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The intimacy in Mr Wooster and I’s newfound relationship very quickly became the aspect which I cherished most. It was not so much the intimate acts themselves, although I had no complaints as far as they were concerned. In fact, they rather exceeded expectations. However, it was the twilight moments afterwards that I cradled, and pressed between the leaves of my heart.
Laying my head on his trembling stomach. His pianist’s fingers curling into my hair, shakily petting and smoothing. The sweat cooling on our skin, and the shift of fresh bedsheets against bare legs as I made my way back up the rumpled bed. The muffled litany of life echoing from the street below – distant automobile horns and shouting – desperate attempts to pierce our bubble, always trying but never quite succeeding.
The lamps turned on low, their light caressing the tips of his tousled brown hair and setting them ablaze like a halo of spun gold. The pliancy of his arms as I sink into his open embrace, his tender hands running down my bare back, our faces tucked into each other’s necks. Every night, hiding myself in the underside of Mr Wooster’s jaw. I hoped that if we laid there long enough, we would get to remain like that, forever: I could disappear inside of him, and he could disappear inside of me, and we would disappear into each other until nobody would be able to tell where he ended and I began.
In the mornings, the room becomes sun-rinsed, revealing anew, to my love-drunk eyes, the four walls which allow us to touch, to kiss, to love. I slowly grow aware of our tangled legs, ankles hooked round each other, with our hands interwoven and lying between us. Then comes the drowsy murmur of my name as he just almost swims to the surface of consciousness, before he resumes his nightly business of dribbling onto my chest. His deep slumber always provides me with ample time to revisit our previous evenings in my mind, polishing this series of domestic scenes until they shine as bright as pearls in my memory. Often, the sight of our bodies together under the covers, creating one clothed form, almost fools me into thinking my desires have been granted.
He eventually stirs. He yawns sleepily into my neck; I stroke my thumb into the sweeping dip of his spine and appreciate him. How he glows with lazy satisfaction beside me, stretching his slender body like a cat and how he smiles so openly at me while he does so.
I have never before been granted so much. Never have I experienced such feelings as the ones which overwhelm me as I lie with Mr Wooster, wrapped up safely in our mutual devotion. I did not know it was possible to experience bliss so pure while simply lying in the arms of another person. Such complete and utter bliss as to satisfy me for the rest of my life, so much so that I can scarcely believe that I get to keep it.