TV, The Price Is Right, among other things. They make turkey burgers and French fries for lunch. In the cool of the afternoon, they go for a walk over the Key Bridge and buy sno-cones from a vendor on the banks of the Potomac River. Underneath it all, there is a subtext of affection that constantly catches Marlowe off guard. Every time he grabs her hand, every time he leans in to whisper against her earlobe or kiss her cheek, questions circle her mind like a flock of vultures awaiting a fatal misstep. She's happy but she's frightened by this happiness. Something unexpected is bound to happen; in her experience, something always does.
The sun is setting when they return to her apartment. She slips her key in the lock, pushes the door open, and steps in.
Lucas doesn't follow her. He grasps her elbow, pulling her back. "I have to go," he says quietly.
"Uh . . . oh," Marlowe stammers. She looks back toward the apartment, thinking that he should get his things. He didn't bring anything, she says silently. She purses her lips. Little things like that throw her off.
"What are you doing next weekend?" Lucas asks.
"Nothing."
"Then I'll see you next weekend." He grabs her by the belt loops of her jeans and pulls her hips against his. Then he kisses her like there is a bed behind them that they are about to fall onto. Marlowe's breath is ragged and wispy when finally he releases her. "Goodbye."
"Bye." She watches him walk down the hall and out of sight. And then she retreats into her apartment and closes the door, frowning.
