The Boy Movie Brahms Heelshire x reader FanFic

No Other - Part 67

"There's been no other."

You and Brahms are in your old bedroom.   The boys have gone to sleep in the adjoining room, exhausted.   A single candle gutters in a solid silver holder on the mantelpiece, the flame casting jerky ghoulish shadows.   You've just showered together and you stand eyeing each other across the room, hair dripping, wrapped in snowy towels.   You'd expected Brahms to be physical but he'd not made a move, merely caressed you with scented soap suds, and washed your hair.  His one sexual concession was to kiss the nape of your neck as he stood behind you.   You wonder what he's thinking.   You wonder if he's wondering what you're thinking.   Will he believe  you've not so much as looked at another man for five years?  Nor even contemplated giving yourself to someone else?   For the first time in a long time, you feel awkward with him.   Have you been apart too long?  

"There's been no other."  You repeat the statement in case he's missed the point.  It's important to you that he knows.   In the candlelight his eyes gleam red and green.   Moisture glints on the dark hair on his chest.  The towel around his hips is turned golden by the flame.   

At his silence a mass of  feminine doubts fill you.   Does he still  like what he sees?  Are you changed so much?    Have you aged in his eyes?   Does being a mother affect how he feels about you?   

You should be used to his behaviour; his long, profound silences and lingering stares, but it's been so long...so long.    For one insane moment you half expect him to tell you he's found someone else, that a new rose lies behind the walls...one with prettier petals and less sharp thorns.    The thought is ridiculous but a stab of jealousy thrusts its way into your heart and you feel sick to your stomach to think of him kissing another, making love to someone else, sharing his dear, dangerous, gallant heart with anyone but you!    

Something must show in your face because suddenly Brahms tilts his head, then moves forwards.    Beneath his scrutiny, you feel those five missing years, gone, never to be regained because you were uncertain and he was big enough to let you fly.  Five years when you should have been here with him.   Five years where he missed his children learning to walk and talk.   Guilt hammers relentlessly and you feel the wretched surge of tears.

"I'm sorry, Brahms."   He says nothing, merely stares down at you.  "I had to find out...to find myself.  I don't know where those years went.  They flew by so fast I barely felt them pass."

You gaze up at him, wanting him to tell you how much he's missed you.   How you're the only one too.   He scans your face but stays silent.  Under normal circumstances you'd shout, "Goddammit, Brahms, say something!"  But too much time has passed and perhaps you've both matured beyond silly arguments.  You remember the fights you had; savage, violent eruptions tempered with passion.   Oh, and what passion!   In all your life, you'd never experienced the kind of sex Brahms gave you, either in reality or your wildest imaginings.  You never knew what would happen or how, but it always thrilled and transported you.  No matter how wild Brahms could be, he was always in control, and you were always safe.   As carnal thoughts circulate, your solar plexus begins to fizz with the sick butterflies of desire.   You stare at his chest, long to reach out and rake your nails through the thick, dark hair there.  But you hesitate, unsure if this is one of his games, or a genuine reticence to touch you.

Brahms lowers his head as though to kiss your right cheek, so you instinctively turn you face to his.  But he's keeping out reach, turning his head away.   

"Brahms?"

"Ssssh..."    He exhales the command into your neck and the touch of his breath sends the hairs on your head prickling.   This reminds you of the time in his lair when he blindfolded you.  You close your eyes, trusting him.   He comes close again, and you feel the brush of his  lashes on your cheek, the soft abrasion of stubble.   You hear his breathing quicken.   He's running his lips down your throat to linger where the towel meets your breasts.   Then he's pushing you backwards, gently guiding you to the bed.

You sit then open your eyes.  He towers above you, his back to the candle flame, his features in darkness.  Slowly, you fall back, then watch as he pulls open your towel.   Brahms kneels over you for a few moments, his face inches from yours.    You run your hands over his chest, then down to his hips, pulling away his own towel.   Still poised above you, he touches his lips to yours so tenderly you respond by taking his face in both hands, your fingers tracing the line of jaw.  The kiss deepens, and you respond by arching your body up to meet his.   Then he's slipping an arm around your waist, pulling you up to him in the way you remember so well, and love so much.    Brahms is strong.   His biceps bunch and swell as he holds your body close to his.    You grip those arms, marvelling at the velvet of his skin over the iron of  his muscles.  Then you open to him....and he gives you what you've missed for so long.   

In those sweet, vital seconds towards the end, Brahms pulls back to stare into your eyes.  You gaze back at him, locked into the same moment, synchronised as though you'd never been apart, lost in each other.     This is the only time Brahms ever loses control.    And it's always in this moment that you truly have all of him, body and soul...where he's yours like no other.