He woke up with her name on his lips.
The house was empty, the sound of the two women having failed to wake him up. He was glad, for the most. Because he had no idea how he would have handled waking up with Abigail, when he fell asleep with Adelaide's lips on his mind.
He rolled over, a stupid smile plastered on his face, he felt stupid, but the memory of last nights thunderstorm was still fresh in mind, and the butterflies kept flying around in his lungs. His eyes fell on the window, but it was not the magnificent sun that caught his eyes, it was the small flowerpot in the windowsill that did.
New flowers had sprung out on the little tree over night, and he could see its tiny branches dance in the slight wind, competing with its mother outside.
He got up and walked over to it, grabbing a cup of water on his way, intending to water it. But when he got to the window, he stopped. There was something under the flowerpot, a piece of paper. He pulled it out, and saw that it wasn't just a piece of paper, it was a post card, and on the back, there were three words, written in a handwriting he had never seen before, but recognized immediately.
The postcard was bought at the local museum, showing the magnificent building at summertime. She had written one simple demand on it.
"Come find me."
The local museum was built in stone, with beautiful statues out front and carvings lining the windows. It looked like it came from another era, one where art wasn't kept in museums, but in homes, and artists were hired by kings and popes to paint their roofs. Harry's palms were sweating as he walked up the stone stairs, he tried to wipe it off on his jeans, but his anticipation would not wipe off so easily. The wind breathed in his neck, and lifted some of his curls. It was warm, like a soft, caressing touch. He sighed, and whimpered in pain when something hit his head.
"What the hell?" He said and turned around. He couldn't see anyone behind him, but when he looked down, he saw a ripe, orange peach lying on the ground. He bent down to pick it up, but then he heard someone yell out from behind him.
"Catch!" the voice said, and yet another peach came flying at his head. He ducked, and shouted: "Who's there?" He still couldn't see anyone, but the next time he heard the voice say "Catch," he caught the peach in his hand, and heard a familiar giggle.
"Good job," Adelaide said, and her head popped up from behind the stairs. In one hand, she held a basket full of peach kernels, and in the other she held a peach. She bit down on it.
"Oh god, I knew it was you." Harry said, and smiled. She looked so beautiful in the afternoon sun, white ribbons in her hair and stars in her eyes. She ran up the stairs to him and took his hand in hers. "Come on," she said. "We have no time to waste."
The museum was as good as empty, a couple of art students and the beautiful paintings on the walls the only thing greeting them on their way. But Harry could not fully divert his attention from the small hand in his. She had filled the spaces between his fingers with her own, and he could almost feel her pulse through them. He gently brushed his thumb across her palm, and she turned around to look at him.
"Have you ever been here before?" She asked, and stopped in front of a painting. It was from the romantic period, showing off the ruins of an abandoned castle, overgrown with ivy.
"Yeah. I used to come here all the time for inspiration." He answered. She had turned her face away from him, studying the painting. "But I haven't been here in a long time."
"Not since the accident?" She didn't look at him when she said it, she just kept looking at the picture, noticing how the artist had used thirty different shades of blue to paint the sky. "Yeah," he answered, and she finally looked at him. "Come on," she said and pulled him over to another painting.
"Who's your favourite painter of all time?" She asked, stopping in the middle of the museum. There was no roof in this room, and the wind had swept some leaves inside. You could even see a couple of dandelions springing out in the corners. The paintings on the walls could not have been very valuable. The sun had been shining on them for almost a decade, and the delicate paint had started to fade. But to Adelaide, there was nothing more beautiful.
"Van Gogh," Harry answered. "His pencil strokes, his colours, its all so unique." He said. "Who's yours?" "Monet," She answered. "The way he paints nature, I feel like he doesn't just capture the beauty of his motifs, but also the beauty of the human soul and how our feelings colour what we see." The words fell from her mouth as they continued walking. She looked up at him, her hair falling over her face as she spoke. "My favourite is 'The Water Lilies – The Clouds'. I wish to see it one day." He could see the painting in her eyes, and the hazy look she got in her face told him this was important to her. That this wasn't just some random statement, but one of her deepest wishes.
He didn't know what to say after that. So he just kept quiet as they walked from room to room, until they stopped in front of another painting, this one portraying a beautiful ballet dancer.
"Did you know I wanted to be a ballet dancer when I was younger?" she said, and he laughed a bit. "No, I did not," he said. "Well, I did. And don't laugh at me." She said indignantly. "I'm sorry. It's just hard to picture you following that kind of discipline. You don't seem to be very kind of people telling you what to do." He was smirking as he said it. "Hey, I would have made an excellent ballerina. Watch me." She said, and did a pirouette right in front of him. As she did so, her dress lifted, and he caught sight of something on her thigh. But as soon as she stopped spinning, her dress fell down, and her thigh was out of sight.
"You see?" She said, and he nodded. "But you're right. I'm not fond of rules." As she spoke, she laced her other hand in his too, and stepped even closer to him. Their chests were pressed up against each other, and he could feel her sweet breath fan over his face.
"No, no you're not," He said and dipped his head down to kiss her. It was meant as a sweet kiss, but as soon as their lips touched, they felt the thunderstorm build up in their stomachs, and he couldn't resist deepening the kiss.
Her hand snuck its way up his shirt, her small fingers stroking the soft skin of his abdomen while he cupped her face in his hands. She moaned, and he felt his body react to the sound. "You're going to be the death of me," he whispered in her ear, and she kissed his neck.
"Come," she whispered, pulling him across the room towards a velvet drapery. She pushed it aside, revealing a niche with a window and the statue of a Greek goddess, but there was also a marble bench there.
She stood in front of him, her cheeks flushed and her lip in her mouth. Never in his life had he seen something as beautiful as her in that moment. She was out of breath, and her hair was a bit of a mess, but no words could ever describe how he felt looking at her. So he kissed her again, lightning flickering in the back of his mind.
Her knees gave away from under her, and she trembled as she felt the cold marble against her skin. She lay back, pulling him with her. He hovered above her, using his elbows to hold himself up.
Their bodies were pressed against each other, and she smiled though the kiss when she felt him against her thigh. But their lips kept working against each other, fighting on a red battlefield, armed with moans and tongues.
A tremor ran down her spine when he ran his tongue inside her bottom lip, and she could feel a clench deep inside her stomach as he softly bit down on it. That was when she made up her mind.
He felt one of her arms leave their place in his hair, and he was just about to sigh in disapproval when he felt her hand take one of his and lead it down, down, down. He pulled away from her for a second, his brows knitted together as their eyes met. Hers were shiny, glazed over with passion, and his were no different.
"Are you sure?" He asked, and she nodded. So he kissed her once again, while his hand continued its journey down her body and hers went back to his hair. He stopped when he reached her hip. His fingers caressing her soft skin for a minute before lifting up her dress.
Her thighs were soft as silk, and he got to feel them for a second as she parted them. He would have been happy with just that, but then his fingers touched fabric again, and he knew he had reached his destination. It felt like lace, thin, expensive lace, and he ran his fingers over it slowly. He started at her hip, moving his hand over her in a slow, controlled manner until he ran them down and cupped her through her underwear.
His fingers got moist, even though the fabric. He pressed his middle finger against her, and enjoyed the moan leaving her lips.
"Oh god," he said, and slipped his hand beneath the fabric. She was warm and wet, his fingers exploring her folds as he felt his heart beat in his chest. There was no rush, only deep kisses and low sighs as he gently sunk a finger inside of her. He bent it a bit, feeling her walls, before sinking another one in.
She sucked in a sharp breath and bit his earlobe as she whispered: "I want your mouth." Her words made him shiver, and he kissed he one last time before nodding. And suddenly it wasn't just his hand travelling down her body, but all of him. He kneeled between her thighs and pulled his hand out of her underwear. He had been right, it was lace, light blue lace. In fact, it was so light it almost looked white, but he could see the wet stain between her thighs, and it was indeed blue.
He hooked his fingers under the lace and started pulling it down her legs. Down, down, down on the floor they went, and he placed small kisses on her thighs as he did so. He stopped when his lips reached her right thigh, because he could finally see what he had noticed before; a tattoo of a ship, sailing through a storm, framed by a dozen white roses. It was beautifully made, and for some reason, it made him smile. "I don't know why I ever thought your skin would be clean," he said and kissed it.
Up, up, up his lips went, until their reached her lower ones. His tongue explored her, finding her most sensitive spots, while his fingers sunk inside her once again.
She gasped for air as his tongue pressed against her. He had found it, her weak spot.
Her whole body was alive with pleasure, and she clasped her legs together. She wanted to scream, but she covered her mouth with one hand, while the other entangled itself in his curls. Every fibre in her body sang as his fingers moved in and out, and the thunderstorm in her stomach kept building up until she could bear it no more and she let go. Wave after wave of pleasure rolled over her, and all she could see was red. She sighed, and he pulled away from her.
"I told you I was good at this," he said, and kissed the top of her head.
Her hand was once again in his, and there was a new glow on their faces as they left the museum that day. People who passed them could never guess why, and their secret stayed between them. But as they walked down the museum steps and out in the afternoon sun, Adelaide bent over with laughter, and when Harry asked her why, she said: "I forgot my underwear inside," and he could not help but laugh with her.