WRITTEN FOR ME ( thomas shelby )

009 ━ It Has Always Been You ..

━━━━━━ ༻ 009 ༺ ━━━━━━
" It Has Always Been You "

          THEIR COMBINED MOANS WERE a sigh of relief rode on the wings of ecstasy. The damp noises formed between their lips parting with each inclination driving closer were only a mere background to the orchestra sung from their souls in a throaty murmur that only the other could hear. All exhibitions and self-control dissolve and the freedom that came with that spoken approval between them translated into the roaming of their hands, into the eagerness with which they sped up something that their souls were ready to affirm they've earned from since the Cheltenham Races.

Thomas grazed his rough thumbs up the bare skin of Jackie's thighs. Hooking the flat of his palm underneath her knee, he helped her lift her leg up, hold around him and thus he had invited himself to step closer and reach his left arm further around her, a clear pathway to guiding her to flush her chest against his.

Jackie's hands were fast on their own quest too, because while her nightgown was loose and thin, what Thomas was wearing was rigid, running thick on multiple layers, and slightly damp from a rain she didn't even realize had started outside. There was glass shards on his coat — she heard their clinking on the floor while he cooperated with her desire to undress him, to gift him some of his mobility back in echqnge for a brief moment of pause in his lead on hungry kisses and search for sensation — and there was blood on parts of his buttoned up shirt, especially on the sleeves.

"Are you hurt?" Jackie whispered to him, when his forehead rested on her left shoulder and her hands trailed down his back removing his shirt. They took that moment to breathe — a much needed pause after he had refused to leave room between them sufficient for Jackie to shrug off a shirt she unbuttoned sloppily, ripping out some of the buttons, fact that caused her to mumble of how she can buy him a new suit later — and she gave it away thoughtlessly, though her cheeks were flushed and her breath was ragged, just to quench the avid thirst of her worry for him.

Such dispaly of care was enough to turn Tommy's head almost instantly towards her neck and place a trail of kisses that led up to her pulse. "Not anymore," he breathed there, eliciting another sound of pleasure to fall off her parted lips, something so intoxicating to him that he was certain it was this they had in mind when boiled the first spirit. To listen to her moans, her breathless puffs, to feel her shiver, tremble, warm up, that was a cure to everything Thomas Shelby had to endure that day, something that started as soon as the first hour of the morning.

That morning, his headache pulsed stronger than ever upon seeing the basket of rotten fruit and vegetables get slammed on the kitchen table by Polly Gray. His aunt didn't even look at him, though there was no doubt the display of wrath was for him to behold and feel guilty about. Such old tricks of women shouldn't phase him nor surprise him anymore, but to be wounded by them was still a possibility worthy of his grimace. Despite reading plentifully into what had just happened, he decided on the spot that given his love for his aunt, it would be far more polite of him to answer her indirect challenge than remain silent and read her lack of verbal greeting.

"Did you speak to her?" He asked, pausing his smoking, an activity that either way, seemed not to have done its vice's only quality justice since Freddie Throne, his little sister's husband and father of her child, was taken by police into arrest when they all least expected, but most importantly, when Thomas wanted it the least to happen.

"She didn't speak back," Polly replied bluntly.

"Well, did you tell her?" Tommy insisted, lowering his cigarette and crushing it in the ash tray on the table. He had tried, in vain, to convince his family that his cruelty would never reach the instance of hurting his own sister as such: he would have never planned for Freddie Thorne to be arrested on the night Ada gave birth to his son. Though it was the truth, no one believed it. Not really. And the only eyes he saw unchanged in their reflected image of him were Jacqueline's.