ON A WARM AUGUST NIGHT IN THE 1950S, in a little apartment off the seine, blanche selivanova had slept with a woman for the first time. the impressions remain visceral and immediate to her, even now. how delicate the hands that had framed the brutalist sharp edges of her face had been; how the scent of almond, vanilla, and iris -- the perfume inés had worn through the day, working in the library -- still lingered on slender wrists when she brushed cool lips against her skin with a practiced restraint; how inés had had a self-assured command, her hand sliding up blanche’s thigh with equal measures of grace & demand; how silver moonlight bleeding through in luscious, slanted ribbons through the blinds in the windows carried then, and under kind touch, a certain comforting warmth akin to her then distant memory of sunlight.
it had blossomed within the blush-stained, sweetened pit of her heart an earnest yearning as she had never felt before, not with aleksei, not with any other man before him -- a certain feeling of solitude that she had not realized had been rotting away within her, in that moment, sated.
that same yearning, that same comforting warmth keens in her, here & now. and when her hands softly frame yvonne’s features & beckons her closer; an affirmation, an offering of the un-beating confines of her ribcage as a hearth, a shelter, a temporary reprieve -- they move together, as if two halves of a whole, with a carefully intent immediacy. where yvonne sinks into her frame, blanche holds fast; pliant & sinking into the heels of her feet. where yvonne sighs, blanche breathes her in. where she speaks so plainly of her desires; her voice seeps warmly into aching bones. a tension that holds taut in the confines of her ribs unravels.
“ i’m here. i’m yours. ” the words spill from part lips in a flushed sigh against the husk of her ear. fingers curl in the thick of her hair. eyes flutter shut when she feels yvonne’s breath against her collar, a dull ache reverbrating in her, borne of a frustration that no words suffice for this feeling, this longing; this affirmation that they are here, now, together. fingertips trace down the valley between her shoulder blades, press herself closer, still. “ be selfish with me tonight, ivonna. please. ”
CONTINUED. / @morvante
