The road to Hell is paved with… soft cardigans

The road to Hell is paved with… soft cardigans

Joe’s POV
 

In all those years, how many girls did I see get into Mooney's?

Countless.
And how many of them wore cardigans?

Probably many of them.

But how many can manage to wear them as if they were an extension of themselves?

Only you, Bronte.

I guess that so far I have a favourite one, which probably is your fave too, since you wear it so many times.
You even wear it in that instagram post about you I saw last morning, as I made breakfast.

The teal, hip length cardigan, with the wavy edge with refined holes.

It looks oh so soft.

I remember the first time I saw it on you, it was such an eventful day: first that hideous thrifted armchair you dared to bring in my store, though I admit it gained some allure when you sat on that, the open black jacket revealing glimpse of green underneath, as you kept gesticulating so frantically, in the attempt to convince me to keep it - which it was an epic fail, since that piece of garbage went back to the dump it belongs to.-

Then you had it on when you met Henry; ooh, you made such a good impression on him, the fact you like LOTR definitely made you score points in his ranking of favourite people, he kept talking about you, before that awful dinner.

And after that dinner, here we go, I’ve caught you inside my cage.

You wrapped yourself in that cardigan, trying to get some comfort, some protection.

Not only from the 65 degrees and the forty percent of humidity, but mostly from me.

You looked so scared and you had every possible reason to be: back to that night, I was so mad at you.
But that didn’t prevent me from seeing your fire: those things you said to me, the way you stood up to me, your cockiness in admitting you were even ready to steal from me just to fix all your troubles. I admit that such a confession requires bravery.

And then, just when I had every intention of kicking you out and never hearing from you ever again, you mentioned my writings; what you said about them, your constructive criticism, the way you teased me to the point I exploded.

For a fragment of a second, I was so tempted to drag you back to the cage with me and show you how much my anti-hero and I are just the same.

You would have backed off to the point your back was pressed against the glass, feeling my breath on your neck, as you would have faced the floor, too afraid to look at me.

I would have gently placed my finger under your chin, forcing you to raise your gaze.
And you would have stared at me, panting, with your heartbeat racing, just like mine, as I read in your blue, soulful eyes that there was no other place you wished to be, but right there in that cage, with me, welcoming greedily what was about to happen.

I even had the feeling I wouldn’t even have had to kiss you, you would have done it first.
You would have clinged on me, your arms wrapped around my neck, your lips touching mine, but not with hesitation.

I would have gladly parted my lips, as a clear invitation, our tongue would have been free to play with each other for as long as they pleased, exploring palates, teeth.
Then you would have tugged on the collar of my shirt, undoing the first buttons.
My fingers would have toyed with the holes in your cardigan, feeling its softness, right before tugging at it more violently, with a ripping sound. I would have torn it out more and more, before yanking the now tattered piece of fabric off your body

I know I’ve said it’s my favourite cardigan, indeed in real life I would never do such a thing; but c’mon it’s my wild fantasy, I can let myself go.

 You would have gasped at that at first, your fist instinct would have to cover your chest, now that you were wearing just a tiny white tank top, pretty much revealing.

I would have assured you, with a sweet smile and a sentence like: “Don’t worry, I’m gonna be gentle”,  as I placed soft kisses above the top of your boobs that the tank top left so exposed.
With the same gentleness and patience, my hands would have lowered on your miniskirt, pulling it down, along with your panties, then I would have knelt down, smelling your arousal.
You would have moaned in delight as I had already started to kiss and sucking you there, right before pushing me away.
I would have looked at you, asking if I had done something wrong, but then I would have seen that light in your eyes and I would have figured out everything, even before you uttered those nine words: “What if I don’t want you to be gentle?”

I would have instantly got up and you would have pulled me closer, your hands getting rid of my pants and boxer, eager, needy, horny.
“Take me, Joe!” you would have begged me.
Growling, just like the characters in the cheesy books you love to read, I would have lifted you up, trapping you between the glass and me, you would have wrapped your legs around my waist as I entered you in just one, determined push and you cried in pleasure, our souls connected even more than our craving bodies.

Yeah, Bronte, that’s the effect that cardigan has on me.

I also wonder if you also wore it when you found the last pages I had hidden in the drawer of my office.
My not so well hidden pages, those pages that probably a part of me wanted you to find.
What did you feel when you read them? Were you caressing the edge of your cardigan, while in your mind your hands were my hands?
Did you toy with the sleeves? Did you just take it off because things were getting too hot?

And then there’s that other cardigan, more like a jacket, Yale blue, full of pearl buttons, slightly longer on the back.
It followed every of your movements so naturally.
You wore it only once and once again it was an eventful day.

It was that day when I decided to not only give your job back, but my apartment, too.
I still remember when I opened the door and you took a look around in awe, wondering if I really was so willingly, so unselfishly, doing such a generous thing for you.
And I was.
I replay the whole scene in my mind, but this time at the ‘No catch’ moment, we stare at each other in a way that makes both of us understand how much we’re lying.

A second later we’re kissing voraciously, without even knowing who started first, without even caring.
I walk backwards, along with you, our kiss never breaking.
I reach the desk and I sit on it, with you on my lap.

My hands are sneaking beneath the thin, see-through cardigan, as you’re unbuttoning my khaki shirt.
You reach its end and take it off me, as I caress your legs, going higher and higher, till I cross the edge of your panties with a finger.
Oh, Bronte, you’re so ready for me.

We both get up, but only to take all of our clothes off, but before you reach me again on the desk, an idea triggers me

“Please, put your cardigans on again.” I murmur, as I lay down on the desk.

You cock a surprised eyebrow at me but obey.
And you’re such a vision.
I can see your turgid nipples through that oh so thin cardigan, the curves of your body.
I can’t think of anything sexier.
I can’t hold on a minute longer.
I beckon you to reach me just with my gaze.
And you walk towards me, but slow, so damn slow.
The cardigan baring a new zone of you with every one of your purposeful steps.
You really want to torture me.

Once you finally reach the desk you can’t help noticing the effect you’re having on me.
You straddle me, you raise your hips and then you impale yourself, but not all at once.
It’s gradual, patient and slow.
That kind of slowness that can kill.
And I die, bit by bit, as you sink into me, as I sink into you, as we become one.

Once it’s done, you move up and down, with increasing pace, as I try to adjust to your hypnotic rhythm.

The edges of your ethereal cardigan caress my skin, like waves lapping the rock.
No metaphor has ever been more fitting, since I’m hard as a rock for you.
We go on and on and on, until you cry in pleasure, my name on your lips.
I follow you in the overwhelming ecstasy a few minutes later and you take all I have to give.

“We were so determined to be nowhere near the affair territory… but I’m afraid we got lost somewhere along the way!” You giggle as you collapse on my chest.

“Best trouble I’ve ever gotten myself into.” I murmur, as I caress and smell your hair that smells of berries.

Okay, this daydreaming fantasy about us was so fucking intense that I need some time tho recover.

Not that I’m masturbating, my hands are as far as possible from my pants.
It’s not that I couldn’t enjoy myself.
I’m in the Lockwood Corp, in my useless office, but everyone else has gone away -not that a public place stopped me before, in my not so lucid moments-, cheering for Kate and her victory.

My victory, that no-fucking-one aknowledges, esp. fucking Kate.
My ungrateful wife of my marriage that’s more dead than R.I.P. Reagan.
But now I see things so more clearly.
Now I know what it’s worth fighting for: you.

And that’s why I’m not jerking myself off over the ideas of what could happen between you and me.
I mean, why should I get content with the trailer, when I can watch the whole movie?

It’s time I step off this soulless office, probably for the very last time.
My real place is at Mooney’s. With you.
That’s where I feel at home.
That’s where I’m heading.
And as I walk with this new, awesome awareness, I pamper myself with another image: the black and orange striped cardigan you wore two days ago, when I unlocked the new fantasy of recusing you from a pile of books.
Let’s go on from there.

I lift you up, you desperately cling to me as if your life depended on that and this time our eyes lock to each other for a dangerous, single second longer than needed to resist our mutual, inner urge.

“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t…” You barely utter, as you bring your hand to my face, caressing it as if it was the most precious thing in the world.

“And I know I shouldn’t let you do it…” I murmur back, staring at your lips one second before you place them on mine.

Just for a few instants, just for a gentle skimming, then you back off, staring at me, so nervously.
You’re waiting for my reaction.
You’re dying to know if it wasn’t the right thing to do or not.
Of course, it wasn’t, but I’m so glad that you did.

I smile, before kissing you back, with every intention of making it last for much longer.
Our kiss is pure chemistry, is a firework, it’s a bomb we didn’t manage to defuse in time.
So, let’s just enjoy the explosion.
Kissing you feels so natural that I wonder if maybe we hadn’t already done it in another one thousand previous lives.
You pull me down with you, first kneeling and then laying down over all those fallen books, still engrossed in our kiss.
Me, above you, both panting, both craving so much more contact.
I trace the length of your cardigan with my fingers, from the waist to the shoulder, before gently letting it slide off of you.
You tug at my cloud grey, cashmere sweater and I help you take it off, along with my T-shirt.
One by one all of our clothes reach the floor.
You lay on those cheesy second-rate novels, raising your arms up, in total surrender.
I slide into you and you arch back in pleasant surprise, as you keep welcoming me inside you.
And once we part from each other, worn out but plenty satisfied, your cardigan proves to be such a warm blanket to cuddle beneath.

No matter all the scenarios I’m playing in my mind, I know that the reality is gonna be even more amazing.
As I know that I’m on my way to self-destruction, probably I'll lose everything, but not henry, never him, i’m gonna fight nails and teeth for my son.

They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

Mine is paved with… soft cardigans, and I’m going straight to Hell, undoing one button at a time.

Will you wear a new cardigan, maybe?
C’mon, Bronte, surprise me, you always do.

--

THE END