Leverage

sophie devereaux

there are things that you do not speak of

I'm an actress so really, nothing is off limits to me. There's no role, no bit or piece, no person, no topic that's off limits.

I say that, but even I know that there are things you do not speak of.

This little thing between Eliot and I, for instance. It's so unspoken, that, at times, even I wonder if it truly exists. I have flashes, moments of time where I wonder if it's real, and then, he'll look at me from across the room and something skates across his eyes, or his lips twitch into the semblance of a smile, and I know. I know it's real.

That he and I have a... thing. An unnamed, hot, sexy, thing.

I'm not quite certain when this thing started, but I think it was sometime around The David Job. The first one.

All I know is, at one moment he was looking at me like he wanted to bite my bloody head off, and the next, the next, he was devouring me in a completely different way. Mouth, hands, thighs, cock... all of him taking me in.

Part of it, part of his hunger, I think, was fueled by his anger at me. He was so... well to be honest, he was just pissed as all hell at me. Looking back, I don't blame him for being angry, rather a shitty thing I'd done, to him, to the whole team, but I've always had a weakness for challenges... and for pretty things.

Which would probably encapsulate why I gave in to him so easily. He was - is – damn pretty.

And he challenged me. Every day. With his damn no nonsense attitude, and the fact that, even with his polite southern boy treatment of women, he called me on my shit. Daily.

Most people didn't see it, didn't see 'my tells'. They didn't hear the change in my voice, or the slight shift of my eyes, or the way my index finger tipped upwards when I was pulling shit. Or wanted to pull shit. But Eliot did. He saw it all. He'd made an effort to study me.

And now he saw me naked. In all ways.

… And the damnedest thing was, he still seemed to like me. Sans make up, sans clothes, sans character. Just me.

I hadn't expected anything from him after that first night. That first amazing night.

But three nights later, he was there. At my door. No excuse in hand. Just a bit of heat in his eyes. Eyes aimed directly at me.

I opened my door and let him in.

Of course, neither of us talked about it. Not to others, not to one another.

For him, words mean little, it's not what you say, it's what you do. The most honest men he'd ever met had little say. He'd taken that ideology to heart. Talking just got you into trouble. Actions were truth. His hands on my breasts – truth. His lips at my neck – truth. His cock delving into me – the depths of truth.

He has actions to speak for him. It's all he needs.

For me, the silence is triggered by fear. Fear that others, our team, our family, will question our decision. Fear that maybe I'll fall too hard and too fast for him.

And honestly, I don't know how to stop the fall. There's not a Parker approved parachute in sight.

So I fall. And fall. And... And somewhere, inside, I hope that by not speaking of the fall – of my feelings - I can cheat fate. I hope that I can make her think that this thing: this beauty, this heat, this 'him and me', is not important to me. And if Fate, that cold hearted bitch, doesn't know that 'this' means everything to me, she won't deign to take it from me.

I'm an actress so really, nothing is off limits to me. There's no role, no bit or piece, no person, no topic that's off limits.

I say that, but even I know that there are things you do not speak of.