#sonnet 155

At some point, he had moved both hands to her shoulders and was pushing his leather jacket off of her, letting it land on the floor while backing her into the small living room, only stopping when they came up against her sofa. Roz had both palms pressed to the muscular wall of his chest, loving how firm his pecs were, imaging that all of him was exactly that fit, becoming desirous of discovering it for herself by kissing every inch of his long, lean torso. And limbs. And neck. Suddenly, to kiss his neck became vitally important, so that she began to pluck at his scarf.

“Whoa,” he pulled out of their kiss, chuckling softly, “Patience, love...I promise we’ll get there soon enough.” Those amazing, almond shaped eyes were mirthful, and yet she could still see the lust that had landed them here.

“Sorry,” she stammered, her cheeks aflame with want and need, “It’s just that...that it’s been forever since...anything, or...anyone...made me feel this good.” He pursed his beautiful, plump lips in what appeared to be true understanding. “You’ve already made me break so many of the rules I set for myself.”

The Poet blinked slowly and exhaled a long breath, while tugging his scarf away. “We don’t have to rush, fair Rosalind--I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours for however long you’ll have me.” He settled his hands on her shoulders, looking deeply into her eyes, “And just so you know--this isn’t a common occurrence for me, either. You are sweeping me off my feet.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek, “With your softness...” Then kissed the other, “With your warmth, and how you understand my language...” He trailed his lips along her jawline, making her whimper softly, “With how deliciously you give way beneath my mouth and at my touch. Makes me greedy for every part of you. To break all your rules, with no regrets...”

“No regrets,” she repeated, smiling up at him, twining the fingers of one hand into his curls...

[excerpt is from unpublished Chapter Four]

She closed her eyes as he reached for her face, then held her steady as he brushed light kisses to her forehead, eyes, and cheeks. Lingering between each long enough to make her think the next kiss would surely land on her mouth. A gentle tease, but tease enough to make her pursue his lips, until she captured them with her own, tasting his wee smile before deepening the kiss. Rosalind was suddenly remembering there was a time when boys had craved her kisses; carefree days when she was just learning the way, and such kisses could go on and on with no other motive but to be in the moment. She hummed at the fond recollection, but even more for the rediscovery of that simple pleasure. And with wanting to move this beautiful man with the same sort of sweet and hungry kisses alone.

When she finally relented from her gentle onslaught, tugging his plump lower lip between hers before letting go, she opened her eyes to measure her effect upon him. His mouth hung open as he exhaled, and then transformed into a slight, lopsided smile. Speechless he remained a little more, and Rosalind felt quite pleased; but when he spoke at last, she melted like the dew beneath a summer sunrise. “Oh, Rosalind fair…sweet rose of the night,” he breathed, eyes still closed as he spun his enchantment upon her, “With your ambrosia lips, making every kiss a heart-quake*…” Though his voice was smooth, she heard a breathlessness that equaled how she’d been feeling since this adventure began. He slowly blinked his eyes open and studied her face with a look of true wonder, softly asking, “Where were we headed to, love?”

And her eyes were drawn back again and again to his own, their light crystal clarity and striking shape unlike any she had seen in a man before.  Extraordinarily expressive, they reflected his easy humor, honesty, and intelligence, and were surprisingly mercurial in hue, ranging from the palest blue of an early spring sky to a deeper, more intense blue with the play of light, with tinges of green and flecks of gold coloring his irises—all as though Nature had chosen to mimic the colors of some glorious nebulae in his eyes.  Rosalind felt they could aptly pull her into an unintentional orbit, from which she’d have no desire to escape.

The pub had quieted as their discussion continued, the crowd thinning out as the hour neared 1:00am, but still the Poet held her rapt.  They’d finished the bottle—with Benedict signaling for a fresh round without even a break in their conversation--and Rosalind felt the pleasantest, most relaxed buzz she had felt in ages, so that she had to try her best to keep from slurring her words and looking foolish.  He obviously had a higher tolerance for the stuff, though he became quite indulgent, giving her his warmest smiles while daring to stroke his fingertips on the bare skin of her arm.  Quite naturally the gap between them had lessened, and somehow his face was mere inches from hers, while his voice had slipped intimately low and persuasive.  Fuzzy-minded she may have been, but Roz was well aware that his focus repeatedly returned to her lips—especially when he whet his own and smiled at her beguilingly.

“I’ve always been fascinated by the power of words…,” he’d been telling her, when she asked what had drawn him to becoming a poet, “…the written word…and the spoken word…”

“I know.  Me too…I’ve…I’ve felt that too,” she interjected, eagerly taking up his thoughts, uncannily similar to her own on the topic, “Fascinated…and enamored…by the potency of the images such words can create…”

“Yes,” he whispered at first, his voice rising huskily as he continued, “You do get it…I thought you might understand.  From the way you listened.  And the way you looked as…as I recited.  Not just The Invitation, but all of it."  He seemed to hold his breath a moment, then added--almost shyly, "My own poetry included.”

Tongue-tied and made self-conscious by his acute perception, Rosalind gave a little shrug, and bowed her head, finally murmuring, “That’s why my friends brought me here tonight.  They know my weak spot.”

“How very fortunate for me,” he mused sincerely, the honey of his baritone thrumming a pleasant thrill in her chest, “Well, I should have thanked them, love.”  Benedict lifted her nearest hand, to twine his fingers through hers, “You really are a rare treat…fair Rosalind.”

This time she felt no objection toward that sweet endearment, daring to meet his eyes again, silently reveling in the warmth of his touch.  She had noted that he had the slightest but most adorable lisp now that the alcohol had loosened his tongue and she found her eyes blatantly lingering on his tempting mouth, admiring the enticing shape and the visible texture of his lips—and suddenly wishing he would just kiss her already.  Wishing for the courage to shamelessly close the space between them and taste what was so tantalizingly close.

His eyes widened, as though again her thoughts were obvious to him; his pupils were large, rimmed with wondrous color, and Rosalind would later swear that she read his intentions in their compelling depths moments before he spoke. “The sunlight claps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the seas,” he recited--literally for her hearing alone—while allowing his lips to ghost past her cheek, leaving them to hover a whisper from her ear.  “What are all these kissings worth, if thou woulds’t not kiss me?”.

“That’s…that’s Shelley…isn’t it…” she asked quietly, barely finishing her thought, overwhelmed by how intimately close he had become.

“Yes, love,” he answered, sounding amused, whether by her unexpected question or by her growing vulnerability in response to each advance, “Exactly so.”  The silken caress of his voice raised the fine hairs on Rosalind’s neck and sent a delightful shiver along her spine, the warmth of his breath upon her skin dissolving any shred of decorum she would normally muster.  She closed her eyes, every sense attuned to the small space where they connected, waiting, wanting, needing whatever he intended for her.  Knowing that in moments he would brush his lips on the cup of her ear—softly gasping when he did so.  “Is this alright?” Benedict rumbled, and the only answer Roz could manage was a quiet moan as she softly nodded her head.

That was consent enough, it seemed; he splayed one strong hand on her upper back while slowing trailing the fingertips of his other hand on the back of her hand, and then along her arm from her wrist to her elbow, and back again.  The warmth the whiskey had spread through her veins paled compared to the heat kindled by his patient touch.  And then—inevitably--he began to tease his tender, plump lips on the side of her neck, soon humming appreciatively, murmuring against her skin, “Christ…you smell…mmmmm…delicious…”

“Yes…I suppose I do…” she murmured back, pleased by his note of surprise, and well aware that her ‘perfume’ was only the scent imbued in her skin by her workday. “But am I savory…or am I sweet,” she asked, finally feeling some share of control over what was blooming between them.

Benedict sighed hard, “Ahhhhh…sweet…so very, very sweet….”  He nuzzled just below her ear, inhaling deeply, “Such sweet temptation, dear Rosalind—that how am I to resist wanting to sample all of your flavors?”

“Please…oh, please,” she barely whispered--though in her mind she was begging full-voiced for him to follow the natural course of things between them, “Won’t you please…just…kiss me…nowwwww…”  Roz tilted her head back, panting, ready, praying that he would not disappoint her, offering her lips to him with fervent anticipation

His initial kiss was soft, warm, electric—a taste of more to come, a confirmation of desire.  Rosalind fluttered open her eyes when he withdrew, breathless for him to continue, and dazzled to be fixed in his avid gaze.  Though he paused only briefly, his smile in those few seconds was full of wicked promise, and she felt like it took forever until his lips met hers again—though it proved well worth the wait.

First kisses possess a magic all their own, testing if attraction holds true, plumbing the quality and truth of chemistry, be it between two strangers or those who’ve been acquainted for some time.  After years of couplehood, Rosalind had forgotten how marvelous they could be, and her heart surged with wonder as this beautiful stranger overwhelmed her with tender insistence, patient for her to follow his lead.  Benedict laid one hand against her cheek, stroking along her cheekbone with his thumb and tracing small circles with his fingertips upon the side of her neck, and moved in for a second kiss.  His perfect lips felt like some long-awaited benediction on her own kiss-starved lips; like a blessed recompense for all the lonely nights she’d spent cloistered in her flat grieving lost love.  But most of all like they’d been waiting to discover hers and it was simply delicious fate now that she should surrender to them.  To him.  Roz heard herself moan, heard a deep sound of satisfaction rise from him, and then she was opening her mouth beneath his, tasting the whiskey they had shared, tinged with spearmint and cigarette smoke, so that she dared to finally touch him as he teased the tip of his tongue along the inside of her lips.

His skin was warm and firm as she smoothed her right hand against his face, a little rough where stubble shadowed along his jawline; Rosalind threaded the fingers of her left hand into his mess of thick, silky curls, and he rewarded her with a sensuous growl into her mouth.  The thrust of his whiskey flavored tongue against hers was slow, inexorable, irresistible, while the spark of his touch made her ache for his hands to grow bolder, erasing any care for propriety she might have in so public a place, while awakening needs she had buried deep through months of miserable solitude.

He kissed her timelessly, holding her face in his hands as she melted for him, and when he finally paused and pulled away he left her panting for more.  Benedict stroked her chin while tracing her open lips with his thumb.  “You have witchcraft in your lips,” he told her softly, borrowing from Shakespeare once again, “For there is more eloquence in them than in any words that I might muster.”  Once more that devilish smile graced his lush lips, and he urged her on, “Sweet wench, and fair, come kiss me again.”

Thus flattered and emboldened, Rosalind eagerly gave back in divine measure her own whiskey fueled kisses, enticing from him a deep-throated groan as she sucked on his full bottom lip, and then drew his tongue back into her mouth.  Benedict wandered a hand down and cupped her breast, rubbing his thumb against her tightened nipple, making her whimper and further deepen their kisses until they had to finally break apart just to catch their breath.  He leaned his forehead against hers, caught up in the heat building between them; having invaded her every sense, he told her inevitably, “We should take this someplace more private, don’t you think?”

Up close this way, the power of his voice was irresistible; the rich, dark chocolate of it become an invitation to bedroom fantasies of untold hedonistic pleasures, playing out on silken sheets; of being so caught up in a lover’s caresses that one would gladly forget all things except the taste and the touch of him, and every exquisite moment of exploration on the way to voluptuous consummation.  Rosalind hadn’t the strength or the will to decline.  She nodded, relieved that he had asked, astonished to think he wanted her—her promise to Moira to behave sensibly completely forgotten.  “Yes,” she whispered as he dipped his face to paint her throat with hot, moist kisses, gasping hard when he brazenly flexed his palm and fingers upon her breast, “Whatever…whatever you say, Benedict…whatever you…whatever you want…”  Surrendering to his will this way seemed the easiest, least complicated choice she had made in her life...  

Sweet mistress, what your name is else I know not, Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine; Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not Than our earth’s wonder, more than earth divine. Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak; Lay open to my earthly gross conceit, Smother’d in errors, feeble, shallow, weak, The folded meaning of your words’ deceit. Against my soul’s pure truth, why labour you To make it wander in an unknown field? Are you a god? Would you create me new? Transform me then, and to your power I’ll yield. But if that I am I, then well I know Your weeping sister is no wife of mine, Nor to her bed no homage do I owe; Far more, far more to you do I decline; O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note To drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears; Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote; Spread o’er the silver waves thy golden hairs, And as a bed I’ll take thee, and there lie, And in that glorious supposition think He gains by death that hath such means to die; Let love, being light, be drowned if she sink.

Moira had been right about one thing, at least.  The guy’s voice was golden; a rich, deep baritone that seemed to penetrate Rosalind’s mind and body swiftly, decisively, and without a touch of pretense.  Whatever else he was, this man knew how to wield his god given gift with rare skill, and even the timing of his breathing reinforced the picture that his words painted.  And there was a helluva lot of heart coming through in his recitation—as though Antipholus lived within his skin, and this man…this Actor…was connected intimately, soul to soul, with the character.

The last word of his oration lingered on the air, the audience suspended in awe for several seconds before applause began to build.  Yet the actor remained in character; he bowed his head again, the character still—but when he looked up to acknowledge the resounding acclimation of the crowd, he had become himself again, smiling diffidently, the slight crookedness of it absolutely natural and indelibly endearing.  He’s not doing this for the  applause, Roz told herself, recognizing something kindred to her spirit, in his own; it’s the work that fulfills him, gives him satisfaction.  Whatever Muse he serves, Rosalind understood the gratification of it—though her own attempts at poetry fell too often short of such success.

Still grinning, he bowed at the waist, bobbing his head a bit in reply to the crowd before straightening.  He turned and downed a shot (eliciting scattered bursts of amiable laughter throughout the audience), and followed that with several swigs of water.  His eyes, bright with amusement, raked across the patrons seated near the stage, and for a couple of heartbeats, Rosalind felt fixed in their beautiful regard.

“Beautiful regard”?  Well, there’s some poetry right there, she realized; I could use that line sometime, if I write it down right now.  But Rosalind couldn’t do that at the moment; she couldn’t rifle through her bag for her notepad and pen; she couldn’t even break from his bold gaze, overcome with the ridiculous notion that this beautiful stranger saw her—and somehow—oh somehow!–understood her sorrows and her failed aspirations in a single, anonymous glance.  This is too much…too soon, she thought; and please, don’t look at me that way, she begged him silently; no one gets to look at me that way…and goddammit…it hurts…

His pale skin was now flushed, likely more from his performance and the crowd’s enthusiastic reception, than from the heat of the stage lights.  The remarkable geography of his face–the well-defined cheekbones, the peerless arch of his brows, his perfect mouth (which struck Roz as being made in equal measure for long, deep kisses as for the art he had embraced)—put her in mind of a Bernini sculpture. But no work of marble had the vibrancy and warmth of his sincere smile; no statue, such poise when he was still–or such kinetic elegance as he moved.

“Thank you,” he grinned, covering his heart with his hand, touched by the reception of the crowd, “Thank you!”  His voice was far less formal, though clearly trained–a silken pleasure for the ears.  “I’m Benedict, and in case you didn’t guess already, that was just a bit of the Bard—and one of my favorites.”

His next piece—though unfamiliar to Roz—was humorous and deftly delivered; the man displayed exceptional comic timing (surely the Actor in him, she mused), his manner clearly inviting the audience in for the full effect of the joke.  He had an appealing ease about him, as he played with the sound of the words, his facial expressions exaggerated and reinforcing the comic beats.  

Pausing for another quick shot, he followed that poem with Ae Fond Kiss by Robert Burns, conveyed in a flawless Scottish brogue, while he ranged dramatically across the stage, playing directly to the closest tables.  Somehow, once again, his eyes met Roz’s—and she had only a moment to read their warmth and mirth, before he winked.  At her.  Winked at her, a pleasant enough surprise to make her cheeks flush and her heart speed its beat.  This time she wished he wouldn’t turn away–though of course he moved along, even as he finished the verse, returning to center stage, briefly acknowledging the applause, before closing his eyes and composing himself for the next poem.

Roz had already been impressed with how seamlessly he became a new character with each piece; his voice, face, even posture and body movement, uncannily suited and fully committed to his portrayals.  Now he became completely still, breathing deeply while pulling back into himself, shaking off all theatrical tricks.  When he opened his eyes he looked suddenly…vulnerable…leaving her riveted; she was certain by the third line of his recitation that this piece was his own–and that it arose from a place in his soul.  There was a naked truth to the words and phrases he put forth, and in the pauses as he drew breath, so that she swore she was seeing the poet behind the poem; a man striving, with hand on heart, to express his vision of the world—or in this case, his vision of the life he longed for, with a helpmate who would share his dreams.  

The humble candor of his words, his imagery, and the cadence of his delivery, hit her with an immediacy that touched her for his sake—and that reminded her of the passions that had led to her own, best poetic attempts.  This actor…artist…poet—this Benedict—seemed to speak her language fluently, and Roz found herself wishing he might read her words aloud sometime, with the same intensity which infused his own.

The poet exhaled with his final line, and bowed his head at the conclusion, not even trying to hide his truth as he rubbed the tracks of his tears from his cheeks.  Looking back up, he smiled sheepishly—a youthful, crooked, sincere smile, that held all the power of the sun after days and days of rain—and as the applause mounted, he bowed at the waist in recognition and gratitude, before springing over to the stool, and downing two shots of whiskey in quick succession.  A ripple of laughter by the audience eased him back to center stage and his final few pieces.

He finished the set with Keats’s Ode to a Nightingale—stirringly, evocatively, beautifully voiced in his rich, velvety baritone.  Yet Rosalind decided that she still preferred the Poet’s own, unnamed work, beyond every other poem in his performance, hoping that he would present more of his own work later in the evening.  He appeared both pleased and genuinely humbled by the enthusiastic applause, grinning as he gave the crowd a deep, lingering, straight-backed bow before nodding to them and waving a farewell as he exited the stage.

The applause faded, and the stage lights dimmed once he had exited, though the energy of his performance remained, animating and warming the crowd.  Moira looked to Rosalind for her reaction, “Good, right?”

“That was…wow…” Rosalind was speechless a moment, running through a silent list of superlatives which failed to capture the essence of his performance.  “Damn.  He is good.  And…and…so much more than good…his voice alone…”  

But what could she say to adequately describe the magic of that silken baritone, let alone how he used it—painting vivid pictures and creating characters that breathed with truth, both effects seeming effortless, and in less than a half-dozen lines in some cases.  “Incredible,” she said at last, unable to voice her true appreciation for his work.

Moira was laughing, enjoying the sight of her normally silver-tongued friend, tongue-tied with wonder.  “Pretty easy on the eyes, too—don’t you think?”

Rosalind rolled her eyes. “I suppose,” she smirked, reading Moira’s intention easily—she’d do anything to dislodge David from his hold on Roz’s heart.  “But with a voice like that he could look like Quasimodo, and his recitations would still be magic.  And there’s something…vaguely familiar about him.”

“Yeah, I think he’s done a bunch of stuff on television,” Kelly chimed in, “A couple of movies, too.”

“Hmmmmm,” Rosalind tried to figure out where she might have seen him before–-and laughed when she realized the answer.  Her friends looked at her perplexed, waiting for an explanation.  “Starter for 10,” she grinned, “He played that blonde prat with the stick up his arse.”

“Oh, yeah…total knobhead!” Eileen exclaimed.  “But how can that be the same guy?”

“He’s…he’s good,” Roz offered, “Really, really, good.”  An astonishingly talented chameleon, apparently; and–-as Moira had conveniently pointed out–-pretty easy on the eyes.  She glanced at her friend, who was watching her carefully.

“Mystery solved, then,” Moira smirked, “You must be ready to call it a night now, Roz.  Exhausted from that dinner shift, right?”