The Anniversary Party
by tahlia

Between him and crisp, white sheets: pinned, like a butterfly to a corkboard; his pins through your wings, his fingers clasped around your wrists; on display. His tongue in your mouth, forming the words that only so many years of pent-up desire could say, and all of them pouring down your throat in a never-ending cacophony. You slide a little underneath him, not to get away but to simply accommodate yourself, and he moves with you, too, moaning all the while and pressing himself even more against you. You think, the weight of him should be crushing you, but you feel nothing if not light and heavenly. His tongue on your earlobe: oh, God.

(He kisses you on the sidewalk: once with the murmur of music and people to your back, and once as the taxi waits outside the White House and as he leans over the open door. He shuts his apartment door and kisses you again; no, you remember, maybe that was you that time. He kisses you with one hand on the French doors; once with two hands on your waist and your back up against his kitchen chairs. Together, you stand nose to nose with him in the veil of darkness, and here you kiss him and it's the first time it counts.)

His hand slides up your thigh, along your smooth, bare skin (no, no, no: panty-lines), and his fingers dance across your pelvis bone, sending sensations in perfect rhythm with your heartbeat up to your brain. Your hands are occupying themselves, too, in between heated kisses, with the task of untying the bowtie which took you ten minutes to fix andunbuttoning that white dress shirt he's still (unavoidably) wearing.

(Somewhere between you, looking around and marveling at the honor and privilege that is a Bartlet family gathering, and you, dancing and suddenly ending up next to Josh when the President asks his guests to join him in a dance to the things to come, you realize that this was inevitable. He twirls you close and whispers in your ear, "Meet me outside.")

The asymmetrical hem of your fabulous dress has become a symmetrical one, bunched up around your hips and not serving much of a useful purpose. His hands are delicately but quickly pushing the material further up, until it is around your waist and your entire bottom half is exposed. You're not aware completely, but you think you must have moaned his name, because he's not watching you like he was a minute ago. Instead, he's hovering over you, parting your legs and slipping his fingers inside you.

Piles of blonde hair around your face: it's a quick fuck, the way it's not supposed to be, not the first time. But it is. Your dress barely hits on the floor before he's inside you. You press your hands against his chest, and your fingers splay across that pinkish scar like tributaries of a river.

(In a crowd, he finds you.)


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