Dearest, You Said [McCartney]

Two

Trigger warning for descriptions of an abusive partner.

April 19 1963 - Friday

Warm, steady breaths brushed the nape of my neck. The sun had only just began to rise, the room dimly lit. I craned my head only to be met with the sleeping face of Paul McCartney. 

What the fuck. 

Last night was still blurry from being in a half-awake state. I rolled to face him, tenderly lifting a hand to shake his bare shoulder. Sometime during the night he maneuvered under the sheets. His long lashes batted several times, attempting to focus on my face mere centimeters from his.

The memories of our conversations, drinking, and messy kisses came back to me. I was grateful I still had the sense to clean up, leaving the house just as it had been left before. My parents would not be happy if they knew. I, however, didn't care. A Beatle was in my bed and wanted to see me again, and that was all that mattered. 

"Good morning, Paul."

He let out a long exhale, his face contorting as he stretched his legs out.

"G'mornin', Marie." Morning voice was set in. Not that I'm complaining.

"Surprised you remembered my name, I don't suppose you wake up in stranger girls' beds every morning, hm?" That got a drowsy smile out of him. He scooted closer to me, resuming a cuddling embrace. Internally, I was pleased we didn't end up having sex last night. I didn't want to give it all up for someone who sweet-talked me with all intention to leave me the next morning. And it'd surely ruin the intimacy of now.

It felt like a while we stayed tangled together, letting ourselves fully wake up in tranquility. The time was half past 6. He broke the silence.

"I really would like to see you again, y'know."

"As I said, Paul, for as long as you'd like to."

"Would you..." His words trailed off, "Would you want to be together? My girl?"

I leant forward for a lingering kiss, speaking against his lips. "I really would love to, just give me some time to think."

"There's just something special about you, Marie, I really mean it." His voice reduced to a whisper, still tickling my lips with his.

I responded by kissing him again, softly, adjusting myself to more comfortably face him. His free hand travelled down my side to hold onto my hip. Full of uncertainty, it moved to the hem of my nightie, riding it up my thigh. I was losing my breath, pausing to gaze into his eyes, my heartbeat racing. As the hem rose dangerously high, an excited knocking came at my door. Shit.

"Miss Marie, wakey wakey, you'll miss breakfast!" It was Ian, the high energy was evident in his voice. He was always so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the mornings.

I paused, our eyes meeting wide and worried. "Uh, I'm up now, Ian, just let me, er, put some clothes on!"

I wildly gestured at Paul to hide. He scrambled to scoop his clothing from last night as quietly as he could, hastily closing himself in my en suite with a click. Nothing else in the room was amiss, fortunately.

"It's okay to come in now, Ian."

He came in, pretending to cover his eyes. He purposely deepened his voice, comically exaggerating his posh accent.

"Is your modesty hidden away, Madame?"

"Why yes, indeed, it is. Your gaze may meet mine."

Ian peeked through his fingers to verify, unable to stop himself from cracking up. He loved to be the comedian, striving to brighten every room he entered. His eyes surveyed my bedroom.