The World Spinning Round (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

12. Vesuvio (pt 2)

August 1968
Alice

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

I hadn't wanted to go to the Vesuvio, but my press officer had talked me into it. I'd been told by those in the know that Paul was busy at the studio, so I truly didn't think he'd show up. And I definitely didn't know that Michael would be there since he wasn't due back in London for a week.

I wasn't even supposed to be wearing that dress. The daringly short silver dress that an up-and-coming designer had sent over with a note begging me to wear it to an event. I'd debated it all afternoon until, finally, Suzie convinced me to give it a go.

None of it was supposed to happen, yet somehow, I found myself in a pitch-black closet with my back against a wall and my hands twisted in Paul's shirt. The combination of rage and lust made me dizzy as his hand dropped to the short hemline of the dress. I pressed my hips forward because I couldn't bear for him to stop, and he groaned.

"This dress should be illegal," he murmured, his lips beside my ear. He tugged my thigh further toward him, allowing me to feel his hardness.

"Fucking hell," I gasped. It was all too much:  the darkness, all the sensations provoked by the close proximity of our bodies, even the fact that I was there.

His lips trailed between my jaw and collarbone, where he paused. Pressing his forehead against my shoulder, he hesitated to collect himself, then turned toward me. I was thankful for the darkness because I knew he was full of questions -- Why is this happening? What does it mean? -- and I didn't have answers for any of it.

Outside the closet, the party raged on. The bassline from 'Sunshine Girl' by Herman's Hermits made the walls vibrate slightly, and I could hear snippets of conversations from people crowded near the door.

How absolutely bloody marvelous! Did he tell.... Oh, darling, you didn't!... They've rung for a taxi three times and it's still not here, is there a strike?... A fucking groove, man, it's a fucking groove.

It should have made me feel exposed because if someone decided to open the unlocked door, we were well and truly fucked. Instead, I felt cocooned in the small space, like we were hiding in an alternate reality. The hash I'd smoked just after arriving at the party made the sharp edges in my mind seem rounder and more mellow, like perhaps everything would be alright.

"This is mad," Paul whispered hoarsely, his vocal cords vibrating against my skin.

I nodded, closing my eyes for a moment. "We should stop."

There was another moment of hesitation before it was mutually yet silently decided that we would not stop. There was no going back. Our bodies knew exactly what to do, muscle memory from thousands of times together sparking back to life.

My fingers wove into his hair, tugging lightly to bring his face closer to mine. He hesitated once more when we were a breath's distance apart, his nose brushing against mine. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, I wondered what was holding him back. Honor? Regret?

"Paul."

My voice was full of want and need, and that was the last moment that either of us hesitated for quite some time.

His calloused fingers brushed against my inner thigh, tugging the barely-there dress higher so that it pooled around my waist. I fumbled wildly for his belt, determined to get his trousers off, but was cut short as he pushed my knickers aside and slipped a finger inside me. A moan escaped my lips, echoing through the tiny space as I leaned my head against the cold, concrete wall behind me. A second finger joined the first, and all I could feel was a glorious feeling of overwhelm.