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by "Lianna Zoe"
This is a crossover of Forever Knight and Due South, Dr. Natalie Lambert and Constable Benton Fraser, explicit sex, etc. It's also a crossover of Red Shoe Diaries, at least in the format. It's being cross-posted to JADFE and DSX simultaneously. You don't need to have watched RSD to follow this. You don't even necessarily have to have watched both of the series crossed here.
Comments welcomed. Please send them to Dianne. She'll get 'em to me.
TYK! And consider this a challenge....
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WOMEN
Do you keep a diary?
Have you ever been betrayed?
Have you betrayed another?
Man, 35, wounded and alone,
recovering from loss of once
in a lifetime love, searching
for reasons why.
Willing to pay top $ $ $
For your experiences
Please send diaries to:
RED SHOES
All stories remain confidential
September 6, 1997
Dear Red Shoes,
I'm probably not going to send this. Even if I do, I'm definitely not going to sign it, or send it from where I'm living, or leave any other clues to who I am, or where I am. But the idea of having someone else, somewhere in the world, know exactly what I'm going through.... The journal isn't enough anymore. I have to tell a real person, even if it's not someone I know. Better to tell a stranger, anyway.
I would have passed your ad right by if it hadn't been for the second line: have you ever been betrayed? Yes. Have you betrayed another? Not yet. Hopefully never. I'm just in a place where I can't tell what a betrayal is, anymore.
"Recovering from loss of once in a life time love"--- oh, have I done this to death. I'm sick of recovering. I'm over losing Nick. Very, very over. So over, there's someone else... only that's the problem. I'm not in love, Red Shoes. I am in lust. Feverish. Longing.
And the poor guy thinks he loves me.
Why "Red Shoes"? I remember that story. The girl who almost danced herself to death; she wanted those shoes so bad, she put them on when she wasn't supposed to, and couldn't stop dancing. She almost danced right off a balcony, except they stopped her in time, and cut off her feet.
I can't dance anymore.
Dead past, buried and with a stone marker to hold the body down: Nick. Sexy and dangerous. Moody, intense, vulnerable, needy... You know the list that describes the Bad Boy. Flirting with Death, that's what I did; because if you get too close to Nick, you can die. I'll write it here, and never mail this---or mail it from Dallas, or Mexico City, or Panama: he was a vampire.
She's crazy, you think. Not true. But it doesn't matter. Truth or metaphor, just stay with me.
Secrets and lies; mood swings, manipulation, and barely suppressed violence. That's what life was like with Nick. But it was so seductive, being with him, I mean. He'd be sweet and funny, admiring and teasing me, lean in and kiss me fast, then pull away. Nick's kisses always left me wanting more, breathless, yearning.... It was risky to show affection with him, because any second he'd draw back, put distance between us, leaving me lonely. Alone, feeling cold. There was only one time I almost got enough of him; sensual, tantalizing, out-of-control kisses, captivating me for an evening and a night. I let myself forget the risks, just enjoyed the moment---and the morning came, and it hurt even more when he moved away from me. And every time he walked away, another part of my heart would break, trying to follow him while having to stay with me.
One day he walked out the door and never came back. I counted on him, and I was wrong, and I can't forgive him.
Enough of him. Fast forward----
My heart broke; and I got over Nick, but my heart couldn't be fixed. Well, it wasn't like it ever worked perfectly to begin with.
I met Ben. A shy teddy bear wearing a Stetson; wholesome as peanut-butter cookies, dependable, kind, reassuring, sweet... a Boy Scout. We're friends. Only friends. "Just friends." I liked it this way. It was safe, and calm, and as warming as Nick was chilling, sometimes. And not boring, either; Boy Scouts usually are, but Benny has a wicked dry sense of humor, and a completely cock-eyed dreamer's mind. Makes life interesting....
Ben thinks he's in love with me. He isn't. He doesn't know me well enough; doesn't know all the mistakes I've made, or the people I've hurt, and he wouldn't love me if he did. I tried to tell him.... He didn't want to hear it.
I've been alone too long. I am tempted, Red Shoes, to do something highly unethical, even just plain bad; I am very close to giving in to him, to accept his offers of love, just because I am lonely, and he is here, and I trust him. And I want him. Fairly desperately.
From Nick to Ben: Cool to warm, dangerous to safe, distant to close, undependable to trustworthy. Ben is not the problem. I trust Ben. He is not scary, or malevolent, or dangerous. I would trust him with my life, career, my last relative, my cat, my car, the keys to my house, my reputation and my journal. He's wrong about loving me, but it's an honest mistake---and he is lonely too, and seeing mirages when he looks at me. But in spite of that, I trust him, and respect him, and *like* him. If I have a best friend in the world, it is Ben.
Conventional wisdom says I shouldn't find him appealing, after being involved with a Bad Boy. Ben should be boring, unappealing, unattractive, simply not exciting enough, or dangerous enough, or crazy enough for me to get interested. I should be looking for another vampire, another co-dependent bit of weirdness to make my life make sense.
Conventional wisdom decided not to show up for this party. I find Benny almost deliriously attractive; I dream about him constantly; I have inappropriate fantasies during work hours; I can't stop thinking about him, and the last time I saw him a week ago.
But I am not in love with him. And I don't want to be. And he thinks he loves me.
If I give in to him, and let him make love to me, to just ... *love* me, like I want to be loved, it will be a mistake, and it would wrong Benny, who deserves better. He deserves someone who can love him as he thinks he loves me. Not a broken-hearted ex-dancer looking for some warmth. I won't leech off his emotions, I will _not_ do that.
Can you tell I don't trust myself?
He looked at me, when he said he loved me, all that longing in his eyes; and even though it's not as important as he thinks it is, or as desperate, I was mesmerized, and started moving toward him. He has a way of saying my name that no one else has, and I've come to realize I like it best from him. I make smart-ass remarks, and he grins like I'm a genius, showing those rarely-seen dimples, and I start feeling giddy with the attention. We have kissed exactly once, and that one kiss passes by every hesitant caress Nick ever tried to give to me. Nick's kisses made me yearn for more, breathless with restless desire, trying to control my emotions. Ben's kiss---I was breathing so hard I had to pull back first, or I would have asphyxiated, and even then I didn't want to. I _had_ no control over my emotions, I was completely overwhelmed, and it was wonderful.
I have to get this out of my system before he gets back. He's out of the country for two more weeks, and then.... It would be betraying Benny to give in. Betraying my own sense of morality, too. Maybe betraying my memories of being hurt by Nick, and swearing never to do that to someone else.
This hasn't happened. This is never *going* to happen. This is what I dream about, before I go to sleep:
A Greek temple, one from a Maxfield Parrish painting, on some high mountainside, all blue skies and white clouds... and there's a bed in the temple. Huge, white, canopied. I used to dream of Nick and I on that bed; only the setting was different, darker, with candlelight. Bright sun streams into this dream, though.
Ben is making love to me, and he is taking his time. We're in nightclothes, not really sexy ones, just my grey sweats, and his white jersey and dark cotton shorts, but it could be satin and silk, there could be candlelight and stars, there could be music---there isn't, but there could be---because I am so engrossed in what is going on, that after the first few minutes I couldn't describe the bed I'm lying on to you. We're entwined in each other's arms and legs, fingers and hands straying and tangling back and forth.
He is kissing me, and holding me. Nothing else, not yet. I keep remembering that kiss, and wondering about what would have happened if we hadn't stopped. In the dream, we don't have to stop. Ben's mouth is on mine; steady, hot, firm, pulsing and tingling---very much there, not thinking of anyone else, just kissing me and me alone. Every once in a while I have to pull back for a breather, and when I do he trails kisses up my jaw to my ears, nibbling on the lobe very softly until I'm whimpering, and pulling him back into another long tongue-twisting caress.
I keep expecting him to back away, but he is never the first to do so. I'm ready for him to say the wrong name, suddenly remember other business, make some excuse and leave---but when I look in his eyes, I only see a reflection of myself lined in light. This can go on forever; it's a dream. It isn't real.
The hair-stroking and arm-rubbing, warm and sensual and non-threatening, gives way to slow, gliding caresses of my torso; and he watches me for my reaction, to see what I like and what I don't, when I stretch and moan, and when I twitch back. The kisses continue, and the petting becomes more intense. Ben gently massages all the muscles in my back, my legs, my arms, with sure, deep touches that make me press even closer to him, one leg thrown over his hip, pelvis to pelvis, torso to torso. He is already aroused, but is ignoring his erection for now; now, all he wants is to touch me, to find every responsive spot on my body and give it the attention I'm craving.
I have to be the one to tug on his shirt, try to pull it off; and oh, Red Shoes, let me tell you, Ben works out. Abs and pectorals and triceps and ... I kiss every muscle, every plane, and I can hear Ben groan under his breath as I do so. Still touching me, his hands never leaving my body, one leg in between mine, I can hear his breath grow harsh, and when I finish kissing my way across his collarbone, he whispers, "Take off the shirt," and I don't hesitate, it's over my head, it's gone.
Ben isn't one of those guys who fixates on only one part of a woman's body; no, he is *extremely* even-handed in his fondling. By now I am aching with desire, muscles cramping and tight, my breath labored as he tongues my nipples, cups my buttocks, murmuring my name over and over as he does so. Swirling his tongue around the areolae, then tracing a thread of sizzling fire up to my neck, he teases and brushes by my sex with his fingers, never touching it directly. I can hardly stand the sensations any longer; I moan, trying to rip the shorts off his body with shaky fingers. He chuckles unsteadily, gets drawn into another long liplock, then removes the last of his clothing as I shimmy off the leggings to my sweats.
More kisses, more embraces, skin to skin now, getting hotter and hotter, and we're both gasping, but we can't stop, we don't want to, it's too good, too close. Ben has a gorgeous ass; he'd blush if I said that to him, but I've noticed what he looks like in shorts and pants and jeans.... and I can finally touch and stroke without worrying about embarassing him, dig my nails into his back and cup his buttocks, hear his voice go deep as he says my name again. "Now," I'm begging, pleading, "Now, please..."
Slowly, almost painfully slowly, Ben enters me, warm and hard and wet, and it's been so long I almost tense up at the wrong time. But at the last second I relax and he's filling me, all the way, trembling above me, kissing me passionately as he holds me so close that there isn't a space for daylight to pass between us. Finally, he starts to move his hips, and I grind mine upward, and we fall into an easy rhythm that only stays casual for about thirty seconds. Then we're both moving as if on treadmills, deep, fast, pounding movements that make the spiralling tension build inside me as Benny's muscles go rigid and his eyes close. Another stroke, and another, and the burning fire suddenly flares out of control, I can hear myself crying out and whimpering as a wave of explosive pleasure moves outward from where our bodies are joined. I am still quivering, still feeling the shudders of pleasure flow through me, as Ben thrusts deep, once, twice, three times, then chokes out my name as his body rocks with ecstasy.....
I am definitely not mailing this letter. But it's served its purpose. I will be in control, calm, rational, when Ben comes back in two weeks. I won't be influenced by crazy daydreams.
It wouldn't really be like that.
It would be awkward, and strange, and probably very sweet and nice, like Benny. After a while, after we got used to each other... it would be very good, I think. But nothing is as good as fantasies are. I want him very much, but that doesn't mean the sex would be all that incredible. It's just loneliness. Deprivation. Being flattered that Benny cares.
It will never happen.
I can't dance, Red Shoes, and I won't fake an emotion just for some closeness. That's cheap. I have to talk Benny out of loving me; maybe then, we can... No, no, no. Friendship is better. Friendship is solid.
But oh, what would I give for three wishes: that pavilion, Benny, and the ability to wipe his memory afterward.
Sincerely,
Anonymous