by Raletha
We enter, and I carry a suitcase. Quatre shows me to a guestroom.
This is not my home; it is his. My arrival here is as fresh as spring's first bloom; my absence preceding it far longer than an arctic winter. In fact, I've never been here before.
This place feels like Quatre - even smells like him. I see him in every furnishing we pass in the hall; I imagine his violin music spiraling through the air.
But in his guestroom, my imaginings are quickly abandoned. My bag falls by the door, and we fumble with buttons and zippers. Though we rush, there is tenderness. It's embedded in the murmur of his voice as he takes me, the touch of his lips to my shoulder, and the caress of his hand along my spine.
He touches me while he moves inside, reminding me that he knows my body now.
My climax approaches like a sunrise, glimmering bright on the horizon, and it makes my arrival real in a way it wasn't (even couldn't have been) before. I am here now, at last. He's coming into me, welcoming me, bringing me into his life. Where I may choose to belong.