Let It Be (A Beatles Story)

Chapter Fifty

"Elle?"

"Elle?  Are you in there?  Please, I really need to talk to you."

I had been alone for almost an hour when there were some panicked knocks on the door.  I wasn't sure whether I should let him in or not.  Though I ended up opening it.  

It was Paul, and he bit his lip nervously.  His fingers were sore and red.  He couldn't speak, though he tried multiple times to.  "Elle...I-I..."

Then without warning, he kissed me, holding my face gently.  I was so overcome by his passion my knees threatened to give out underneath me.  He held my waist to keep me balanced and I touched his cheek.  I couldn't remember the last time he kissed me like that.

He was breathless when he pulled away, but still held me close enough so that it was definitely not just friendly anymore.  

"What was that for?" I whispered.  I felt like I couldn't find the right words to say to describe how wonderful that felt, but there was major guilt involved also.  What about George?  I had just broke up with him, and now I was snogging his best friend within the next hour.  

"I've needed to say so many things to you.  So I'm saying them now," He told me, smiling shyly.  

"Can we do this somewhere else?" I asked him, and he looked guilty and confused.  "At least not in the doorway?" I added, and then he understood.  

Taking my hands, he pulled me onto the bed next to him.  In between kisses, Paul kept saying the sweetest things.  Not that I believed half of them.  

"You're so pretty."

"I've missed you so much."

"I need you."

"I love you."

Though I could tell he wanted more, I had to stop him there.  It was all I could handle after what had happened between George and me.  He laid down next to me, arms wrapped around my waist and fell asleep, for it had been a tiring day for him.  But it had been one for me too emotionally, so I did too.  

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"Darling, wake up." Paul nuzzled into my neck.  I smiled shyly, and yawned.  

"It's so early, Paul," I sighed, examining the clock on the bedside table.  He pulled me close, and I jumped, because he was so cold.  His arms were bare.  "Did you take off your shirt in the middle of the night?" I accused.  

He smirked.  "It got too hot in here."  Then he added: "But I know you love it."

"You are self-absorbed, Mr. McCartney." I jabbed a finger into his chest to make my point.  "I've never met a person who is more acutely aware of his good looks as you are."

A small blush appeared on his cheeks.  "You think I'm handsome?"

"Who doesn't?" I leaned back on my pillow and watched him as he struggled to free himself from the entanglement of blankets.  I laughed as he got his arm stuck, and pretended to cry for help.  Gently, I slid the blanket off of him, which revealed something that surprised me even more.  

"Now, Paul," I laid my hands on my lap, and spoke quietly, "why did you feel the need to take off your pants?" 

Once again he blushed, but didn't answer.  Instead he just laid back down on his pillows, and looked up to me with happy hazel eyes.  "Maybe everybody does think I'm handsome, but there is only one person who's opinion matters to me." He whispered, touching a strand of my hair.  His hand wandered down to my neck, and he brought me close to him.  But in the middle of our kiss, there was a knock on the door.  I motioned for Paul to put on some clothes and kicked off my covers.  It would have been almost funny to watch him hurrying to get dressed.  The young Beatle was struggling so hard to get his trousers on he fell back on the bed.