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Bedsprings
AUTHOR: The Corruptor (aka Pooh Pascal... um... *grin*)
She remembered being cold. The howling wind, a foreboding of the snowstorm certain to come, banged intermittently against the frosted glass of the window. Accompanying this at intervals of a few seconds were the whistles of frigid air escaping the bitter cold into the cozy warmth of the room through cracks in the window frame. The rustling of the remaining autumnal leaves, along with the cheery staccato of the tree branch tapping against the roof, set a strangely ominous rhythm. The melodious interlude was completed by the soft sigh of gently billowing pale blue curtains, played with musical expertise by ghostly fingers. Against this orchestra, the dark blue fleece blanket did not stand a chance. There was nothing to curtail the chill she sensed creeping into her bones. She was freezing, and yet, too exhausted to care. An extra loud howl rattled the windowpane, dragging her halfway out of sleep as an unexpected blast of brisk air peeked under her coverlet. She was certain her mother had neglected to shut the windows all the way, but sheer exhaustion kept her from getting out of bed to finish the job. Instead, she lazily snuggled deeper into the recesses of the blanket, trying not to shiver herself awake. She remembered being warm. Two gentle hands -- soft and warm -- subconsciously reminding her of her mother. One hand ran slowly, lovingly, through her long strands of hair, inviting her to relax into the gesture. The other pulled the fleece blanket higher around her chin, efficiently tucking her in, then patting her soothingly into a deep slumber. She was only half-aware of the edge of the bed sinking under the weight of another body -- no doubt her mother wishing to conserve heat by snuggling with her, as she was often wont to do when her daughter had been much younger. Remembrances of comforting childhood memories lingered playfully at the edges of her mind as one of the worshipful hands snaked under the blanket and teasingly ran up and down her cold arm, returning blood flow and warmth into the limb. She sighed, pleased, and the body burrowed under the shared blanket, rolling up against her back. She registered an arm protectively encircle her waist, pulling her back into her bedmate’s cozy embrace. She snuggled into the perfect fit, murmuring her consent and approval for the added warmth. It was exactly how she remembered it; the way her mother would slip into bed and comfort her after one of her irrational childhood nightmares, and she had reveled in her mother’s secure and loving nearness. A head gently lolled against her own, the steady warmth of breath caressing her neck, the quiet rhythm lulling her into a deep and contented sleep. She remembered feeling safe. A ray of yellow warmth snuck through a part in the pale blue curtains and caressed her fair face in a mellow bath of light. Murmuring, reluctant to leave the warm cocoon of the fleece blanket, she buried her head deeper into the fluffy feather pillow, only sleepily registering the light heady scent of a musky clean companion. She was more aware of how her feet had peeked out from under the blanket and were beginning to freeze once again. She tugged gently on the edge of the blanket, but was rewarded with only an inch more of blessed covering. An affectionate smile surfaced at the corners of her lips as she remembered that her mother had always been a blanket hog. Instinctively searching for an extra source of heat, she sensed the gentle presence behind her. She smiled to herself, wondering if her proposed actions would wake her mother, even though she knew that not only was Lorelai known for stealing blankets, she was also notorious for being a heavy sleeper. Deciding that staying warm was her first priority, she chanced it. It was the only way she would be able to get her share of the desired blanket without going so far as to actually getting out of bed and retrieving another one. Absently, she scooted backwards. Until she met firm resistance. It was a little further than she had anticipated going. And it was also too late. To her surprise, the body reacted to her, effectively molding itself to fit her own body’s curves and contours. The body now wrapped around her, enveloping her in a layer of fire and heat, was hard and sculpted. The body… was not her mother’s. Her eyes snapped open as she realized her mistake. Her own pliant body stiffened as she also realized that she could not recall where she was. The room was neat and inviting enough – decorated in nondescript hues of blue and white -- but her position on the bed offered no vantage point to provide clues as to where she was. Or whose bed she had accidentally stumbled into. She tried to scoot towards the edge of the bed, away from the strange, yet peculiarly not unfamiliar body, only to discover an impassible obstacle in a well-toned arm, thrown protectively and absently around her waist. The hand attached to the arm was lost within the folds of her shirt, having possessively grasped a stretch of the soft cotton material that failed to cover an exposed section of her skin. In this position, part of his palm – and it was definitely a “his” -- hovered precariously over the swell of her abdomen, right above her pants, where her shirt had ridden up during sleep. With some consternation, she realized that every breathe she took exacerbated the situation by forcing skin on skin contact, resulting in an inexplicable tingle shooting involuntarily through her body. The goosebumps she was currently experiencing were no longer the end product of the cold; she now felt as if she were drowning under the suffocating inferno of a fever. Conscientiously, she measured her breathing, allowing only shallow gulps of air to prevent further contact from occurring again while she assessed her predicament. To her dismay, she found herself locked in a tight embrace, unable to untangle herself from the bed sheets or extricate herself from the muscular arm. When she had mistakenly scooted backwards to reclaim her share of the blanket and partake in what she initially believed had been her mother’s maternal warmth, she had unknowingly closed the gap between the two bodies. And now, as she lay on her side, curled in a semi-fetal position, she found her entire backside occupying the expanse of a hard, yet comforting, body. Even the space behind the crook of her knees had been flawlessly filled by the other’s. Just as a burst of fear percolated under her fleetingly cool façade, she squeezed her eyes closed and willed herself not to panic. Willed herself not to think about how comfortable and warm she was at the moment. How protected and secure she felt. And how her body wanted nothing more than to seek refuge within the light grasp of her companion. She could sense the slow steady rise and fall of the other’s broad chest against her back, and she hoped that deep sleep would permit her companion to loosen the grip on her, at least long enough for her to escape. If only she could remember where she was, and how she had gotten there in the first place. If only she could remember lots of things. But she was at a loss to explain any of the million of questions tumbling through her head. It was also not helping that the whisper of her companion’s warm breath, playing with the loose tendrils of her hair by her neck, was starting to itch in a pleasantly distracting way. Threatening to induce her into peaceful unconsciousness. Against her power and better judgment, her eyes drifted shut. Calm, trusting, welcome sleep. She was suddenly aroused awake by a hitch in the rhythmic breathing, followed by the unusually longer rise and fall of the athletic chest behind her. She stiffened in response. A sharp silent intake of breath left her neck cold, but the subsequent exhalation of a warm misty breath by the back of her neck tickled. Yet, she did not find the predicament amusing at all. In the span of less than a second, her companion’s breathing had been regulated, casually returning to the easy and measured respiration from moments before. As if he had been merely bothered by a brief tug out of deep sleep. But she was not fooled. She could sense eyes on her now, an awake and inquisitive presence slowly drinking in her own appearance. So far, she had been only dismayed in having to consider another’s presence behind her. Now that she was certain he was also awake, she was frightened at what would come next when they faced each other. She was certainly grateful to discover that she was still dressed in her sweater and jeans, and that what she could see of the arm around her was dutifully encased in a sleeve of red. Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed that he also had his pants on. And if not, that at least she hadn’t been foolish enough to lose hers. There was a degree of uncertainty and fright in working up the nerve to discover exactly who was behind her. Turning around or asking would have helped to ease the anxiety that accompanied her case of temporary amnesia, but she did neither. Her mind would have also liked her companion to placate her uneasiness by informing her that indeed nothing inappropriate had occurred between them during the course of her forgetfulness. Which of course, he did not. Sensing some futility in their current course of non-action towards solving the mystery of their quandary, she decided that if she didn’t do something soon, she would lose all nerve and end up lying there until her bedmate decided to admit he was also awake. She held a reserve of patience, but she had a feeling of apprehension that in this case, at least, her partner’s ability to feign sleep would outlast her ability to lay still. Making the first move, she opened her mouth to speak but found it dry, her voice coming out scratchy and inaudible with a distasteful reminder of the distinct cotton-mouth sensation of having just woken up. Despite her fear in finding out who was behind her and the circumstances that had led her to be enveloped in his embrace, she was delicately and endearingly sensitive of having to face the stranger with a case of morning breath. The self-conscious sentiment was quickly extinguished by the greater urge to extricate herself from her predicament. She cleared her throat and tried again. With a bluntness she was used to displaying in uncomfortable situations, she didn’t bother needlessly with the simple questions: Who are you? Where am I? What am I doing here? What did you do to me? As she turned her head to question the face attached to the arm circling her, she had caught the light musky scent pervading the air behind her. It had not registered when she first encountered it, almost imperceptibly, scenting her pillow when she had first awaken. But now, she recognized the fresh clean scent. It was familiar. Too familiar. There was no basis for the hope that welled within her, but she prayed that the voice that would eventually answer her would prove to be strange and foreign to her. At this point, with no knowledge of what had occurred hours before, she would welcome the arms of a stranger. Anyone but the recognizable. Especially that one. “What are you doing?” she demanded, her question coming out in a loud whisper instead of the affronted and outraged demand that had been her goal. With his head up against hers, she could not fully turn her head to identify her mystery companion. She refused to hazard a guess as to his name, knowing with dreaded certainty – even as she diligently and fervently prayed she was wrong – that voicing aloud would make it undeniably true. There was a long silent pause, and she was afraid that she had been wrong. That he was not awake but inconceivably still asleep. It would not be the first mistake she had made that day, and she was positive it wouldn’t be her last. The slight movement behind her, however, alleviated her fear, but was still not enough to break the close contact between their two bodies. And as soon as he spoke, her eyes fluttered closed, heart sinking in dismay, even as the saccharine cheerfulness of his confident and recognizable voice assured her that at least in one thing that morning, she had been correct.
“I think this is what we call spooning.”
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