The Lover's Children

Chapter 80 – Solstice – Part 13

GEORGIE

Is he ever going to make love to me?

This beautiful man, Borje, who took me in his arms and kissed me like no man has kissed me before.

The Prince of some dream or fairy-tale.

He strolls beside me, casual, elegant. So handsome. And he smiles.

He smiles for me.

When he looks at me, his face lightens, his lips curve and the smile softens his eyes.

But still, he barely touches me.

Why?

Does he really want me? Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

Or not?

That kiss, that one, precious kiss, convinced me. Left me spinning, breathless and with no doubts.

And yet, since then, there has been no more than a touch of his fingers on mine, or a light brush of his

lips over my cheek.

*****

“Borje, am I doing something wrong?”

His forehead furrows. “I don’t think so. Why would you ask?”

“I thought perhaps I had offended you in some way?”

His head swings, his silver hair ruffling a little. “No.” He turns to face me. “What’s bothering you,

Georgie?”

“I… want you to touch me. To make love to me.”

His head tilts, something warm behind his eyes. “I would prefer to make love with you.”

Heat washes up my cheeks. “I’d like that too,” I whisper.

He looks down. Looks up. Meets me full in the face. Smiles again. Traces fingertips along the line of

my chin. “Tonight then.”

*****

I've never said the words before.

But I want to say them to you.

I love you.

I want to say it.

To give you the words.

My words

I love you…

I’m in love with you…

But the words freeze on my lips.

Your smile is so soft.

So warm.

You touch my cheek.

Brush your lips over mine.

I love you.

*****

We dine in Borje’s apartment. A pleasant enough environment. A simple meal. Pasta and salad. Wine.

Eaten under the gleam of a single candle on the table. Music, some light jazz I don’t recognise, drifts

from a speaker set in a corner of the room.

And I can’t think of a single thing to say.

Borje too, it seems to me, chooses not to speak. Instead, his gaze holds mine for long seconds before I

drop my eyes to my plate, only to find, as I raise them once more, that he still watches me.

Eventually, he speaks. “Why are you so nervous, Georgie?”

Am I nervous?

How had I not noticed?

My mouth is dry, the food resisting as I try to swallow. And my heart pounds. Behind my ears, the blood

rushes and throbs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You haven’t been rude. But you are anxious. Would you like to tell me why?”

“Are we… Are we going to make love this evening?”

His mouth curves. “I hope so. Certainly, that was my intention. But if it worries you, we don’t have to.

Not if you don’t want to.”

The words whisper between my lips. “I do want to.”

“Good.” The curve of his lips grows. His eyes crease. “Here, drink some more wine.” He tops up my

glass, slides it back to me. “Relax.” Taking my hand in his, he rubs his thumb over my fingers. “I want

this to be good for both of us.”

Borje lifts his wine to his lips, and somehow, in a kind of sympathetic magic, I find myself doing the

same.

The wine, deep red, gleaming with reflected highlights from the candles, is smooth and mellow, heady

with fumes, heating my throat like dragon’s blood. The tension in my chest drains and breathing grows

easier.

“That’s better,” he murmurs. “A little more.” Again, he works his sorcerer’s craft, sipping his wine, and I

follow.

He cants his head, as though assessing me, seeming to reach some conclusion. Fine lines at the

corner of his eyes spread and tighten. Rising, glass in one hand, he takes the bottle in the other, using

it to gesture to a doorway. “Bring your wine.”

Some of the tightness returns and the air is somehow thicker. At the doorway, I hesitate.

“It’s my bedroom,” he says. “You don’t have to go in if you don’t want to.”

“I do want to.”

Pushing the door wide, he moves back to allow me to step through.

Inside, he’s taken some trouble. The curtains are drawn, billowing a little, releasing the tang of cool

fresh air. Candles gleam and flicker to either side of a large bed. In their pale gold light, shadows dance

and play, while bronzed highlights billow and flow over the cream counterpane, gleaming bright from

the domed bells of an alarm clock.

“A little cool, I think.” Borje reaches back behind a curtain, and the clip of a window catch snaps past

my ear. Hovering at a wall control, he turns a thermostat up a little. Then, turning back to me, he rests

hands on my hips. “So, Georgie. Together at last.”

He stoops, brushing his lips over mine, and as I lean into the kiss, his mouth opens. Sweeping his arms

around, he draws me in as he deepens the kiss. The pounding behind my ears is a counterpoint to the

fizzing of my blood, the hammering in my chest.

After a moment, he draws back, brow creasing. “Is that your heartbeat I can hear?”

“Um, yes. Sorry.”

With a grimace and a slight shake of the head, he says, “You do want to do this, Georgie? I would

never force you. Or require it of you. We would still be friends.”

Something like panic wells inside me. “I don’t want to be just friends with you. I want…” And the words

won’t come out.

Fingers tilt up my chin. “What do you want, Georgie. Tell me. Why are you so… unsettled? You’re a

grown woman. A beautiful woman. I can’t believe you’re inexperienced with men.”

Then it spills, tumbling out. A torrent of emotion. Uncontrolled. Unthinking. “I want you. I want all of you.

I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. And I always screw it up. Always. I couldn’t bear it if I…

If I… If I screwed this up.” And the words finally break free. “I’m in love with you.”

His eyes widen. “Never any half measures with you, are there,” he chuckles.

Abashed, confused now, I drop my face, but those fingers prise it up again. “It’s alright, Georgie. If it

helps, I feel the same way about you.”

“You do?”

“I do.” He holds… Hesitates. “I love you too.” I breathe. A sharp in-drawing of air as I hear the words

I’ve hoped for. Then, slowly, I release the air again. And Borje continues… “Georgie, I’m in love with

you.” He pauses again, then frowns. “Nothing to say? I hope that’s good news for you?”

“Yes. Oh, God, yes!”

He glances away, then back, chuckling self-depreciatingly. “And, if it helps, I’m nervous too.”

“You are? Really?”

“Really.” He takes my hand, squeezing, then raising the fingers to his mouth, softly kisses them.

“Georgie, look at it from my point of view. We both truly want this. I’ve taken my time with you because I

didn’t want to push you. But for a woman who is nervous on a first time with a man, if push comes to

shove, all she has to do is lie back and count the cracks in the ceiling…” Gentle humour creases his

eyes… “If I’m nervous enough, and I can’t… perform… what would you think of me?”

“It wouldn’t matter. It happens sometimes to every man. I’d understand.”

“It would matter to me. What can I give you if not myself?”

“Are you so nervous?”

He stares up at the ceiling. “No… Now that we’re here, together, I don’t think so. I truly don’t think so.”

He leans in, kisses my forehead. “In fact, I chose tonight, a Friday, to be sure that neither of us need

get up early tomorrow.”

He draws me in, passing his lips over mine. His kiss deepens, jaws wide, giving me the taste of him,

the scent of him… and as his hold on me tightens, the strength of him. One hand clasps me at the

waist, but the other works upward, fingers kneading into spine and ribs, before slipping up to splay into

my pinned and pinioned hair.

“Too beautiful to be bound,” he murmurs.

He draws back, eyes like glaciers, fixed on mine, thawed to Spring’s waters. Eyes of a grey so pale as

to seem silver. Burnished. Like metal or pearl. His hair like silver, spun to threads. My Silver Metal

Lover.

He trips from one hair pin to another, drawing out combs and slides, then tangling through, finger-

combs my long locks until my wild hair tumbles free. His fingers snarl in, knotting tight, gripping me,

steering my face to meet his. He nuzzles in, kissing into my neck. "Georgie," he murmurs. "My beautiful

Georgie."

His mouth opens over my skin, hot and wet. He nibbles and plucks. Tiny bites. Pinpricks of pain that

skitter down my spine to dance into my pussy.

He's shuddering. Almost gasping. Through his chest, pressed against me, it’s his heart that hammers

now, resonating with my own.

One hand slicks down, flowing through my hair, then skims around to lie over a breast.

Abruptly, he pulls away, takes my chin between thumb and forefinger, squaring my face to his. He's

flushed, his eyes wild, pupils wide and black. “You want this Georgie? You really want this? You want

me?”