The Beginning

Ch. 47 - The rain

She awoke to the patter of heavy drops on the window intermixed with crackles. She scans the room in front of her, full of bleary objects hard to differentiate in the void of light until she turns her head to see a glow emitted from the fireplace.

Was that lit when we...fell asleep? She can't recall.

The arm chair in the corner is rearranged to face the tall windows, streaks of rain streaming down in sheets. Keanu sits there, feet propped upon the window sill, his head resting on one hand. The table next to him has a cluster of lit candles, the flicker is a sharp contrast to the dark, foggy sky surrounding Paris.

She sits up in bed, forgetting for a moment she's still undressed. Memories of what happened between them last night flood her, leaving her awash with vulnerability. She quickly shifts the soft, Egyptian cotton sheet under her arms as a tingle sweeps up her back, neck and across her chest.

Seemingly hypnotized by the water pouring from the still black sky, he is utterly still.

No longer feeling timid, her vision narrows to a pinprick, studying the faraway look on his face. She has seen this expression on him before, a hint of sadness hiding behind those smoldering eyes. It sparks this acute need inside her to find out what is going on.

What is he hiding from? What is he suppressing?

She wraps the sheet tight around her like a towel and tiptoes toward him. As she nears, she notices tiny goosebumps on his bare chest, shoulders and arms. She longs to run her fingers over his skin, to warm him, but instead she strokes his hair to announce her presence.

"What are you doing over here?" she asks, outlining his ear with two fingers. "It's the middle of the night."

She may well have been wearing a cloak of invisibility, having no effect on his blank stare. In his lap she sees a worn, leather journal.

"Whatcha reading?" she asks, reaching for the book, when his hand comes tumbling down on top of hers.

"Don't."

Startled, she peers into his eyes. There it is again: something dark, something quiet, unsaid.

He blinks a few times, as though he'd just come out of a trance and realized where he is at, or, more importantly, who he is with. A sense of calm replaces his look of trepidation. He sets the journal aside and turns her hand over in his lap, drawing his finger down the faded white line in her palm.

The back of her hand now lying on the soft cotton of his Calvins, she tenses, fighting a giggle from the tickle in her palm. As his finger traces the remnants of her scar, she can't help but notice the hem of his black boxer briefs are pushed up in his seated position, baring most of his upper thigh. She tries not to squirm as she recalls the feeling of the light curls on his thigh tickling against the smooth skin of her own.

Gritting her teeth, she pulls her attention back to the present. "What are you, a spy? S'that top secret?"

With prolonged, deep eye contact, his fingers dance from her palm up the sensitive underside of her arm, to her elbow. The prickles on her skin match his, now, and he smiles, watching her try not to flinch. His hand moves to her waist, covered by the wrinkled sheet.

She squeals as he pulls her down like a handful of feathers, into his lap.

"I hope I didn't wake you," he murmurs unconvincingly, dragging the back of his finger across her collarbone. He doesn't seem bothered by her being awake at all.

"Hmmm, and what if I tell you you did?" she teases, her eyes darting back to the table. "Is that a book or a journal?"

"Does it matter?" he skirts the question, fingers playing with the corner of the sheet tucked in near her arm. His eyes caress her with longing, invisible fingers, and suddenly she's forgotten her question. He tugs the corner of the sheet until it comes undone, running the palm of his hand up and down across her skin.