*Snowbound*

by leigh@nbi.com




They were together.  That was all that mattered.

It was a cold snowy evening.  The thick panes of glass in the cottage
windows showed a land at dusk, ghostly blue, covered in great white
mounds of snow.  His Escort sat outside, hopelessly covered, a thick
coat of ice on the windscreen, the bright red paint showing through
faintly on the leeward side of the car, quickly disappearing in the
swirl of flakes.

The roads had been closed for hours, impassable.  They were alone,
helpless, bound together by the soft, silent snowfall.  The phone lines
were dead, the electricity had been out for hours, perhaps even all day;
but the huge flagstone hearth kept their faces and hands warm, and they
sat beside one another on the old sofa, close together for warmth,
huddling under a thick quilt tucked under their chins.

They had found this place, desperate not to be stranded in the heavy
fall outside.  The door had been unlocked, the larder full;  it was as
if the tiny cottage had been awaiting their arrival.  A jug of wine was
lodged in a drift of snow on the verandah, leaning against a blackened
piece of gaudy summer wicker, left outside by some careless tourist when
the nights had started drawing in.

They sat, jackets unbuttoned and then discarded in the increasing warmth
of the room, their faces lit by the soft light of the fire.  A bowl of
the winter-cooled wine rested by his side;  they had not been able to
find any glasses in the cold kitchen.  They tipped the bowl to their
lips in turn and let the heavy silk of summer flow down the backs of
their throats, cooling it for an instant, then leaving a soft glow.
Their eyes shone into one another's as they silently toasted each the
other, and the tingling anticipation of the long winter's night ahead
took them into its spell.

She held her hands out, palms to the fire;  her rings flashed broken
light from the depths of their stones.  He watched her face, seemingly
serene, and marveled that she remained so calm;  she in turn sat,
wondering how she might approach him here in this place, the two of them
together in what seemed another time, another world.  It was so
different from what she had ever imagined might take place, had she met
him;  there were no cherished scenarios, polled back and forth over a
sea, by which one might be guided.  She thought of the things which had
been said, and wondered if even half of them had been meant, and even if
he had meant them then, could he possibly still mean them now?

He gazed at her profile against the darkness.  The fluff of her hair,
the tiny down stirring on the nape of her neck in the waves of heat from
the fire;  the glitter of a pair of silver earrings dangling, the slight
upturn of her nose, the full lips of which he had thought during many a
sleepless hour;  each thing unto itself was ordinary, perhaps even
plain, but when he saw her like this, eyes glittering with wine and the
firelight, her lips curved in the smile he had come to know without
seeing, then he thought her beautiful, and his heart stirred.

He held his own hands out to warm them, and his left arm brushed her
right slightly, just the faintest touch of skin, the tiny shiver of the
down on his arm being disturbed.  The curve of her lips seemed to
tremble for a moment, but he could not be sure, and he leaned back into
the soft cushion of the old sprung sofa, propping his feet out in front
of him, cursing himself silently for not being able to do what he wished
to do most.

She felt rather than saw his body sigh into the cushion.  He seemed so
relaxed, his long legs straight out in front of him, crossed at the
ankle.  She glanced over at him, admiring the lazy curve of his body,
the outstretch of his arm along the back of the sofa, the firelight
softening his serious face to one of content.  She smiled, and he
returned it.

She leaned back, unable to stop herself, and snuggled into the curve of
his arm.  He seemed reticent to let it touch her at first, as if unsure
of what her closeness might mean.  A gesture of trust, perhaps, and that
was all?  The simple need to be close to another during a long
blizzard-blown night?

The crack of the applewood and oak in the flames was soothing, a
counterpoint to the hiss of the sap as it hit the hot flagstones beneath
the fire.  The scent grew stronger with each sizzle, the room bathed in
warm, sweet fragrance.  They felt wide awake, perhaps awake for the
first time in many years;  and expectant too, and happy.  Each felt his
own heart beat and wondered if the other matched its rhythm.

He smelled the faint trace of oranges and lemons from her morning's
shower as he played with a curl of her hair.  A few strands fell across
her face, and she reached up to brush them away;  as if on impulse his
hand caught hers and held it, raising it to his lips, letting them rest
on the smooth skin of the palm of her hand.  Her hands were soft, and
smelled of French perfume.  He looked down at her.  Her eyes were
closed, her breathing shallow.  He released her hand and her eyes opened
slowly, her brown gaze meeting the dark blue of his own.  Her lips were
slightly parted, and he saw her tongue stir slightly between them,
moistening them, making them shine in the firelight as she awaited the
first feel of his full warm lips on hers.

The hand of chance had pushed them to this place, of this they were
both certain.  Why else would she find herself in this country, in this
city, in this place with him?

They had met for the first time that very afternoon.  She had been
introduced to him - yes, she's here with the American team, won't you
meet the man who's the project leader? - and her hand had trembled in
his as they touched.  Those cobalt eyes she had beheld in her dreams now
looked into her own, startled, wondering.  No one seemed to notice that
she looked remarkably like the photograph on his desk which had appeared
one day, or that the cologne she wore resembled the scented letters
which arrived in the company mail, few but on a regular basis.  Easier
to see how that could have been overlooked than the color which had
flooded their faces at that first meeting of flesh, the waves of anguish
and hope which had reverberated in the scant space between his body and
her own.  It was as if one stood alone in the desert, she thought, and did
not see the sun, if they can look at me and not see him reflected in my
eyes.

They had not noticed the waning light of day, the sun sinking toward the
horizon;  they had not noticed the hands of the clock make their
inexorable rounds.  It was if by ignoring that which they could not
stop, the hand of chance would again be kind to them and lengthen the
day, stop the clock, reverse the sun in its movements.  This was their
first meeting, and probably their last;  there were no reasons, other
than those spoken in longing by their hearts, for there to be another.
To force the dream would be to shatter it.  The explanations and
prevarications to prolong the sweetness would only sour it.  Like all
good things, "we" were about to come to an end, and they would simply be
David and Eliza again.

The glare of the office lights had harshened as the sky darkened
outside.  The lowering sun, already obscured by clouds, threw but a few
weak rays through the windows.  They sat in stillness it seemed, while
around them laughing women with scarves shivered inside of cold-lined
coats;  men pulled on driving gloves to keep the cold wheels of their
cars at bay.  A last, late leave-taker bid them his adieux, and wondered
aloud if they were planning on spending the night in the office, as the
storm was approaching and the snow was falling and time was running out.

At his last words they both looked up in horror, as if a hurtful secret
had been shouted to the world;  but he only gestured to the window,
frosted around the edges, and they both ran to it and pressed their
faces against the icy cold pane, staring out at the world like children.
They saw the tracks of cars, rapidly filling with snow, and the lone
man, gone from them, outside now and trudging through thick drifts of
flakes to his car.

Her rental car would not start, and he offered to drive her home.  He
had seen the bitterness in her face, and he knew it was because home for
her was a faceless hotel across from a faceless mall;  she struggled to
keep her features composed as the wild thought ran through her that
all she wanted was for home to be in his arms.

He had struggled to find something to say to her, that would take the
sting out of chance throwing them together - a long sought dream which
they had never dared hope might come true - only to cruelly keep them
those last few inches apart.  He had watched her plod through the snow
toward his little car, heading for the wrong door, her eyes downcast.
She looked up at him once as he gently redirected her to the passenger
side of the car, and he wondered if it was the biting wind which had put
that look into her eyes.

They drove away from the office park into the ever-increasing snow, and
he tried hard to keep the car steady in the road.  The snow was falling
in a quiet blanket, covering up the world, preparing it for a long
winter sleep.  She had never been quite sure about how to get from one
place to another, even in her own country she was always getting lost,
and now as she gave him directions to her frigid hotel room she became
confused, and they found themselves in a land of white cotton and swan's
feathers, hopelessly lost.  He tried to hide his look of unease as he
murmured something about petrol, and she gripped the armrest of the car
door tightly, torn between fright and an aching thanks to whatever god
had given her a few more moments with him.

He had spied smoke issuing from a stone chimney, and had headed the car
in that direction, hoping, he had said, to find some petrol or at least
a phone.  The reason for this lay unspoken between them, like a naked
sword.  There was a wife nearby and a husband far away, but they carried
each with them now, slung about their necks like stones.

The Escort died gratefully in a curve of the drive to the cottage, and
they had left it to be buried under the blizzard.  Two shallow lines of
tire tracks led away from the cottage, snow almost completely filling
the cut they had made in the wet soil of the yard;  perhaps they were
from the flight of the inhabitants of the cottage, gone but a few hours.

He had knocked on the door, and they waited, shivering, for a face to
appear at the window in the thick wooden door, but to no avail.  On
impulse, he had tried the knob and it had turned easily in his hand, the
door swinging open on its two great iron hinges, showing them the
roaring fire, the low sofa, the bright rag rugs, the candles standing
cold in their pewter sticks.

They had settled there, for there was no where else to go.  The sun was
but a tiny line of pale pink fire on the horizon, and soon that pink
would deepen into dull purple, and then into the cold blue steel of a
moonlit night.  They would never find their way back to civilization in
this land of milk white snow.  Best to stay here, and be warm... and
together.

His arm curving around her shoulders moved in toward her, and she sank
back heavily against him. She could feel the rush of his blood, hear his
heart beat, smell the deep man-smell of him.  She shivered, and he
gathered her in even closer, trying to surround her with his warmth, but
she did not shiver from the cold, but from the heat of being near him.

He shifted slightly, and her body seemed to click into place, encircled
in his arms, face upturned toward his, one hand on his shoulder.  She
looked as if she were about to speak but didn't, and he bent down,
letting his lips touch hers, resting there for what seemed like hours.
His lips against hers were soft, warm;  she opened her lips slowly,
opening his with them, and the rush of his sweet breath sped into her
lungs, and her tongue was in his mouth, and she clutched him tightly.
It was if she had climbed a long and hard trail, expecting to find only
bitter winter at the summit, but instead there lay before her an endless
valley, emerald green under a spring sun, and him waiting for her, a
tiny figure waving in the distance.

His kiss was shy, and she impatient.  Her hand ran from his shoulder
into the thickness of his dark hair, pressing his head downward, closer
to her body which lay in his lap, her seeming submissiveness but a pose.
He could not escape her.  They were snowbound.

The feel of her tongue in his mouth was electrifying.  He caressed hers
hungrily with his own, drinking in the taste of her mouth, the feel of
her lips, afire with the thought of a part of him being inside her.  An
appetizer, a beginning, a first luscious glimpse of delights to come;
he felt a sudden shock as he realized that she considered this but a
starting point.  He had wondered if she thought of a stolen kiss as all
that he might demand, but now, her hands clutching him close, her body
writhing against his, her mouth devouring his kisses, he knew that the
hand of chance had indeed been kind to them, at the entire world's
expense.  He would have her, and the rest of the world be damned.  The
snow outside ceased to be a prison and became a barrier, a barrier
against wives and husbands and ringing phones and inquisitive stares.
No one could stop him.  They were snowbound.

The quilt slipped from the sofa and lay in the floor in soft disarray.
The room was warm, heated by the fragrant fire and the warmth of skin on
skin.  She took his hand and held it to her breast, pressing it there,
willing him to feel the beat of her heart, a heart which beat to the
syllable of his name.  He in turn called her name then, softly, barely a
whisper, lifting her in his arms, burying his face in her hair.

Perhaps the sight of her was the thing which had made her real, at last,
to him;  but she felt it was the sound of his voice, the lilt of his
accent, the caress his mouth gave her name.  She wanted to hear him
repeat it over and over until she was buried in layers of him, his
voice, his face, his softness, his hardness.

She looked at the expression on his face, his eyes glinting in the light
of the fire, and found the softness she sought;  and below, hidden
inside the folds of his clothes the hardness, not the hardness of steel
but the hardness of a lustful, loving man.

She looked into his face, the sight more heady than wine.  The deep blue
of his eyes, like the ocean over which she had come;  the dark silk of
his hair, shining redly from the flames;  the strong planes of his face,
the sensuous curve of his lips, the faintest darkening of beard under
his skin.  All that he had promised, all the long-cherished photograph
had sworn; all touched with a crushing innocence that she drank from
like a Grail.

She rose slowly, her eyes never leaving his face.  They stood, and she
took his hand, leading him away from this fire to find another one, a
smaller, deeper one, which burned for him and him alone.

An old sleigh bed occupied the single bedroom of the cottage, pine
boughs carved into its age-darkened wood.  A small fireplace, mated to
the one in the front room, stood cold.  She shivered in the blue light
which poured through the window and hugged her arms to herself.  He
stood looking at her for a moment, as if considering what was about to
be done, and then turned and left the room.  She went to the window,
looked outside toward the horizon, watching the wind blow over a
landscape transformed by snow and night into a painting.

She heard him return, a flaming branch of wood in his hand.  He set it
to the tinder in the fireplace and sat on his heels, waiting patiently
for the fire to blaze up.  He glanced up at her as she rubbed the cold
flesh on her arms, watching him build the fire which would witness the
first time they made love.

The room leapt from the shadows as the flames caught and held;  the heat
from them made the color rise in his cheeks.  She wanted so much to go
to him, to take him in her arms, but she stood by the window, wondering
if this was something which he was doing for her, and not for the both
of them.  She turned back to the cold panes and looked out at the night.

The moon.  Snow falling thickly.  Rabbit tracks leading away from the
withered kitchen garden.  Branches of a tree in perfect chiaroscuro.  A
small whisper - the sound of her name.

She turned.  He stood there, looking at her from the shadows across his
face, his hands thrust into his pockets.  The room glowed orange and
red, light reflecting from the antique mirror hanging over the head of
the bed.  She walked over to it and put her hand to the quilt which
served as a spread, her fingers tracing the design, the cloth soft as
butter.  Her eyes followed her fingers' movements, up one side of a
square, down the other, drawn to the next and the next in hypnotic
rhythm.  For a moment she wished that she could remain this way, in
stasis, her fingers always tracing the stitch of a square of cloth;  and
then she felt him behind her, and his arms encircled her waist, and his
breath was hot upon her neck as he kissed it.

"Dave."  She whispered.

His hands moved under her suit jacket and pressed against her breasts.
She caught her breath and let her head fall back against his chest, her
hands covering his own.

Her name again, buzzed like a secret into her ear.  If she had felt she
had wanted him before, it was nothing compared to now;  the feeling
inside of her was a sweet ache, one she would do anything to assuage,
would do anything to prolong.  She turned to face him and pressed her
body against his.  They kissed, every movement the ghost of a stroke
inside of her.  She shrugged the jacket from her shoulders.

He stood, looking down at her slightly, watching as she unbuttoned the
placket of his shirt.  His skin was fair, with a thin fan of dark hair
across his chest.  She kissed each part as it was revealed, her mouth
delighting in the slightly salty skin, the feel of his heart beating so
close to her.  His hands went to her shoulders as she pulled at his
belt, freeing the buckle, letting it fall open.  She rested her forehead
on his chest as she looked downward, her breath shallow at the thought
of seeing him naked before her.  A button, a clasp, the slide of a
zipper downward...  she pulled his shirt free, and he slipped it from
his shoulders, letting it fall.  She closed her eyes for a moment, not
daring to take in the full sight of him so soon.

His hands went to her belt first, wide with a silver buckle.  It came
off easily in his hand, and he lay it gently over the foot of the sleigh
bed.  He found the button and the zipper at her hip, and her modest
skirt slithered to the floor and lay in a pool at her feet.  She blushed
under his gaze, the thought of him seeing the frothy lace underthings
which she wore making the heat rise in her face, the bows and satin and
ribbons, garters clasping white stockings, as if she were a virgin
bride.  He untied the silk scarf around her neck, and her demure blouse
opened to reveal breasts under lace covering, and he trembled inwardly
at the thought of his naked touch upon them.

She turned back the covers on the bed and sat on the edge, sliding the
tabs of her garters from their tight homes, rolling the stockings down
her legs as he made himself naked for her.  He disappeared from her line
of sight for a moment as he walked to the other side of the bed, but she
felt the intensity of him, never diminished.  A movement, a rustle, and
she felt his hands pulling her into the bed with him, pulling her close.
She lay down beside him, still in ribbons and lace, slipping under the
covers to join him, feeling the heat of his body against hers.  The
bedclothes were carelessly pulled up over his body, and lay enticingly
across the slight curve of his hip;  she could see the fan of hair on
his chest narrow to a soft line leading downward, over his stomach and
abdomen, leading into the warm shadows hidden by a fold of quilt.

He stroked the smooth skin of her shoulders, looking into her eyes.  She
seemed so innocent, so desperately in need of rescue, although he knew
that was far from the case.  Her lips had formed the names of other men
- many men, perhaps.  He trailed a finger down her breastbone, between
her breasts, watching the rise and fall of her breathing.  Her nipples
were hard, but not with cold;  they showed rose under the white lace of
her brassiere.  He kissed them through the cloth, reveling in the warmth
of her skin, the fragrance of her body.  He slipped a hand behind her,
unclasped the two tiny hooks there;  pulling the straps from her arms,
he let the few trifles of lace fall to the floor and gathered up her
breasts in his hands, their softness capped by tiny points of hard
flesh.  He rubbed a nipple against his palm, his sex responding to its
feel;  the touch of his lips on her breast made his heart leap, and the
blood pound through him even harder, and he pressed her close as if he
wanted to devour her whole.

Her hands roamed his body, feeling the muscles quiver under his warm
skin.  Her hand moved between their bodies, her fingers circling over
the soft down on his stomach and around his navel, smiling as he laughed
at her tickling touches.  Her hand felt the triangle below his navel
pointing beneath the covers, and she hid her face in his neck and
whispered her question, and he groaned and moved her hand downward with
his own.

He gasped, his whole body tightening as her hand found its goal, and she
took the length of his sex into her hand, blazing hot against her palm.
A stab of sweet pain went through her, her heart beating rapidly, the
blood rushing deep within.   How many nights had she dreamed of this,
the first irrevocable moment, and now her dream - and him - lay within
her grasp.

His warmth over her, her softness under him;  hands grasping tightly,
roaming freely, holding still;  she shifted and his arm linked through
hers, sought the clasp above the cleft of her buttocks, and her lace and
ribbon garters fell away from her body, naked now but for the tiny wisp
of silk covering the folds of secret flesh.  She lifted herself and he
pulled the last covering from her body, sliding the tiny straps gently
over the swell of her hips and down her smooth legs.  Her entire body
seemed to blush in the firelight.

He put his hand gently to the mound of her sex, and her back arched,
presenting it to him, her eyes closing, her arms reaching out for him.
He kissed her, his fingers slipping between other sweet lips, seeking
her center.  She moaned as he found it, sucking on his tongue, her hand
wrapped around his erection, stroking it, smoothing the foreskin back to
leave him exposed and pulsing in her hand.

"'Liza..." he breathed into her ear, almost a question.  She spread her
legs wide, pulling him over her.

He knelt between her parted thighs, his sex in his hand;  he held it to
her opening, the tip barely touching her glistening folds.  He could
feel her body's heat welling up around him, and her musky scent filled
his nostrils;  his eyes closed as he pushed into her swollen flesh, her
legs locking around him, a soft cry escaping her.

She looked up at him, from where his hand obscured their bodies joining,
his chest rising up above her, his eyes downcast, watching his own flesh
slip into hers effortlessly.  She drew in her breath as he took his hand
away, and he slid forward, burying himself completely inside of her,
filling her, drawing her lips wide.  One hand stroked her flesh as he
steadied himself against her with the other, and she rocked her hips in
rhythm with his, never wanting one inch of him to escape her, to feel
him inside of her forever.  Each stroke brought a breathy cry of joy
from her;  he caressed her sex as he made love to her, feeling her
tighten as she came nearer and nearer to climax, her flesh clasping on
his.

He pulled her legs smoothly over his shoulders and she held her arms out
wide, her breasts pulled tight on her chest, her back arched, her head
pushed into the pillow.  She called out to him over and over, begging
him without words, the pulse of her tightness around him punctuating her
cries.

He gritted his teeth, his eyes tightly closed, willing himself to see
her face as it had been but a few hours before, the eyes turned on him
adoringly;  the feel of her body brushing against his as they walked
through the snow to his car;  her face in the firelight, her blushes as
he drank in the sight of her nakedness, the sound of his name on her
lips.

He opened his eyes to see her gaze upon him, her eyes dilated, her face
flushed, her teeth biting her lower lip.  He leaned forward and her legs
slipped from his shoulders;  his body lay fully over her, his hands
gripping her arms, his mouth covering hers;  she seemed to whimper as he
thrust hard into her.

His body rubbing against hers, his skin hot against hers, his sex
thrusting inside of her, all made her body vibrate like a crystal that
had been struck;  she tore her mouth away from his and buried her face
in his neck, nipping it with her teeth, making him moan and his body
jerk over her.

"Come in me."  She whispered raggedly against his skin.  "Come in me,
Dave... oh please, come in me."  She held her breath as she felt herself
being lifted to some kind of crest, and remained there for long seconds,
her hands shaking as she lifted them to the sides of his face, looking
into his eyes, and then she convulsed around him, curling up toward him
like a plant toward the sun, her sex throbbing, pulling on his distended
flesh, maddeningly tight and wet, her juices flowing out from around him
as he thrust into her.  He pulled himself up on his knees, his arms
locked out straight on either side of her, shoving himself into her
wildly, making her scream with pleasure.

She felt him swell inside of her, saw his face in the grimace of love;
he gave a roar of release, his orgasm streaming inside of her in
copious floods.  His arms trembled;  she wrapped her legs around his
waist, her muscles playing over the length of him, drawing his climax
out until he groaned to her in unbearable ecstasy.

She let her legs fall from around him and held him close to her, kissing
the sweat from his brow.  After a time she felt his flesh slip from her
confines, and he lay beside her, drawing her into his arms, kissing her
deep and long, stroking her hair back from her forehead.

"Oh, Dave," she said, her voice low and throaty, "I lo-"

"Shhh."  He said, putting his finger to her lips.

They lay together in close embrace, sometimes sleeping, sometimes not;
while outside the the lazy fall of snow went on, not knowing, not
caring.