Sometimes she pushed his limits.
Just a bit.
It was seldom that she actually did this. Only once in a blue moon because time with him was coveted and could be hard to come by. But sometimes, she pushed his limits. Because she had seen what it had done to him when it had been an honest accident, when she hadn’t planned it at all. Unpredictable outside forces just… happened to step in front of her path and delay her. And she had seen what that had done to him.
Naturally, her first and foremost instinct was to reassure and comfort. She was fine. She hadn’t been in any danger. Look, she was in one perfect piece right before his own eyes! No cuts, no scrapes, no blemishes, nothing! Everything was in place. Nothing had changed. He could–and should–stop biting at his nails now. He shouldn’t be doing that anyway.
But to deny the existence of that little sprout of delight that had popped up that very first time she’d seen him react in such a way, it would, of course, be a lie. She kept it to herself. Her own little treasure. She hadn’t told him about that secret little treasure. He wouldn’t like that. He’d think she was always doing it on purpose instead of only once in a blue moon because she wanted to drive him insane.
And that simply wasn’t true. She didn’t want to drive him insane. Well, not in that particular way anyway. It actually bothered her quite a bit to see him agitated. She liked to see him happy, she liked to see him relaxed, and she liked to see him calm. His emotions were contagious. Whenever he was around her, his mood often slowly seeped into her like the light spring rain through her blouse. If he was restless, it made her restless. If he was frustrated, it made her frustrated. If he was irritated, it made her irritated.
She tried not to become soaked in his emotions. Because she knew he didn’t like that either. She was supposed to be the counterbalance, the neutralizer. Even if she wasn’t always successful on her first or second or even her third try, she knew she would be eventually. He knew she would be eventually.
But it was hard to suck those emotions out of him and not end up absorbing some of them in the process. Sometimes she’d put so much effort into completely curing him of his stress that once he’d settled down and later sought her out on his own, he’d find her lying in a tangled mess of her own nerves. And that confused him because she’d been so accommodating and patient towards him that whole time; and he knew he couldn’t possibly have done anything to cause it because he hadn’t been doing anything to her.
He was always at a loss. But that was all right. Because once he’d returned–fully returned, body and mind–and he was talking to her in that soft voice again and absentmindedly playing with her fingers, her nerves began detangling all on their own. She didn’t need to say anything. What good would it do? She didn’t want to anyway. It was simply a part of her job. A job that she did with enthusiasm and pride. A job no one else could do nearly, nearly as well because no one else loved him as much as she did. No one else loved him. Maybe they thought they did but they didn’t know him, so loving him?
It was impossible.
But for her. It was possible; it was achievable; it was the only certainty she knew.
He was never at a loss concerning that. He knew that part very well. He exceedingly depended and relied upon it. And sometimes, it was just a bit nice to see a physical demonstration, a reminder, of how much this was true.
Today hadn’t been on purpose, though. It had been one of those honest accidents. Fate stepping in and screwing up her plans. Delaying her. But what was she to have done? Abandoned the little fawn to orphanhood? Out of the question.
He touched her a lot after these incidents, as if he were confirming that she was still real, still solid, that he still could touch her. Assuring himself she wasn’t simply a lingering mirage that would shatter once he got too close. Assuring himself she wasn’t a ghost and that his fingers wouldn’t sink right through a body made of smoke and memories. Assuring himself that the rhythm to his peace was still beating.
Sometimes he was quite talkative. Sometimes he hardly said a word. It never fell near the midpoint between these two extremes. It was one or the other and she had yet to decipher a pattern. At this point, she was still unsure of what the factor was that determined his need for conversation.
All she knew was that he liked to touch her.
“Adi?” she said, her head lying against his chest as it rose and fell with his breathing. Even through the fabric of his shirt, she could hear his heart beating in her left ear and feel his pulse in her cheek. One of the sweetest and most calming noises she’d ever known; one of the most reassuring and comforting feelings she’d ever known. His heartbeat had become somewhat of a lullaby over the last few years, particularly since he’d renovated the house with her in mind and moved her in. “May I ask you a question?”
The large cushions hadn’t been removed from her bed yet, affording them the ability to still use it as a spacious sofa. They were sitting up. Her legs were lying arched perpendicular over his and she was leaning against him, the left side of her body flush with his chest, abdomen and right hip. His right hand was lazily twirling the hair at the base of her neck in little loops around his index finger, and his left kept toying with her right: slipping his fingers between hers, massaging the inside of her wrist with his thumb, bringing her palm up to his lips.
“That depends,” he said softly.
She looked up at him, her body turning into him a bit. “On what?”
“On whether or not I want to answer, of course,” he said, giving her a saccharine smile, his eyes exceptionally effusive. It made her a little breathless, feeling as though he were attempting to suffocate her beneath the weight of his affection. But she was always more than willing to let him suck the breath right out of her lungs and fill her chest with himself.
“How can you know if you want to answer unless I ask the question, though?”
“Ask your question.”
“Not that I don’t love it,” she said from beneath her lashes, casually releasing the top button of his shirt with her left hand. “But you touch me so much on days I–for whatever reason–have been delayed. Why is that?”
His expression stiffened by the smallest fraction. If every little detail of his countenance hadn’t already been scarred into her mind, she would’ve missed it. He was silent for a moment, his eyes revealing clearly the deliberation currently fogging his mind. Then, he brought her fingers up before his eyes, studying them. “Every so often, I truly wonder about you, Evi.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, her fingers still fiddling with his shirt.
He turned her hand over, studying the other side, his focus becoming more distant. Seeing something in her skin that she couldn’t. “I wonder: how much does she really see with those pretty blue eyes of hers…?”
Her brows pulled together. She looked to her hand, saw nothing. Her fingers were manicured perfectly. No cuts, no scrapes to her smooth, creamy skin. It was unchanged, the same fair hand he’d known for years. She rolled her eyes. “This is simply your ridiculously long and complicated way of saying,”–and she pitched her voice as low as she could, her face going dramatically stern–“‘No, Eva, I won’t answer your question.’”
He stopped turning her hand, his grip on her fingers tightening. His gaze slid back to hers. He was trying to appear unamused at her less than spectacular impression but she could see the glimmers through the trivial facade. “I am offering you an answer. You’re simply not listening.”
She tilted her chin down, her expression setting in firm. “No, I am listening. You’re being vague, that’s what’s happening.”
He threw her sentiment back at her. “Have you any idea,” he started, and stopped. He glanced up at the ceiling as if the words he was looking for were written in the patterns up there. But whatever he was searching for he didn’t find because he gave a terse sigh, then looked back to her. “Have you any idea of your importance to me?” he asked, his words tenderly cradled in his breath.
Her heart was twittering. “Of course,” she said delicately, shrugging. Her fingers were still being squeezed snugly together in his hand. It was warm and she liked the feeling.
“Then this should require no explanation from myself,” he said, gesturing to their current entanglement. He faintly shook his head, and stared straight ahead. “Don’t ask why I touch you. You know why.”
He sounded… offended. An unexpected reaction.
She reluctantly removed her fingers from his grasp to wrap her arms tight around his neck, and nuzzled her head in beneath his chin. She turned her body even further into him, and she felt him bury his face into her hair. Then his hands had moved to her cheeks, lifting her face towards his. His mouth met hers violently, and he started kissing her with a distressing, fearsome urgency she so rarely experienced in his arms.
His fingers roughly slipped up behind her ears and into her hair, nails scraping so divinely across her skin. She could hear the sharp rasping against the strands of her hair. His fingers securely twisted themselves into her sunny daffodil locks, aiding in solidly fixing her mouth to his whether she would’ve liked it or not. But it was without any defiance, any opposition from her that he hastily thrust his tongue between her lips, possessing her mouth as she easily, effortlessly, willingly surrendered herself further into his embrace. He directed, she followed. The only type of dance he would gladly and enthusiastically participate in. And he certainly expected her to follow his lead.
He began to move her up off of him; but she found it increasingly difficult to follow the motions of his body with his tongue in her mouth, coloring her mind with dizzying spells that turned her into little more than a zombie risen for pleasure. Exercising over her body and her consciousness that balanced on a tightrope a type of deadly sorcery only he was capable of. A magician with no boundaries and no rules and a steady gaze on her; and as with an open palm of powdery glitz that he blew across her eyes, she would be shaking and trembling and then falling into his heady, shadowed world hypnotized by glitter.
He lived with impossible failure and used it on her incessantly.
She was on her back, held to the mattress by the heated weight of his body. His mouth was moving along her jaw, whispering something deep into her dampening skin she couldn’t quite grasp. His fingers were still in her hair, his grip painfully rigid and tight, an exhaustively acute sensation jumping across her scalp like galvanized sparks. Making her wet. Making her ache. Making her feel empty.
He pulled harder at her hair, yanking her head farther back. His lips were at her ear. And she finally understood his words. Rather, specifically the single word that had taken ownership over his desperate, frenzied, heated breath: “Eva.”
So the world fell out from beneath her, from above her, from beside her, from all around her. And they were alone in the whole of existence in an purposeless, opiatic drifting. Adam and Eve; except the authors had gotten it incorrect. It surely was Adolf and Eva, wasn’t it. The Bible had confused the names, a muddled translation. They were the ones sleeping beneath the tree. They were the ones kissing in the flowers of the Garden. They were the ones making love in Eden.
But they were smarter than the Bible’s interpretation. Like the names, the story was wrong. They wouldn’t be hurled into such a ghastly demise. She wouldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t make any wrong steps–no serpents and no fruit in this tale. Nothing, not a single thing would ever be stolen from them. He would undoubtedly ensure that. Eden would remain golden forever; and it would glimmer like it never had before once he’d finally and permanently collapsed into the safety and the comfort of her arms. Eden would remain forever.
Her fingers sought out and quickly located the buttons to his trousers as he tenderly tugged on her earlobe with his teeth. Her fingers had worked purely on auto-pilot as she groaned from the sensation of his nipping teeth, her hips wiggling back and forth beneath his body, seeking friction. Her fingers firmly pressed against his skin, slipping through his public hair and finally seizing his hot, throbbing cock.
But he put his hand over her wrist. “Wait a moment, Evchen,” he whispered thinly; and hesitantly, unenthusiastically withdrew her hand from her trousers.
She looked to him, curiosity and interest soaking her gaze. However, he didn’t answer her expression. Typical. When did he ever the answer the questions she most wanted him to answer?
Instead, he moved lower, eager fingers anxiously pushing up her silken nightgown until the narrowly laced hem rested just beneath her breasts. His hands fiercely clutched her just beneath the ribs as he diligently and laboriously painted her skin in sugary, wet kisses–a strange, oddly titillating contrast in sensations. He was utterly and plainly besotted and captivated by the very skin that was prickling beneath his attentions. And she was far beyond astounded as she watched him behave so distraughtly obsessed with her body.
His mouth moved all the way down to the edge of her panties, and he carefully followed the perimeter from one hip to the other as he alternated between kissing and nipping at her skin. He started traveling up her body again, his fingers forcing her nightgown up to her neck this time, baring her breasts to him. His breathing was so heavy, so fast, so dynamic, a part of her couldn’t help but worry; couldn’t help but fret over what thoughts were breeding within that beautiful mind of his. But his eyes were startling resplendent, maintaining an invisible, spiritual strength over her body she couldn’t and didn’t want to move out from beneath.
His mouth completely covered her right nipple, his teeth working it in the same teasingly gentle way he had her earlobe. Her eyes rolled and closed as she groaned, all remnants of unease and concern melting away, directly into his mouth. His deft fingers went to her left nipple, expertly manipulating it in a separate but indisputably equally effective way: delicately pulling, delivering a sweet friction as he kneaded it between his confident, shrewd fingertips.
He’d alternated. Multiple times. Back and forth until she was squirming with need, with desire, with pure, unadulterated agony. Begging through incoherent noises, unable to form a single word much less a sentence. Finally, she was forced through an ascendant, flowering need to thrust her hand down into his trousers again and she cried out in tormented relief when he refused to stop her.
Masterfully, artfully, narcotically his lips were directing hers again as she finally released his erection from its confinement. His fingers were immediately inside the waistband of her satin panties, tugging at them with a desperation that was so wild and vicious the fabric chafed heatedly, splendidly against her skin. Glossy material slipped between his fingertips with the thought of how both the garment and more importantly the soft, smooth skin within it belonged to him. Rightfully so. Everything within this room belonged to him.
He only managed to wrench them half-way down her calves before his insistent hands forced her knees to part, and he hastily positioned himself right at the entrance to her sex.
He was unable to help himself. She was too luscious. She was too libidinous. She was too wet. And it was unreasonable, irrational, illogical, foolish… but he’d come too close to losing her. He always came too close to losing her. The grips of suffocation and dizziness, the abrasive taste of iron clinging to his tongue, the sounds of the world stuck in cotton. Ahead an unattractive, grey picture to walk through: speaking to the shadows, hoping for responses, hoping for her words; wishing sleeping alone wasn’t an option; wishing all his roads hadn’t lead to her because all he’d been left with were dead ends; wondering where he’d gone wrong in choosing so right.
Reality, in fact, prescribed a truth far from the one that had clung to his skin like an unshakeable, choking disease. But malevolent phantoms, his body and his mind loudly hissed in his ear the opposite. His body and his mind told him he was correct in the miserable, tormenting reality he always let thread his heart. That unshakeable disease was unshakeable for good reason.
Before his eyes had only been her corpse. Skin periwinkle blue. Snow creeping up. Snow building up. Snow covering up. And then she was gone, lying among naked, apathetic, unsympathetic trees. He’d never find her. The forest didn’t care. It didn’t care that she was his and his alone, that he wasn’t nor would he ever be willing to share her.
He was far too selfish for that. Far too greedy for that. From start to finish she’d hold his mark only. Rightfully, rightfully so.
So with his gaze wed to hers, he thrust fully into her, his hips meeting hers, surrendering his entire length to her in a single, solid motion. And her nails stabbed into his skin just on the inside of his shoulder blades, an action dyed with a somatic nostalgia. She started to excitedly drive her hips up against him but he instantly placed a sturdy hand upon them, driving them down onto the mattress, fixing them beneath an unyielding palm. His mouth at her ear again, and he shakily murmured with slowly crumbling self-control, “Don’t move.”
He kissed her ear. “Don’t move.”
Her neck. “Don’t move.”
Her jaw. “Don’t move.”
Her cheeks. “Don’t move.”
Her eyelids. “Don’t move.”
Her forehead. “Don’t move.”
Her nose. “Don’t move.”
Her chin. “Don’t move.”
Her lips. “Don’t move.”
He moved firmly against her lips until they were sore and raw, stopping only intermittently to whisper into her mouth ardently, “Don’t move.” His fingers on her hip were set, rigid and sturdy. His nails were biting into her skin, tenaciously depressing tiny crescent like shapes into her supple flesh. His hips were absolutely still as he plastered her with an irresistible influence of kisses.
Then out of nowhere, a new, toxic mantra; crystal, hypnotic notes plucked directly from the air with a devil-may-care touch. With his hand still achingly tangled in her hair, pressing his lips flush back to her ear, he breathed feverishly those three precious words that never hesitated to set her on fire.
Her body arched up hard, setting snug against his. Her vagina clenched severely around his penis, stealing ownership only to strangle him. And what sounded like a shredded, agonized whimper pierced the general stillness holding the two of them. But his hips remained still while his lips continued to move against her ear. Whispering the words she loved to hear so, so much, and the words he suddenly wanted to say over and over, everywhere, all over her skin. No part of her should remain untouched. Every inch of her skin should hear and intimately know the feeling and the shape of his words. He wanted to see the phrase painted poetically in watercolor across her body, see it run across her skin until she was covered in a staining, blossoming rainbow. She would always exhibit what he was sometimes too gun-shy to confess out loud.
Brilliant, blinding hues of, “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”
Hips immobile. Pinning her to the bed. Fingers tightly fixed in her hair. His cock sheathed within her. Nuzzling her ear as he gasped words made of sparkling honesty. Knowing she was alive, knowing she was all right, knowing she was unchanged, knowing she was still here. Knowing his person was still here. Knowing he wasn’t alone.
Not in the sense that the men lunging at the slightest opportunity to hold him in conversation or the women begging to take him between the sheets had suddenly vanished. No. That wasn’t the real him and he knew it. She knew it. And she loved him all the more because of it. She loved a man no one else knew. Her ears had become a sanctuary to words he encased as nonexistent secrets everywhere and anywhere else. Her eyes had bore witness to movements and emotions he expertly kept hidden up his sleeves everywhere and anywhere else. Her body was covered in a rich intimacy others could only theorize about everywhere and anywhere else.
He aggressively sealed her mouth with his. Shamelessly stole the breath from between her lips. Adored the taste of her and her sweetness on his tongue. And completely filled her lungs instead with a supernaturally possessing sigh of, “I love you.”
And he felt her brutally constrict and quiver around his cock, frantically trying to pull him farther into her body. She vigorously whined and panted against his lips, forcing her own breath back at him and into his mouth. A strange, erotic duel over territory and control to be fought with hot respiration and silken-wet tongues. Forcing her own love back into his lungs.
Fingers in his hair she buried her face into his neck, whispering her permanent presence against his skin. She gripped his hips as hard she could with her knees and held him against her as tight she could, breathing “I’m here.”
Many times he had murmured nightmares out of her in the middle of the night. And she recognized when it was her turn to step up and offer him the same service. As his lover, as his companion, as his wife in every way, it was simply another part of her job. And one she did with enthusiasm. With devotion. With determination. Her own nightmares gorged themselves on his demons, especially when they were homemade. Of his own making. And she’d fight until the haunted look far in his eyes that he tried to mask after these incidents was exorcised.
With some difficulty due to their closeness, she quickly released the rest of the buttons to his shirt. Her hands moved over his shoulders, his chest, his ribs, his abdomen, any place she could reach. Reassuring alongside her words with her touch she was his, she was here, she was real. A silent reminder that she would always be here to touch him and to remind him, even when he didn’t need to be reminded. She would remind him every day anyway, no matter what he said. No matter what lines about, don’t worry, lovely girl, I’m okay, really, he attempted to blind her with.
Such silly words. Such silly notions. Such silly ideas coming from the greatest man. Sometimes for all his intelligence, he acted such a little fool. He should know by now no words could ever calm her love. Perhaps he did, and he simply said them anyway. It still made him some sort of fool, though, didn’t it. Maybe even more so.
Such silly ideas. Sometimes they ran amuck in his silly head when he was home and these things happened. But instead of getting endlessly frustrated over every order to stop the going out unchaperoned, then to stop the ice-skating, then to stop the skiing, then to stop the “reckless traveling” without his permission, to stop to stop to stop to stop… she had learned to see beyond such orders. It wasn’t so much about her as it was about his need for her. His need to banish the fears that plagued him when he was gone and he sometimes had little idea what she was up to or where she was.
He wanted her to have a life when he was away. But he wanted her without fail to be here when he returned home more; and he wanted to have the peace of mind in knowing with certainty she would be here before he even arrived. And that sometimes meant acting in ways that boxed her in.
Sometimes–always during these times–she could hear the words that were lying on the tip of his tongue. His next order: stop leaving the Berghof. But total rationality hadn’t abandoned him just yet. He hadn’t demanded that box just yet. Those words hadn’t left his tongue just yet. And she hoped they wouldn’t because it would simply be another thing she’d have to do behind his back to make time hurry on as she awaited his return.
However, in the end, she knew he would eventually do as he truly believed best. No matter her own lines of, don’t worry, darling, I’m okay, really. They always fell on ears deafened by worry.
But … did that mean she was then acting the little fool in the way he did when he tried to control her love?
The fixed tempo of his heart tapped fast against her fingertips. And she murmured warm, honey-thick entreaties into his ear. Entreaties for him to make love to her, promising it would soothe the bristling, piercing terrors that had him so fevered with unease. Placing words of, “Kiss me, Adolf. Touch me. Make love to me. Do everything, everything you need to me,” softly across his lips as her fingers swept across his cheeks.
“Everything,” he breathed, hips shifting against her, setting to fuck her. He moved to look into her eyes. “Everything, huh?”
“Everything,” she whined back, her own hips begging wantonly.
“And if I confine you to this house?” he said, voice strained, as he slowly, steadily, started to thrust in and out of her.
“Take my keys,” she said, hips following the lead of his own.
“Lock you in this room?”
“Call me Rapunzel.”
“Bar these windows?”
“Build your castle walls so high I can’t miss them.”
“Steal you from everyone?”
“From everyone and everything.”
“And adorn you with chains?”
“I’ll die happy,” she cried faintly.
“You’ll surrender everything,” he said.
“And take your everything.”
© 2017 Elizabeth Klarke
Yes, I enjoy writing about them making sweet, sugary, diabetic love too. I suddenly realized I’d never actually written him saying “I love you,” in all my eighteen stories and thought, well that definitely needs to be remedied.
Every single instance of him going crazy over trivial things happening to her gives me a Goddamn heart attack. They are going to kill me.