Title: What's Latin for Chocolate? 2/2
Author: Ruth
Disclaimer: Aegidius Whedoni est. Violatio exemplari non mihi in animo
est
Arriving at your apartment, you feel you ought to repay him somehow, so you ask if you can get him anything; a coffee maybe.
"Or tea?" he asks hopefully. Fortunately you actually have some, a joke purchase in a Union Jack tin Suzie got you in a novelty shop in Hong Kong on her last vacation. You don't drink tea yourself, can't stand the stuff. You tell Rupert - you got his name, Rupert Giles, and the privilege of his first name, on the journey - that it makes you feel like a traitor.
"No, no" he grins." Keeps the Americans on their toes. Resist all cultural stereotypes!" He makes it sound like an ironic battle cry and you both laugh. Suddenly his stomach rumbles audibly and he apologises, explaining that he "didn't get round" to eating lunch. He keeps a shop in the centre of Sunnydale and his assistant is away. It was very busy today.
"Look, I'm sure I can find something, let me look in the fridge" Truth to tell, you haven't been shopping lately and there is only a bit of cheese, milk, some eggs and part of a loaf. As you pull out the carton of eggs, a bottle is dislodged from the very back of the shelf and rolls out onto the floor. It's not glass, thank goodness. Rupert stops it with his foot, picks it up and is in the act of handing it back when he hesitates and looks more closely at the label. Hell. It's the chocolate body paint Suzie also found in the novelty shop.
"Almost past its use by date" is all he says, passing it over. You barely refrain from snatching it from him.
"It, er, that's, er…." You stammer hopelessly, wondering what kind of woman he'll think you are.
" I know what it is". There's a smile in his voice and at the corners of his mouth and eyes.
" Anya is very, er, progressive. And distressingly frank about her and her boyfriend's experiences" He looks pained for a moment then shrugs. Obviously he's got more or less used to her. You already know she had something to do with the demise of his old Latin dictionary, the one he's had since University. He glossed over the exact details.
"You must think I'm a real pervert. It was just a joke present. I've never used it" Never had an opportunity, you remind yourself glumly.
"It's hardly the most…exotic variation one could imagine" he replies mildly. "If, er, the offer of supper is still open…"
You accept the tactful change of subject with relief and offer and prepare the old standby, Welsh Rarebit. It's so nice not to have to do the "not particularly Welsh and nothing to do with rabbits" explanation. In fact the whole conversation over the frugal supper is wonderfully relaxing, and Rupert and you spend the rest of the evening in an animated discussion about literature, history, mythology and a dozen other subjects. His enthusiasm for and enjoyment of knowledge is terribly attractive and so is he: you're really going to regret saying goodnight.
You look at the clock and notice how late it is. You apologise for keeping him so long: he must have plans for his evening. You think guiltily of that paper you haven't yet started.
"No, no plans. Very rarely do, actually. I just see what comes up, when it does. No, er, emergencies recently"
The conversation lags, and you become aware that he's trying to prolong the evening too. The little sidelong glances, the body language: you weren't deluding yourself after all. The attraction really is mutual. You're both sitting on the one couch, quite close together because there's not much to the couch (nor to your mini apartment). You've gradually been moving closer the whole time, and when Rupert takes off his glasses and puts them carefully beside his dictionary on the coffee table, you know what's going to happen. Mirabile dictu. His lips are so soft, so warm and hungry, he holds you so securely and solidly against his broad chest, gently stroking your hair from your face with his free hand. You draw apart, both a little breathless.
"You know" he says shakily "the gentlemanly thing for me to do now would be to go home and call you tomorrow, make a proper date, and er… get to this stage quite a bit later on"
"Resist all cultural stereotypes," you whisper. "Rupert, I don't doubt you're a gentleman through and through, but this *is* the twenty-first century. I want you to stay, and I think you want to…"
"Yes"
So you go back for more, more of his delicious mouth on yours, of his soft, gently curling hair to run your fingers through. You loosen the knot of the mismatched tie, remove it and throw it to the floor and undo several shirt buttons. Now you've committed yourselves you get a little bolder, kissing your way down his throat when he leans back on the couch, pulling you on top of him, your bodies moving on each other. It's a little awkward, his long frame doesn't really fit; you end up so tangled up in him that you both start to giggle. You wouldn't have believed that such a solid citizen could giggle so boyishly and so merrily. Still laughing, touching and kissing here and there, you disengage, take his hand and lead him to your bedroom. Eia. He's snagged the bottle of chocolate body paint from the counter where you'd left it by accident. He holds it up, a question on his face and a twinkle in his eye.
"Why not?" you agree. "Shame to waste it"
You both smile conspiratorially and start to undress quickly, not bothering to make a striptease out of it. It's the being naked, not the getting there.
Wow. Vir pulcher. You'd take courage from his look of open appreciation if you weren't so busy taking in the view. He's no whippet, definitely some meat on him, but broad shouldered and slim hipped, everything in proportion and no gym required.
You lie side by side, facing each other. He reaches over to the nightstand for the paint and unscrews the top, the fine integral brush poised deliberately over your naked skin.
He writes, actually writes, in a square masculine hand, starting right below your breasts, brushing them with his knuckles as he pens the first line, repeating your poet's lines aloud in a sensual almost-whisper that sets your whole body trembling. Somehow, he knows that this, *this* is the favourite of all, the one that speaks to your deepest most powerful desires. Clearly it's affecting him too; his breaths come in pants between the words, you can feel him hard and eager against your thigh.
Halfway through the stanza he pauses, looks up at you, watching him working, then wordlessly hands you the bottle and brush. He lies on his back and you straddle him, sitting low on his hips, gently drawing your centre over his erection and hearing him moan softly.
You complete the poem, the woman's response to the man's urgent plea, a heated and joyful surrender. You just make it to the last word before the paint runs out, and so does your patience. His skin is so soft there, on his flank, the chocolate so sweet as your tongue laves steadily upwards, beginning at the end and swallowing the first word last. You carry on, just the tip of your chocolate coated tongue teasing each nipple and the damp hairs on his chest. By the time you reach his mouth and he tastes you the flavour is all but gone but he licks every last trace from your lips and tongue. Your bodies are pressed close by now, his pelvis moving insistently against yours, then he rolls you both over.
"My turn, I believe"
*He*starts at the beginning, moving steadily downward, as if the liquid heat below is drawing him in, and like you he doesn't stop when the writing is extinguished, but traces a tongue tip with excruciating precision down to that well of moisture and the waiting well-head. A little knowledge may be a dangerous thing, but just the right amount…no, no, no thinking going on here, just-
*nunc *
"Rupert!"
Then the sensations of that gentle tongue again, soothing the way down to earth.
Suddenly he looks uncertain, concerned. You desperately hope that's not regret, second thoughts, no, stupid, how can it be after *that*. You get a sudden insight and give thanks once again for whimsy. Kissing him lingeringly you whisper that you won't be a sec, you return with the gaily coloured novelty balloon festooned with a glittering tail of little foil squares. He starts to giggle again, but there's immense relief in it.
"Don't tell me. Suzie?"
He makes short and deft work of putting it on, avoiding a too-awkward pause in the rhythm of mutual desire, then at last you're together, dancing the primal dance to the ancient beat that your poet sang to, that your bodies sing to now, the drums in your blood sounding harder, faster, the hard flesh inside you reaming, thrusting, returning again and again. You look at Rupert's face, turned into the hollow of your neck and you adore again the high forehead, the broken nose and the strong jaw, the lines left by life. His eyes are closed tight, his lips are parted, he's somewhere lost in the pleasure for the moment, and you gave him this.
He comes with a deep sigh, too consumed by the feelings to make much noise, but the sense of his whole body and soul relaxing and moulding itself to yours is reward enough.
Afterwards, you cuddle, revelling in the simple affection that needs no words. It's probably far too early for "I love you" but long, long past "I like you", so you both settle for silence.
Vale, lector
FINIS
P.S. There is no Latin word for chocolate, it hadn't been discovered then!