They gazed upon one of humanity's greatest fantasies—the northern lights—as shades of blue, green, and violet blended into a luminous glow, the flowing forms accompanying each of them. Heavy jackets wrapped around their bodies, wool hats shielded their ears, and thick boots rising to their knees guarded their feet.
-I'm freezing. - replied Monica, as they all drew closer together, the cold seeping into their bones. Yet, in that beauty, amidst the subzero air, each of them carved out what they called a moment to remember—when happiness became a mixture of memories and hues, brimming with themselves, witnessing one of humanity's marvels, wide awake in the solitude of the icy desert.
-Let's just stay a little longer. - Billy responded, watching how the shifting lights swirled into a dance of melodies that carried them through another fifteen minutes of wonder beneath the bitter cold. Nothing like this could be seen now or before; the chance to behold something of such magnitude was rare. They looked up and down, drinking in each magnificent detail, the earth and humanity so present in spirit.
-You're freezing to death. - Billy murmured. -Come on, we can come back tomorrow or maybe the day after. We'll need a few days to get used to the cold. We'll refresh ourselves, but first we'll enjoy the hot springs.-
Monica's dark eyes widened intensely as she nodded. Her beauty against the snow was breathtaking. Though the skies were clear, the cold struck fiercely. A snow truck awaited them; they climbed in, shrinking from the frost. The vehicle descended for twenty minutes, winding down to the clearing. It was dangerous to be out at night without the skill, expertise, and experience required.
They reached their small cabin, no paparazzi daring to defy the merciless climate. The blizzards drove them away; if photos were taken, they were rare. Mercy did not exist in such punishing weather.
-This trip feels different from the ones we've taken before. - Monica remarked, sensing how silence filled her being.
Billy leaned in, pressing his lips slowly and firmly against hers. His kiss carried intensity; the distance between them was as valuable as closeness. It had been some time since they had been this near. All they had to consider now was the day of rest awaiting them.
-When I read your Titanic book, I was moved by the way you spoke of love, how you captured such an intense rupture. You reflected people's emotions with such strength, especially the image of Rose's fiancé. I think that when people read it, and when they watch the film again, they'll see that toxic love you portrayed—of a man consumed by selfishness, possession, and narcissism. Meanwhile, Rose simply yearned for a voice of her own, and Jack—so in love with life, colors, every detail—that it made me fall in love with the story all over again. When I reread the book and watched the movie afterward, I loved it even more. - Monica confessed, trying not to confront the recklessness of her feelings. She was years older, and he was still just a boy, but her heart burned with an obvious love. He was the icy discipline of his profession.
-It's hardly realistic to say I wrote that book between endless takes, a few glasses of wine, and long arguments with myself about love. - Billy admitted, recognizing perhaps his work as a writer was superficial, yet the reviews he had received were phenomenal in every respect.
-Maybe I tried to imitate Jane Austen, tried to make love a cascade of emotions that only intimacy and closeness could reveal. - Billy whispered.
Monica's lips had long been intense and burning, alive with passion. He remembered the phrase: "Since Catherine the Great, there has been nothing more beautiful than an Italian woman speaking French." It was true in the way she carried herself, when shame was set aside, when her character revealed itself. Women's lips varied—some cold, others rough, tongues swift, playful, or seeking rhythm—but with Monica, there was a flame that never seemed to end, a force of nature that carried them into an embrace of overwhelming tenderness, a disarming power that made them feel with such fervor.
-For some time now, I've wanted to end things with you. - Billy admitted, staring into her deep, black eyes. -I don't think I'm unhappy; it's just that I can never be satisfied with what I have. For months, it hasn't mattered to me. I feel trapped, maybe hunted by my own self. Our relationship just keeps advancing, day after day, as we stay together.-
Monica always remained silent when needed, supporting him at the right moments. Her prudence set her apart—almost the dream woman in every aspect. She seemed to know instinctively what to do or not to do. Perfect, precise, she understood situations and conditions that others could not. She was far more mature, realistic, and intelligent.
Her eyes carried the weight of accumulated time, awakening from dreams to face the burden of her decisions. Two lives intertwined by choices, in which space itself seemed to bend under the weight of those decisions. To formally attend work, to fulfill duties, to sustain life was never enough—it was also the mastery of emotions, stress, and unease. The weight of it pressed on her chest, undermining any fragment of self-control. The calm expected was out of reach. Losing control, unable to govern his own feelings, his mind leaning toward madness—this made relationships fleeting, sporadic, people dancing in and out of images.
-But…I simply didn't want to. - Billy answered, resting his head against her chest, surrendering to the fears and burdens he couldn't face, listening to the beating of her heart so close.
-Do you trust me?-
-I do. - Billy replied.
-Then tell me, how many women have you slept with since we've been together?-
-What are you talking about?- He was caught off guard; it was difficult, impossible even, without control, as if he were accused of some great misdeed.
-In truth, it's fear. I'm afraid because I love you too. I know you see another woman. It's normal—you're so young. You should be in college, going to parties, living your life, or traveling the world with a girlfriend or two. But what I ask of you is intensity. - Monica said softly.
-I'm garbage. - Billy muttered.
-Shhhh. - Monica whispered. -Just hush.-
-May our relationship last as long as it possibly can. - Monica replied.
…
Wrapped together under a feather quilt, their bodies pressed close, the sensation of lying with nothing but their skin. Their warmth carried them into rest. Love poured from each of them. Each breathed deeply, while their kisses grew more passionate. Monica's firm breasts pressed against his chest, her legs entangled with his. The brush of sheets between them drew sighs of irony from their shared dance of love—a ritual beginning with the chase, evolving into courtship, from times when language barely existed, when silence spoke more than words.
Billy pressed his lips, his body, his very soul against hers. They moved together, undertaking the delicate study of rediscovering one another—the sweet taste of her perfume, the oils on their skin, the pleasure of consuming one another.
Though older, she was slender, about ten centimeters shorter, just enough for him to lift his eyes and see her, answering fire with fire. Her skin bristled; every touch carried a shade of lust that made them moan with growing intensity. Their bodies joined, their cries and tremors filling the space with timeless longing.
Monica leaned down, sliding against him. Billy kissed her deeply, their legs shifting, trembling, until each step brought them closer. Both took their place, her legs opening, surrendering to the rush of oxytocin that made her curse aloud. Billy's hands moved from her hips to her breasts, then upward to her ears, scratching lightly as she purred like a cat.
-Almost there. - Monica whispered.
Billy quickened his pace, thrusts sharper, forcing him to clutch her tightly. He leaned close, awaiting the miracle—when both would finally unleash the madness within.
...