Chapter 282: Movie Room 2[+R18]
They settled into the couch in one of the smaller sitting rooms, a wide comfortable thing that had been pushed back slightly from a television mounted on the wall, the room low-lit and warm around them.
Elena had found popcorn from somewhere and handed him a bowl and kept one for herself and now they were both sitting with their feet up and the opening credits of something running across the screen.
Liam looked at the title.
"Mmmm," he said, nodding slowly like this was exactly what he had been hoping for.
Elena looked at him sideways. "Stop pretending," she said. "I know it’s boring to you."
He smiled. "You caught me."
She looked back at the screen with the small satisfied expression of someone who had known something before they confirmed it.
On screen the movie was establishing its world, countryside and quiet and the kind of palette that communicated immediately that nothing loud was going to happen for a while.
Then she turned and kissed him.
He kissed her back and his hand found her ass immediately, spreading across it, squeezing, and she made a small sound against his mouth that the quiet room absorbed without complaint.
They kissed and the movie played without an audience.
Her hands moved from his face to his chest and then down across his stomach and she broke from the kiss just enough to look down at what her hands were doing, finding the waistband of his boxers, working into them.
She wrapped her hand around him and he felt the contact before he heard or registered anything else and she held him for a moment, feeling the size of him in her grip, her eyes going slightly wide at the edges despite herself.
She guided him out.
He looked at her doing it, at the expression on her face, and said nothing.
She raised her hips and reached down and shifted her underwear to the side, the fabric pulling away and leaving her open, and she guided him to her entrance without breaking eye contact.
Then she sat down.
"Oh," she said, her head going back, her hair falling with it. "Oh."
She held there for a moment, adjusting, her hands finding his shoulders.
Then she started moving.
Her hips lifted and dropped in a slow rolling motion, finding the angle and the depth and the pace that worked, her hair swaying with each movement, the lace bralette doing very little to contain the motion of her boobs beneath it, the fabric moving with her, the weight of them shifting forward and pulling back with the rhythm she had set.
"Mm," she said. "Oh god."
He put his hands on her waist and felt every movement of her above him, the warmth of her, the tightness of her, the specific way she gripped him differently depending on the angle of each downstroke.
She picked the pace up.
Ta. Ta. Ta. Ta.
"Haa," she said. "Oh."
Her hips were working with full commitment now, driving down and rolling forward, her hands pressing into his shoulders, her head dropping forward and then going back again with the motion.
Her boobs moved continuously under the bralette, the lace pattern pressing against the inside of the fabric on each downstroke.
"Mm," she said. "Oh. Right there. Haa."
He drove up to meet her from below and she made a sound that came from somewhere behind her composure, sharp and immediate and entirely honest.
"Oh," she said. "Oh god. Don’t do that."
He did it again.
"Haa," she said. "Oh. Oh Liam."
She pressed down harder, her pace shifting from rolling to driving, her whole body working at it now, her sounds climbing with the pace, each one less contained than the one before.
Ta. Ta. Ta. Ta. Ta.
"Mm," she said. "Oh. Oh. I’m going to. Oh god."
He gripped her waist and drove up on the next downstroke and she came, her whole body locking, her hands gripping his shoulders hard, a long sound leaving her that went up into the quiet of the sitting room and stayed there.
Her hips kept working through it, short and trembling, her body refusing to stop until everything had been taken, and then she went still against him, her chest against his, her breathing wrecked and slow.
A moment passed.
She lifted her head and looked at him.
"You came a lot," she said. Her voice was rough.
"I did," he said.
She sat there for a second, processing the state of her body, taking inventory.
"We should go somewhere else," she said. She looked at the door across the room. Then back at him. "I don’t think I can walk right now though."
"I’ll carry you," he said.
He moved his hands from her waist to beneath her knees, lifting them, and she understood and adjusted, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck as he stood. She was still on him, facing him, her weight in his arms, his hands supporting her from below.
He walked toward the door.
She rested her head against his shoulder and looked at the corridor as they went through the door and into it.
"Left," she said. "Go left."
"Alright," he said.
He shifted his grip slightly, adjusting her weight.
And then he pushed back into her as he walked.
"Oh," she said immediately, her head coming off his shoulder. "What are you. What is that."
"Just seeing if you can last until we get there," he said, his voice completely even, his pace through the corridor unchanged.
She looked at him. Her expression was doing several things at once. "I don’t know if we’re going to make it," she said. "I genuinely cannot get myself together right now."
"You better," he said. "Or I won’t let you rest when we get there."
She looked at him for another moment.
"Alright," she said.
He kept walking.
The corridor was wide and quiet, the house entirely theirs now, the sound of thirty people absent in the way that made the silence feel specific rather than just empty.
The lighting along the corridor was low, the kind of low that came from wall fixtures rather than overheads, warm and directional, throwing their shadows long behind them as he walked.
Each step he took produced a motion that she received and registered, her arms tightening around his neck with each one, small sounds escaping her into his shoulder.
"Mm," she said. "Oh."
He kept walking.
"Haa," she said. "Oh god. You’re actually insane."
"Left or right at the end," he said.
She looked up at the junction ahead of them and tried to form a thought. "Right," she said. "Then the door on the left."
"Right," he said. "Then left."
"Yes," she said. "And stop being so calm about this."
He turned right at the junction and kept going. The corridor here was slightly narrower, the wall fixtures here replaced by a single overhead strip that gave the space a different quality, more deliberate somehow, the doors along it more specific.
"Mm," she said into his neck. "Oh. We’re almost there."
"I know," he said.
"Haa," she said. "Oh god."
The door on the left.
He stopped in front of it and shifted her weight to one arm to free the other and opened it and they went through.
The room was dark until it wasn’t.
Sensors or timers, the lighting coming on gradually as they entered, warm and directed, illuminating things from below and above in a way designed to show them properly.
It was a small museum.
Display cases ran along the walls and stood at intervals through the room, glass-topped and glass-sided, each one lit from within. Inside them things sat on stands or on velvet surfaces, arranged with care.
Objects that carried the quality of things that had come from somewhere and meant something.
A carved piece in dark stone that was clearly old. Documents framed and mounted in one of the cases, the handwriting visible even from here, formal and careful.
A collection of small paintings, miniature portraits, lined along one wall at eye height. Maps in another frame, the kind of maps that showed places that had been understood differently when they were drawn.
Liam stood in the doorway holding Elena and looked at the room.
"This is yours," he said.
"My family’s," she said, her voice quieter now, the other thing still in it but underneath something else. "Some of it’s very old."
He looked at the nearest case, at whatever sat inside it catching the low light.
"You have a museum," he said.
"A small one," she said.
Liam looked around the room properly for the first time, at the cases and the maps and the small paintings and the chair sitting in the far corner near the window, wide and dark with carved arms and a high back, the kind of piece that had been made somewhere by someone who knew what they were doing and had traveled a significant distance to end up here.
"Where can we do it in here," he said.
She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked around the room. Her eyes found the chair.
"There," she said. "My dad brought it back from Morocco." She paused. "I’ve always wanted to try it."
Liam looked at the chair.
Then at her.
"Alright," he said.
He started walking toward it.
He took one step and she made a sound into his neck.
"Oh," she said. "Oh god."
He took another.
"Haa," she said. "Liam I don’t think I’m going to make it to the chair."
"Hold on a little longer," he said, still walking.
"I’m trying," she said. "I am genuinely trying."
He kept walking.