Diversification #12
She’s taking it with difficulty, letting out little sounds of frustration as she tries to rock herself against him.
He glances down, catching the motion of her breasts with the rhythm of their bodies together.
Bracing himself over her, Aleksandr hitches her leg higher, pressing her knee to her own shoulder.
Surprised, she groans at the shift in pressure and depth—at the spread of need, him and her again, the way she feels, the way she feels—
A sob that she hadn’t realized was building crests, and fuck, is she crying?
Crying, at the pain of him inside of her, at the pain of him with her—because it feels like he’s ruining her body; ruining
it for anyone who might ever hope to come after him, that she’s experiencing something here she won’t ever reach with anyone
else—that he’d break her and build her back, again and again, as many times as she asked, and that means something, it means something; because how many other people could do this? How many other people would she ever trust to do this?
She doesn’t want to examine the texture of that feeling, what built up between them when she wasn’t looking, what she thought
was only physical: just the ability to give him her body and know he’ll push harder than she wants but with exactly what she
needs, roughness, a brutality that makes her fucking let go—stripped of this belligerent, exhausting tension, the constant
sense of always waiting for the other shoe to drop—let him push her, and let him catch her.
She didn’t realize—she didn’t realize that was trust.
Trust, in the way he makes her feel pleasure in the arches of her feet, the curl of her toes, the strain of her back, the
heat of her hips, orgasm brewing at the base of her spine—but beyond that, in the way he makes her feel happy; the way he makes her feel healthy, safe, steady, wanted, like she belongs—
Tears start to slip into her hair. She looks away, then. Unable to see it, to look at him, unable to face it, to be this—head straining to the side: the Twombly, the dark loft—
But a hand grabs her throat. “What do you want, Lili?” he asks, strained near breathless with the rhythm of fucking her. And
Jesus, how he’s watching her—when she can’t look away; when she can only take in how immediate, and intense, and full that
stare goes, watching her cry like it’s beautiful to him.
Another sob cracks in her throat, under his grip. Tension tightens in his gaze. The heat, the thickness of him inside of her: a sensation so extraordinarily far beyond the physical, like he lives in her. In her chest, she feels the sense of something she wants only from him.
“This,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, trying to hold him close enough that her whispers barely exist,
that what she’s saying lasts only for this moment, between them, “this—you—all I—you’re all I want—”
He inhales, sharp. Disbelief is clear in his eyes, but then, so fucking fast: determination, intent.
“You have me,” he exhales, resting his forehead against hers as he keeps fucking her, mind-spiral of brutal and gentle. “You
have me—fuck, Lili, you have all of me—” And God, she wants that—she wants that so badly, wants him to be hers, wants to know that he’ll never leave. “I’ll
take care of you,” he murmurs, close to a groan. “I will—I promise you.”
But she shakes her head, under his hold on her throat. “You can’t,” she chokes out, tight with desperation, threadbare with
need—frantic, a last protest from her, even as dark things start to bloom in her body, even as she longs to just let go, to
believe him, to believe him—
His grip tightens on her throat. She sees his frown, as if he’s trying to understand, like he sees that there’s a storm brewing
inside of her, beyond sex, and beyond pleasure and pain.
“Trust me,” he insists, low.
“No,” she protests, shaking her head. “No, no—”
The stutter—the failure—of her breath, as his grip tightens further, hard enough to bruise. Remnants of him that she could
keep.
“I’ll take care of you,” he repeats, a murmur against her lips, groan of tension like he’s proving something to her; like
he won’t let go until she believes it. “I’ll always fucking take care of you—you’re mine, Lili, you’re fucking mine—”
Oh, to have things spoken aloud that should stay silent, and to not have the heart to silence them.
In his hair, Lili’s hands tighten, and before she can think further, she kisses him. She feels the hint of his wince, her
nails against his scalp, but he instantly meets her fierceness, leans in more, with her tears against his face, in this hot,
open kiss so heated it makes her ribs seize, the hardness around her heart faltering for just a moment.
“I am,” she gasps, mouth open on moans, sobs in her throat: desperate, urgent. As if she can will this to be true, can will it to last. “I am, I am—I’m yours—”
Her words, it’s like they both break him and build him—looking into his eyes, as she tries to capture his breath in her body,
she sees something collapsing, something growing, things she shouldn’t let herself glimpse: this way he looks at her, clear
even through pleasure, like what she’s said means something to him, means everything to him—
And there’s more, there’s so much fucking more she wants to say. So many more mornings she wants to have with him, nights
she wants to fall asleep beside him, with his arms around her, so many more times she wants to feel the rise of his groans
in her body, this man who makes her laugh and smile, infuriates and angers her, makes her gasp and moan—and it hurts, how
close she’s holding him, so tight it must hurt him, too: catch of her nails in his hair, but he does not pull away, and he
does not flinch, and she does not want to come down—the ground waiting for her is unforgiving, the impact of that fall growing
graver with each moment she spends under the safety of his skin—but she grasps onto him, her body only his, breath in his
mouth, a little longer.
When his grip around her throat tightens, pushing the last of her air away, the give of her hips under him, Lili’s eyes flutter
closed—and she knows he’s leaving marks anyone will be able to see, but he kisses her like she’s everything to him, and she
lets him, because she wants that, for just a bit longer, just a bit longer—for everyone to see, for everyone to know that this existed, that this lived, between them, the bruise of this summer—
When he comes, hot inside of her, a groan—and oh, the shape of her name—heavy against her skin, she doesn’t realize that she’s
coming, too, that she’s already gasping, moans in the dark, because her chest is shaking so hard, because her vision has blurred
with tears, because she’s holding him so tightly she can’t feel anything but the looming loss of him.
The blue of night is hushed.
Blinking blearily, Lili glances at her phone, charging on the nightstand.
2:03 a.m.
She slips out of his bed.
The loft is quiet. Just the soft pad of her feet down the hall, late-night Tribeca traffic low outside the tall windows. The muted close of the kitchen cupboard, after she stands on tiptoe to get a glass; the run of the sink faucet, as she fills it. The slow pattern of her own breath, sleepy.
She runs her hand along the wall, walking back down the hall. His study door is half ajar.
In a haze between asleep and awake, she settles back into bed, leaning against the headboard. She drinks her water slowly.
Beside her, Aleksandr sleeps. His breath is distant and steady. Sometime during the night, he’d turned away from her, towards
the window.
Exhausted from his early morning flight back from the West Coast, he’d fallen asleep fast. He’d tried to hide how tired he
was, stifling a yawn while he checked his email one last time; as they’d gotten into bed, she half-heartedly teased him that
the time difference was supposed to be in his favor. He’d grinned, soft with fatigue, and drew her closer under the sheets;
his hair was still wet from the shower together, where she had shut her eyes under the hot water, his arms around her, and
let herself stand where she was for a moment.
Are you alright? he murmured at the dining table, afterwards. The soothing run of his palms against her arms slowly brought her back into
herself.
Yes, she’d whispered, resting her tear-streaked face against his shoulder. Still shaking, a little. I just—I just missed you.
His lips pressed warm against her hair, a hand on her back.
Me too, Lili.
Left hand, bare ring finger—
God, to be scared of quiet things: the sound of his breath, the weight of his gaze. Patient, quiet, strong things. Things
she wants to last, things she wants to call her own.
Looking at him now, it aches in her chest: the heart stretch of wanting, the risk of hope.
It’s insidious, the unease—of this becoming something that can be taken away from her. Once fully thought, she can’t unthink
it. It’s there, heavy with consequences.
Some noxious twist, once seeded, unable to burn away.
Toxic, and she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe—
Lili’s inhale catches, shallow. Like even the air isn’t safe anymore. Like any movement she makes will make it clearer, and clearer.
I didn’t see myself marrying her.
Growing up, it was foundational to her: the understanding—uncomplicated, but irrefutable—that any momentary interest in her
wouldn’t last. That anything good would end, that the people she loves will leave; that profit is only a measure of future
loss. That the sooner she could accelerate the interest, expedite it, burn it out, the faster she could grit her teeth—shut
her eyes, hold her breath—and move past the agonizing experience of it, the inevitable loss, the crack that could collapse
her chest, the fear that never drains from her stomach, the easier it might become: to accept that there is nothing valuable
enough about her. That there is no one who would want to hear her voice for the rest of their life.
Conceptually, she knows her friends love her, care for her.
That even Jane and Robert had affection for her.