Infuriating: there's a shirt under that shirt. It's white and it's plain and it's thick cotton, comfortable, conforming to the slope of his trapezius, the span of his chest. He looks down as she flies through his buttons, and he laughs, and it's a little out of breath this time but it hardly matters. He kisses her again. A little more fiercely this time.
"Yeah, good idea."
He carries her from the pool table, too chivalrous or too lustful to let her down. They go away from the hanging lights; they go into a realm of firelit shadows that dance and skitter and flicker and flare. A Fianna ought to have a fur rug in front of his hearth, but then: this isn't the great hearth, nor the hearth in his bedroom. There's no fur on the ground. There is a very large, expansive sectional sofa, though, and that's where he takes her, half-blind, weaving his way there between kisses, unbuttonings, gentle scrapes of his teeth over her lower lip, her ear.
His knees bump the couch. He kneels onto it, tilts onto it, they tumble down together on the flat, soft cushions. He rears back to peel his red-checked shirt off, tugging it off his arms, glad of the cuffs he left unbuttoned and rolled up. It hits the floor. He lets her roll his undershirt up; lifts his arms and helps her tug it over his head. That goes to the ground too. He's well-muscled and well-built, heavy across the chest and thick in the biceps and powerful in the shoulders. He's hairier than is fashionable these days. There's hair on his chest, hair on his forearms, hair all down his midline until it disappears past his belt buckle. He's been working the stock all day and he hasn't had the benefit of a shower. When he comes down over her he smells like smoke from the fire, like the scotch they've been drinking; like the sweat of the day and the earthy stink of the cattle. And like himself beneath all that: potent, male, the wild blood of stag's tribe.
His knuckles brush her abdomen as he peels her tanktop up. And off. It gets abandoned somewhere north of her head. If she's wearing a bra that goes too. If she's not he wraps his arms around her body, lifts her, gives one breast a single long lick before wrapping his mouth around the opposite nipple. This time there's no mistaking it: he growls against her flesh. It sounds like satisfaction. Between her thighs, he presses himself to her -- so hard under his jeans that even the thick denim and whatever sturdy utilitarian underwear he's likely wearing does nothing to disguise the shape of his erection.
Avery ChaseGood idea. Not to stumble up the stairs, not to run into his father up for a late-night snack, not to be laid down in Calden's own bed, in his room, where everything smells more like him than anywhere else. These are all good ideas. She is, after all, so very clever.
Her legs remain around his waist when he lifts her off the pool table completely. They tighten, ankles crossed and arms wrapped around him. There's hunger in the way she goes at his mouth, in the way she pulls button after button from its mooring until her own closeness to his torso precludes any more undressing. It's darker and lighter by the fire, dark and light in a different way from where they stood under the little halogen spots. Avery sighs when he runs his teeth over her lip; she shudders when he bites her earlobe and arches her back, pressing herself against him that much harder.
And: there's laughter when they tumble to the sectional. She falls easily to her back, but is sitting up again, legs to either side of his thighs, helping him finish unbuttoning that overshirt, pushing up his t-shirt, leaning forward to lick his abdominals from waist to low ribs while he finishes pulling it off. Those hands of hers, holding him by the belt-loops of his jeans to keep him there, are so slender, and so soft, and untouched by the kind of rough work that calloused his own. They leave shivering, silky wakes over his flesh where she touches him, running her palms up his sides, over his chest.
Her thumb strokes one nipple, a slow and thoughtful flick. She follows the touch with her mouth, engulfing some small part of him in heat and licking him while she suckles, gently.
Until, of course, he disrupts her. Her shirt is coming up. She does wear a bra, built in and stretched tight. His hands are under her shirt then, over the bra, under the elastic, wrists and hands brushing her breasts as he works it off. Her mouth pulls back, leaving his nipple wet and cold, so he can remove her shirt entirely and drop it somewhere over by their discarded jackets.
There is another scar, or another part of the same scar, tucked between her breasts, more to her left than her right. The bullet went straight through her body. Straight through her heart. She's a wolf, though; it healed as nice and neat as the one on her back. Just a little scar, a little discoloration, but god knows she hates the sight of it.
Calden's mouth tracks up her body as they fall back to the cushions again, his body all brute force, all solidity, and quite a bit larger than her own. She arches into him, while his arm folds around her, his hand between her shoulderblades lifting her up to be licked, to be sucked on. Her breasts are palm-filling, mouth-sweetening, the skin creamy as milk and her nipples a tart pink. He growls, unmistakably. She feels herself grinding against him through their respective lowerwear, hears herself starting to pant, and with a long shudder that goes all the way through her, Avery stops that nonsense right away. She lifts her hips more forcefully, shoving against his hips, looking down at him with gleaming eyes. Her breath is heavy, exerted, but steady. "Off," she says, pulling his arm, pushing his wrist down to the waist of her pants. "Take them off."
Calden WhiteThere's laughter, indeed, when they tumble down. It shivers between them, rumbling in his chest and vibrating in her throat, which he kisses until he's pushing up on his knees to get his shirts off. She comes up with him. His head is swathed in cotton when she first touches him with her mouth, and the unexpectedness of it makes his abs contract with a shiver. He laughs again, muffled, and then his shirt comes off and away and his hair is rumpled; he looks down at her with a smile in his eyes and a smile on his mouth, both of which melt into something darker and hotter when she strokes his body like she's exploring unseen territory. Puts her mouth to his chest.
They slow down for a little while. His hand cups the back of her head. He's tanned and roughened by the sun, the wind, the work, but there's a natural ruddiness to his skin that accentuates with the blood rushing to the surface. He pulls her up to him again, kisses her, eats at her mouth until he shifts on his knees; presses more firmly against her, nearly tumbles her back again.
But doesn't, yet. Her shirt comes off first, and its attached, built-in bra. It takes a moment to work it off. Then they're both bare to the waist, and his hands are bracketing her ribs, cupping the undersides of her breasts; he's looking at her with naked want in his eyes and
something else, too, a flicker of recognition and ache and understanding when he sees where that bullet came out. He thinks to kiss her there, but it seems a layer too intimate. They're still nearly strangers, when all is said and done. They tumble down again after all, bodies pressing hungrily together, grinding, rolling; he's growling; her breathing changes
and then she bucks him off. Or back, at least. He pushes up on one hand, questioning. She pulls the other hand to her pants, and that warm good humor lights in his eyes again.
"My pleasure," he quips, rising up to stand on his knees, whipping her soft yoga pants up and off so fast they fly over his head; nearly land in the fire.
He comes back to her, then. Picks up where he left off: sucking at her breasts, kissing a soft trail down and down and down until he finds her panties. He uses his teeth. He tugs at her panties, laughing, rubbing his cheek against her inner thigh, and so of course he doesn't progress very far at all. When he lets go the elastic snaps back against her belly. He follows it down; pushes his face roughly between her thighs, presses his tongue against her clit right through her panties. This time he doesn't laugh. This time he makes this sound in his throat, mmm, wrapping his arms around her legs, lifting her thighs over his shoulders, licking and sucking at her like he may have forgotten she still has an article of clothing on.
Avery ChaseThe rest of her is untouched, unsullied, unassailable. If she were still enough she could be a portrait, she could be marble. She moves, though, and her cheeks flush and her breasts are pink where he sucked on them, her thighs are briefly reddened by the scratching of his cheek. She smells like the soap in his guest room, like water and wind and the lingering smell of her conditioner, which is traced through with something that might be gardenias. Then there's the way she moves: all grace and royal dignity, every step encircled with charisma. She might not be made of cold, silver-shot stone, but she does seem almost unreal. Fantastical. Too good for him, too good for anyone.
She sweats like any woman, though. She finds herself panting for him, grinding against him, and when he strips her down to her underwear he finds her wet to the point of slickness. When he lowers his face between her legs he can smell her, all sex and want and mammalian heat. When his hand is holding her breast, playing with her, stroking her, he can feel her heart beating fast, fast against his palm, eager, already hunting release.
Her panties are thongs. It confirms what he might have guessed even when she was walking up the stairs ahead of him. They are cotton, horizontally striped with black and white, decorated by a tiny black satin bow in front. They are far more decorative than her outer clothes, which are all function and comfort. These are comfortable, too. Even when they're clinging to her hips while he tugs them down with his teeth, even when he leaves them where they are to start licking her, like he's an animal himself.
Avery takes to it like she was expecting it. Like this is only what she deserves, or what he's here for. She bites her lower lip, brow knitted, and does not hesitate to hold him by the hair, rest the softened soles of her feet on his back, grind wantonly against his tongue.
"Yes, that's it," she breathes, "lick it," she whispers, "lick that hot pussy, you filthy bastard," she says, the words demanding and her tone pleading. Her breathing hitches, wetness staining his chin even with the cotton in the way. She grips his hair tighter, groaning, the groan disintegrating, eroding, falling apart at the edges until it reveals itself as a growl.
Calden WhiteWhat she says surprises him. Doesn't shock him. Makes him laugh against her cunt, bury his mouth there, work his tongue on her like this is, in fact, what he was made for. His rightful place.
And maybe it is. The gravity between them is primal and primordial. It goes deeper than man and woman; it goes beyond the boundaries of tribe. They ended up here because of what happened in the cellar and over dinner and at the pool table and between them, but even had none of that happened, even had they never kissed and pulled one another tumbling onto the couch, it would not change what is inherently there between them. She is a wolf, and he is kin to wolves. He's drawn to the wildness he can smell in her. And she can surely taste the flickers of purity in him as well. The history in his bones. The strength in his blood and his body when he laughs like that, when he takes his mouth from her and pulls her panties up, off, pulls them off while he whispers, mock-aghast:
"Miss Avery Chase. Really, I'm shocked."
right before he spreads her open with his fingers and goes at her with such ferocity that the lines blur. Perhaps he's an animal too. His eyes gleam when they lock on hers. Then they close, and his brow furrows, and while she's grinding on his mouth he's nuzzling against her cunt, quite literally covering his nose and his jaw and his lips and his tongue with her slick. There's a clink of a belt-buckle, a button slipping free, his zipper coming down. He kicks his jeans down to his ankles, pushes his boxers aside,
(they're flannel too, and checked, though not red but grey,)
and now he has his cock in his hand, hard, pulsing with his hammering heartbeat. He doesn't stroke. He just holds himself, holds her breast in his other hand, licks her, licks her, eats at her. He's burying muffled, rough sounds against her pussy now. He can't get enough of her taste.
Avery ChaseShe snarls at him. His teasing words, the laughter. She snarls and her hand tightens hard in his hair. She swears at him, mutters something akin to shut the fuck up, Calden and moments later she's naked. He stops and she moans, the first truly plaintive sound she's made, but it's only to get her panties off. Avery scoots up the couch a few inches, up on her elbows, her body laid out long and athletic and lovely but for that awful, life-ending, life-wrenching scar. Her eyes are on him, tracking up his body, exploring his torso and the shape of his cock through his jeans the way her hands and her body were exploring him earlier.
Calden bows again, to worship or devour, and Avery falls back again, collapsing into cushions and pillows, opening her legs a little wider. She should be closing them, primly. She should be gasping that she can't do this, it isn't all right, the Law, the tribes, he's not for her, she can't, oh she just can't, wrist-to-forehead! She should be pushing him back and telling him that she's going to find his closest Garou relative or guardian or someone at Forgotten Questions to ask permission to fuck him
in his own home
on his own furniture
of his own will.
Avery, instead, works herself on his mouth, guides him by the roots of his hair, covers him in her scent, marks him like, yes, they are both little more than rutting beasts. She hears him unbelting, unzipping, rustling denim and flannel down his legs and off. She can't see him clearly though. So: she plants her hand on his chest and shoves him backward, firm but not possessed of very great strength. It's more her confidence, her certainty that what she wants is what others want -- or will want -- certainty that her will is going to be understood, certainty that others will see that open rebellion for the sake of open rebellion is, in the end, far weaker than admitting wisdom when you see it.
Wisdom such as this: Avery's eyes taking in the sight of him hungrily, her lips dry from her gasping, moistened by the slide of her tongue against them. He can still see her, wet and spread open before him, and she can see him, cock in hand, until she lets out a low, soft noise and descends upon him, pushing at his hand so her own can take its place, taking him as easily -- and as eagerly -- in her mouth now as she did when she was sucking at his nipple. He made this same sound earlier. He licked her tits for the first time, he sucked on her nipple, and he growled with satisfaction and relief. Avery makes that sound now, groaning around him, shuddering from the relief of it.
Calden WhiteShut the fuck up, Calden: it makes him laugh again, a real laugh this time, one that makes him stop what he's doing with his mouth and her cunt and oh god. His brow rests to her inner thigh for a moment, and he's laughing, there's a warm dark joy in him, like embers in a winter hearth. Then he's on her again, and her hand is in his hair, and oh, there are Laws against this, tribes and claims and she should really talk to his aunt's husband's brother's wife or whomever,
whoever,
who gives a fuck. She moans. The sound is so sweet. He suddenly has quite the crush on her, even as he's nipping her thigh and whispering shh, shhh, even though he's the one that keeps growling as he licks up every
last
drop of her slick.
She shoves him back. He plants his hands on the cushions and pushes himself up, and she gives him another push that tumbles him backwards. He thuds into the low arm of the couch, a dark grin flickering over his mouth. He works his jeans all the way off, and his boxers and his socks, and she's watching him and he knows she's watching him, taking in the sight of his body heavy with muscle and bone -- the span of his chest and the taper of his torso, the muscles in his thighs hard from riding. That line of hair does, in fact, run all the way down; right to the cock he has in hand, stroking now, sliding his calloused palm from base to head and around and down again as he stares
right back at her.
He doesn't tell her she's hot. Or beautiful. Or any of that. Doesn't have to: it's in his eyes. They're burning, gleaming, he's licking his lips even as she's licking hers, they could eat each other up. She comes at him and he intercepts her, grabs her behind the head and kisses her mouth ravagingly. Then she goes down on him. He leans back, bracing his elbows on the couch arm, one foot on the ground, toes curling against hardwood.
"Oh, my god," he whispers, harsh. She groans around his cock in the same moment. The sound drives through him like a spike, a stake right down his spine. His cock jumps against her tongue, and now his hands are curled into fists; he flexes his hips as she takes him in. His head falls back and he groans, loudly, forgetting himself, remembering a second later, dragging a broad hand over his face, biting the meat of his palm to muffle
the next groan, more torn this time, shuddering with the shiver of his abdominals, the involuntary jerk of his cock. "Oh jesus."
Avery ChaseThey stare at each other for a moment there, both of them finally, completely naked. She stares at his body and licks her lips, watching him stroke himself -- so shameless, so filthy, so awful. He stares at her, all sweet skin and small pink marks where he's bitten at her, nipped at her thighs, and licks his lips, too. When she reaches for him, wants him, he grabs her by the head. Avery moans into his mouth that time, suddenly eager, gasping, palms on his chest. She is almost climbing over him, close to what he envisioned earlier, and the head of his cock brushes against her stomach, making her shiver.
Mouths tatter apart. She sucks his cock instead, groaning and -- without missing a beat, really -- bobbing her head over his lap while he is swearing to god and christ, sound like he's promising them something, anything, if he gets through this alive. Calden muffles his groaning into his hand. Avery lets a low, dark laugh shiver from her throat without loosing him from her mouth, licking his head where she holds it against her tongue.
If any of the ranch hands -- or, god forbid, his father -- happened to wander downstairs right now, that is what they'd see: a naked woman, beautiful, fit, with near-perfect everything, on her hands and knees on the couch, blowing their boss. Enthusiastically. No one would guess she's a Silver Fang. They are supposed to be so private with their sex, so ashamed of it, so old-world and old-fashioned ideals. You can't have a baby for Gaia like that, Avery, that's not where that ugly thing goes.
She strokes him, too, working him with her mouth and her palm. Her lips slip up his cock, and off, and her lips are wet and his cock is wet and she looks at him, looks straight at him, when she opens her mouth and slides him against her tongue, watches him as she takes him again, until her lips close again, until she bends her neck again, until she closes her eyes and starts sucking him
again.
Calden WhiteMaybe there's some Pretty Woman rule about eye contact too. If there is, they're certainly breaking that one too. He doesn't regret that any more than she regrets kissing him; any more than he'll regret this whole thing in the morning. He pants a breath out when her lips release him -- so hard and fast that his abs flex, his upper body crunches down. She's looking right at him and he's looking right back at her and his eyes are lazy, dark, grateful. She tongues him. He bites his lip, biting back a sound. She closes her mouth over him again,
and he unclenches his fist to reach forward; touch her hair. Stroke it back. For a while he loses himself in sensation again. His breathing aligns with the rhythm of her mouth. If she pauses, he forgets to exhale. His heart nearly forgets to beat.
Some moments go by. He touches her cheek, lifting her face gently, pulling her up and forward, urging her to climb over him. His mouth is there to meet hers. Maybe that's a forbidden, filthy thing too. Calden's never bothered to give much thought about the bedroom practices of The Royalty, but if he had he wouldn't have listed tonight's activities under that heading. Not the oral, not the banter, not the sex without six weeks of written discourse, without the matchmakers and the soothsayers and the priests and the philodoxes. Well; she's a philodox, so maybe that counts for something. Not this either, though: kissing like this, devouringly, drenchingly, slowly, both of them tasting like the other, naked, sweating, his hands in her hair and then his arms wrapping around her.
Lifting her again. Briefly. He shifts under her, straightening the leg he'd half-knelt on; and sets her down again. Their chests are pressed together, her breasts against his pectorals. Everything about her is smooth and golden and fine. Everything about him is coarse and ruddy-dark and rough. She's the wolf, though. And he
is her kin.
If only for the night.
Their mouths part. His eyes glint. They slow down for just a moment. The fire is at his back, casting warmth over the crest of his shoulder, the outside of his arm. It makes the auburn in his hair come alive. It leaves nothing but pooled shadows in his eyes, though, and the razor's edge of hunger as he looks at her, looks at every detail of that face of hers.
Then he leans forward. He licks her lips, slow and soft; seals it with a kiss. "Should I get protection?" he whispers.
Avery ChaseAnd there might be Pretty Woman rules for them, and they might be following them, if she were a whore. But she is a Philodox, and they aren't following any of the rules that perhaps should be applying in this particular situation. They could very well get up after and say I was drunk, we were both drunk but they won't.
Avery goes on like this for a while, slow and wet and rhythmic, listening to Calden's breathing stagger in response when she quickens her pace, feeling him shiver apart when she slows it again, sometimes suddenly, sucking harder than before, like she's done this, like she likes this, and yes: all without months of letters and matchmakers and the careful machinations of a tribe who would rather cannibalize itself genetically than breed with lesser tribes.
When he eases her off, touching her face -- another rule broken, there -- and pulling his hips down into the cushions, she comes slowly off of him, looking at him again. She doesn't think he's changed his mind. She doesn't think he wasn't enjoying that. She knows what he wants. She's seen it in every look he's given her since they came up out of the cellar. She resists his pull a moment, though. She lowers her head and sucks sweetly, tightly on his head again, groaning softly around him. Only when he gasps, bucks, dissolves somehow does she let him go and climb over him, walking herself forward on her hands and knees, thighs open over his lap and breasts warm and soft on his chest.
And he kisses her. Again. Fierce, ferocious, but only at first. They taste each other on their mouths. She tastes herself on his tongue as she presses closer, kisses him more deeply as his hands leave her hair and those arms -- those arms -- wrap around her. Move her. She doesn't fight him. She doesn't need to.
They have slowed down, if only for a few spare seconds. Her cunt is inches away from his cock, less than that even, still wet from his mouth and her own slick. She longs to work herself onto him, feel him, but she doesn't yet. She moves on him, feeling that dark hair on his chest brushing over her skin, ticklish and brutish at once. He smells like sex now, on top of every other scent he's carrying, mingled with every other scent he owns. Avery runs her hands down his biceps, follows one arm to his wrist, urges his hand to slide down and cup her ass, makes a low, purring sound in her throat when he does. She tips her head back a moment, moving as though she's riding him, slow, though he hasn't entered her yet. Just moving, now, for a few moments, just sliding their bodies together.
Avery feels a curl of his breath touch her throat. Their eyes meet when she lowers her chin again. Smooth palms stroke over his arms and chest still. Her body seems to pick up every ounce of light in the room, as though even the lumens are drawn toward her, attracted to her hair and her flesh and the chance to reflect off of her eyes, sparkle in her irises. So: that is what she does. She sparkles. She gleams. She all but glows softly in his arms, slipping her tongue past her lips to meet his when he kisses her again.
"Should you?" she whispers back: twinkling, mocking, and contrite. She bites him then, for the first time, nipping his lower lip with just a trace more savagery than all the tiny scrapes of his teeth he's given her. She dares. Of course she dares. Avery's lips, reddened from kissing, from his teeth, from sucking his cock, curl into a slow, lazy smirk. That bite is still stinging on his mouth when she draws away. Pulls back. Eases until his arms unfold, letting her go. She slides off of him and away from him, leaving his skin suddenly cooler where she used to be.
Then she turns her back to him. And kneels on the couch, arms on the back, dark glass in front of her, fire behind her. Her head turns, looking over her shoulder at him. Or rather: she looks at his cock. Only a second later does she lift her eyes and look at him. "You know what to do," she says archly, as though chastising him for his laziness.
Calden WhiteHe's entranced. He's nearly in a trance: lazy from scotch, head spinning from what she's done to him, quite thoroughly preoccupied now with his lap full of naked, warm, all but glowing woman. Avery kisses him so slowly and tastingly and he drinks that in like wine, and then
she bites him like that, making him sigh a low sound out over her lips. She draws back, and he doesn't want her to. His arms wrap around her waist, try to draw her back even as she's turning in their circle. She slips away. His hand trails over the crest of her hip. She turns her back and he tilts his head, looking at the line of her spine, the curve of her ass, the soft smooth indentation of her skin to the pressure of his sweeping thumb. He does, in fact, know what to do: pushing up from where he's sprawled against the arm, one hand on the back of the couch for balance as his feet find purchase on the ground.
Contact never quite breaks. His hand is on her waist, rubbing over her ass, smoothing up her back as he closes the distance again. She looks at his body first. Then at his eyes. Maybe he should make some arch comment back: Miss, my eyes are up here. He doesn't. There's a wolfish cant to his smirk when their eyes meet -- and let's just say it: a hint of pride. Swagger. He leans down to kiss her rump, thinking to himself that if anyone ever accuses him of kissing Silver Fang ass from here on out he won't be able to deny it anymore. He bites her there too, his teeth scraping her skin; kisses the dimple on her back; kisses her spine and her shoulderblade and
her, over her shoulder, capturing her mouth when he leans over her. His chest brushes her back. His arms bracket hers. He pushes against her from behind, grinding his cock along her slit -- bold, unapologetic, powerful strokes that push her forward until her forearms are flat atop the couch, her elbows bent, her breasts pressed against the upholstery. He could enter her with his feet flat on the floor, but he doesn't; something about that seems somehow unchivalrous. His knees indent the cushions on either side of hers. He guides himself to her opening and then wraps that arm around her ribs, pulls her tight against his body, holds her there.
Lets out this groan, harsh, when he slides into her. His bracing hand tightens on the back of the couch. He's kissing her again, or kissing her neck if her mouth has fallen away from his. There's a moment when he's just inside her, feeling her, waiting for her, waiting for that moment she opens, relaxes, arches, pushes back to accept it.
Another sound, when he feels it. Softer this time, a sigh. The first thrust is slow and long and deep. Picking up speed, then, little by little: his nose nudging behind her ear, across the line of her cheek; his cheek nuzzling past hers. She can see them reflected in the dark window if she looks -- the heavy solid flexion of his body behind hers, the sturdy bar of his arm across her midriff, holding her as close as a lover. He's not looking at their images, though. He's looking at her: his eyes lazy and hooded but fixed, fixated on her eye and her cheek, her nose and her mouth, her face in profile blurred with proximity.
Avery ChaseA bit of resistance, then: he holds onto her, wants her, stay he says with that firming of his arms. She almost does. She almost melts purringly into the embrace, almost licks his throat and fucks him then, there, like that. Instead she smiles the way she does, and she slips away from him, turns away from him, while he runs his hands over her. She watches him as he comes, following her to where she kneels. That hint of swagger makes her smirk back at him, eyes glinting in the dark, and in the firelight, like they have their own shine to share with the evening.
Yes. She's looking at his body, eating him alive with her eyes, and he
is
kissing her ass, rubbing her skin, biting her. Avery shivers. The scent of her, and the scent of her wanting him, follows him as he traces his lips' way up her body. She is arching already, pressing herself into him, rubbing herself softly on his cock when he covers her. Now he's standing between her and the fire, and her breasts are exposed to the glass a few feet away, the night plains beyond them. She likes it like that. Her body between Calden and the night, the mountains, the cold. His between her and the contained fire, the man-made lights, the elements of humanity that kin are so much more comfortable with.
And she likes the way he feels, finally, the reality that before was just hinted at when they were grinding together on the couch, his mouth on her breasts and her hands on his back. And she likes the way he pushes her forward like that with his thrusts, even before he enters her, pressing her against the cushions. She exhales, gripping the back of the couch, lifting her ass for him, biting her lip to keep from sounding too wanton, too shameless, too eager
though neither of them can rightly conceal those things, right now.
Her head tips to the side, letting his mouth fall on her neck, hair slipping across her shoulders as it falls away from where his mouth is seeking. She takes him with an inward drawn breath, half a sharp gasp, hands clutching on the upholstery. Vaguely she wonders if he's fucked other women right here. She wonders how many. It doesn't worry her, offend her; she simultaneously finds the thought erotic and does not care one way or the other. She feels him push harder, deeper into her now, and lets out a groan to match the one he released when she started sucking him off. Wetness slicks down his cock, sharing heat, sharing her pleasure. There's that first clench, there's that slow relaxation, the pushing-back of her hips against him, more. more.
They have been having sex for some time now, in truth. Grinding with their clothes half-off. Licking each other, trading oral like they're far more familiar with each other than they are. By the time Calden's first thrust makes her moan, tight and needful, and by the time he starts going at her faster, firmer, Avery is ready to ride him to orgasm, ready to fuck, and that is exactly what she does. Her eyes are closed for a little while, after he's entered her. They open again as he starts pulling her to his body, holding onto her so he can give it to her faster. In the glass's reflection of their bodies, she can see his shoulders and his arms, his face, her face, her breasts, their hands gripping the couch, his on the outsides of hers.
Avery watches the two of them in the glass. Calden watches her. Both of them can see her, panting, her eyes intoxicated by scotch and sex. She can see him looking at her like that, watching her as her mind begins to unravel.
She makes a noise then, when he hits her just a little harder with one stroke. She lets out a cry that isn't a groan or a bitten-back whimper. It's just that: a cry, full-throated and higher pitched than the voice of anyone who has slept in this house for some time now, and though there's no words to it, it still has meaning. It means yes and it means just like that and it means fuck me. don't stop.
She does it again, louder this time. Her cunt tightens hard on his cock with enjoyment.
Calden White"Shhh," he whispers on that first cry out of her, vibrating up past where his arm circles her body, past where his lips rest against her neck. He shushes her, but he doesn't stop fucking her. If anything he bears her down against the back of the couch, gives it to her that much more firmly: right here in the middle of the game room, down a broad flight of stairs from the main level, facing a vast window to the outside.
She wonders if he's fucked other women here. If she asked him, he'd tell her, and the answer would be no. Not right here, anyway; not when he has a perfectly good guest room a few feet away and an even better bedroom upstairs. He's not an exhibitionist. He wants to be discreet. He wants to be a gentleman. There are four bedrooms in this house -- five if you count the one he converted into a study -- and his father lives in one of them. The ranch hands have their own cottage out in the middle of his ten thousand acres, out where it's easier to reach the distant northern fence, but sometimes they come by for dinner or company or a hotter shower or a softer bed. Occasionally his brothers visit. Sometimes his neighbors come by unannounced, though probably not this late, but the point is:
this couch, this room, is really not as private as it could be. He should really take her somewhere a little more secluded. He should, but he doesn't, and he didn't, and maybe she finds that a little bit erotic too.
He does.
Which might be why -- even though he's hushing her -- he's still moving into her like that. He's wrapping both his arms around her now, cupping those lovely tits of hers; pushes her against the couch and kisses her and reaches down, all the way down, to find that sweet clit he'd started on when all this began. She's still wet there: from his mouth, from her arousal, from their sex. He groans into her mouth, and now he's fucking her with these hard flexes of his lower body, these solid pumps of his lean hips that slap their bodies together, jolt the couch they're both leaning into. When she makes that sound again, louder,
he shushes her again, shh, sh-sh-shh,
but there's a laugh there under the shh-ing, and he's nipping at her lips and he's got both hands between her legs now, spreading her with one, playing with her clit with the other, toying with it, rubbing it, massaging it, working it until those big rough fingers of his -- perhaps against all expectations -- figure out what she likes. Until he finds a slow wicked rhythm that counterpoints the hard, primitive way he moves in her. Her wet is all over his cock, slick between their bodies, slick on his fingers where he spreads it over her clit. He's not trying to keep her quiet at all now. He's whispering to her, but it has nothing to do with keeping quiet. He's murmuring about her wetness on his fingers, he's murmuring about the hot wet grip of her cunt, he's still murmuring shh, but now it just sounds wanting, coaxing, come on, feel it, take it, take me, yes,
yes, like that. The words are starting to come apart at the seams, turning into low sounds, noises, those rough growling grunts of his. That clever, wicked work of his fingers is turning into something coarser, mindless. He bites a kiss into her mouth, shifting a little behind her. A different angle, a more reckless stroke; a hard, thorough pounding now; his lip caught between his teeth again, his eyes on her, watching her even as they start to glaze over, as though the very sight of her pleasure set off his own.
Avery ChaseEarlier, she wanted to know if playing billiards downstairs would disturb his poor father. Thick walls, Calden said. In her bright, shining, delighted mind tonight Avery thinks thick walls, thinks thick cock, and gasps again as she bucks back against him, shushed and ignoring it. The clacking of cues, stripes and solids is not going to wake his dad. The woman downstairs who is happily, enthusiastically, loudly getting nailed on the game room couch might.
Calden says shh like it might mean something. He laughs and she is too far gone by then to notice, to care. He's playing with her pussy, working her into heat, til his fingers are slippery, til his balls are wet from her, til she's just... fucking... riding him. There's sweat gilding her skin, darkening the fair hairs long her scalp to brass. He keeps kissing her, and she's sick and tired of twisting her neck around so she stops letting him kiss her, moaning instead, hair falling in curtains across her face while she grips the back of the couch and grinds herself back on his cock. Bounces, really, while his hands are on her clit and on her tits and her sides.
She's close. She was close when he had his head down between her legs, licking her for minutes on end, flicking his tongue over her the clit he's now playing with. When she starts screaming, she has the good manners to curve forward and bite the cushions of the couch, shrieking into the upholstery as she comes. Avery stops working herself on him, stops doing any of the damn work at all, just lets him fuck her through her orgasm while she writhes and bucks into it.
That fine, pure, fancy pussy of hers clenches him in waves, each one more drenching, each one with more of an undertow, dragging him down with her.
Calden WhiteIt's when she stops letting him kiss her, when she just grabs the couch for leverage and starts grinding back against every thrust, when she's starting to whimper and gasp and moan and almost-word her way to her orgasm that Calden, thinking half-coherently about the open spaces of game room-staircase-greatroom, the convoluted but potential path sound could take from their throats to the closed bedroom doors, stops shhing her while making her moan all the louder and starts actually doing something about the noise, god.
He gives this laugh against the side of her face: it's low and shot through with want, pure lust. His teeth scrape the angle of her jaw. One of his hands stops wreaking havoc on those rioting nerve-endings in her clit -- drags its way up her belly, pauses to grip and lift and bounce her breast. Mmm, he mutters against her ear -- distracted -- remembering on the next stroke, the next wail,
to cover her mouth.
Because that's what he does. With his elbow braced against the couch that she's gripping, his body covering hers and his fingers working her up and that big thick cock of his pounding those wanton sounds out of her -- he covers her mouth. Muffles her. His palm is warm and his fingertips are, frankly, still wet from their fucking. Smells like their sex. Shh, he says again, it's almost soothing, he leverages her against the couch and drops a kiss on her shoulder that turns into a bite and
somewhere in there the hammer drops. She screams. He catches it against the center of his hand, feels it in the center of her back where his chest presses; feels it in the center of her body, the squeeze of her cunt, dragging him in. And down. And quite suddenly, quite entirely out of his mind.
No one's covering his mouth. There's always a flaw in the plan. No one's covering his mouth while he cups her clenching cunt as she writhes, squirms, bucks through that outrageous orgasm of hers; while he drives into her, drives her forward, pins her, hammers her, pounds her with all the considerable strength of his body; while the oh my god, oh my god, ohmygods he's muttering against her shoulderblade suddenly fuse into this
unadulterated
yell against her shoulder as his orgasm hits.
Then it's just simple mindless rutting-beast noises ripping ragged and rough out of him with every exhale, every rough thrust. Then it's just his hips slamming into hers, his cock answering those clenching needful squeezes of her pussy in jerks and pulses, his hands going motionless over her mouth and her cunt, then going lax, then slipping off her lips, at least, to grasp loosely for purchase at the back of the couch. He grows heavy against her; weighs her down until the two of them are draped nearly over the back of the couch, panting.
That hand between her legs is moving again. Lazily, lazily, he's stroking up and down on either side of her clit, mercifully or wisely avoiding that hypersensitive spot.
Avery ChaseMaybe he thinks she'll bite him, or spit at him, or tear her face away when he covers her mouth. She does nothing of the kind. Instead he palms her breast, playing with it a little, making her moan, which seems to remind him that she's being pretty noisy down here. So he covers her mouth, tells her mmm and shh, and
she starts fucking him like he just set off a line of gunpowder. She's yelling into his palm, clenching white-knuckled fists on the upholstery, gone now, lost now, so close to orgasm now that it hits her faster, harder, sooner than it would have -- if only by moments.
When she comes, Avery is bent almost at ninety degrees to fuck him, to get fucked, to finish herself off. She's bucking on him, screaming against his hand, feeling the fabric on the cushions brushing over her breasts on every thrust, tickling her nipples. No close Garou relatives, he said. No wolves are going to be coming around tomorrow, more than likely, and discovering that their precious kinsman was biblically knowing a kin-poaching female from a royal tribe right there in their own back yards. She isn't thinking of that right now, though. She isn't thinking at all. She's coming, screaming, and that scream is tapering off into helpless whimpers, softer cries as he fucks his cum into her body.
For several moments afterward she is delirious. Their bodies are conjoined for now, his cock throbbing and twitching inside of her, Avery's pussy squeezing and clenching and shivering around him. He strokes her, wisely avoiding the urge to touch her clit again, because he has a survival instinct, and even if he doesn't know it, she might frenzy and tear his spine out if he teased her like that right now. She would, at very least, start screaming, blood-curdling and father-waking, if he dared.
Calden does not dare that, at least. Somehow that's the line he decides not to cross.
Avery, slowly relaxing, stops moaning and whimpering. She's panting, but at least she's quieter now, and good thing because he can't hold her mouth anymore. She winds her hips on his lap, giving soft little groans of enjoyment that shudder apart into harsh exhales.
"Oh fuck," she breathes, a little later. "Oh fuck, yes. That is what I needed. Fuck."
Her cunt clenches on him on that last expletive, warm and mind-blowing, and at least partly intentional.
Calden WhiteFor his part, Calden, thoroughly, utterly, enthusiastically well-...poached kinsman that he is, is still panting raggedly when Avery manages to string words together. He's leaning against her, and with his arms around her and his body covering hers and his cock still inside her he quite literally surrounds her. That is what she needed, she says, and he laughs -- a low sound that twists off and lands in a groan at that punctuating squeeze of her pussy.
"I don't know about you," he quotes, his voice fuzzed with humor and laziness and -- quite frankly -- fuzzed because he just yelled like that, "but that was not how I imagined I'd spend the evening."
At last, reluctant as a pilgrim departing the holy land, his hand drifts away from her cunt. Trails a line of slick across her lower abdomen. Pauses for a moment at her hip, anchoring them together, and then comes up to grip the back of the couch. With a grunt that suggests some herculean effort, he pushes himself up, draws himself out of her, and then wraps his arms around her middle and tumbles them both back on the couch.
The room has warmed from the fire. They've warmed considerably, enough so that a little space is nice. He's a big, warm, naked, sweaty sprawl beneath her. All those prior scents have dimmed; now he just smells like exertion, sex, himself, her. He tucks a hand behind his head and smiles at her, however she chooses to arrange herself.
"Better than Scrabble, though," he adds.
Avery ChaseIn the cold, hard, 2013-style reality of it all, Calden is not poached. Calden is heated, though, and hot, and Avery tilts her head back to rub against him while they're grinding together, slowly crashing their minds like hammers to glass windows. She exhales, soft and happy and sweet, to what he says. God knows what she planned. If she planned anything. She doesn't seem like she would, or did.
Finally, as he's drawing his fingers away from her cunt, she turns her head and kisses him. Soft. Thankful. Not too thankful, though, just: warm and slow and wet and appreciative. Mmm, she says as they part, and when he draws out of her,
she gives a sharp, plaintive gasp, clutching at the couch again for a moment. He wraps her up and wants to tumble down but she wriggles away, lets him fall while she draps over the back of the couch, her arms crossed at the wrists where they hang over the back. She lays her head down and looks at him, eyes drowsy and lips curled in a smile. She stays kneeling.
Truthfully, she's filthy. His cum is in her pussy. A tiny bit of it is on her inner thighs. She's a mess. He is worse. He gets his smell all over the couch and she knows that in her own household, such things are taken care of, they are dry-cleaned or simply replaced, but he is not one of her own. Maybe he just sprays it with some sort of scent-killing thing? Who knows. Seems dirty.
Filthy, she called him, and it sends a pulse of lust through her again, looking at him. Her eyes track over his body. He is lying back, yes: big, warm, naked, sweaty. She watches as his arm folds back, his head resting on his palm, his smile almost a smirk. She thinks he looks delectable. She thinks she might fuck him again if he's not too sleepy, too weak. She thinks she should probably leave, too, and run out under the moon and roll in the dirt and show Luna how well she's used her gifts, her body, her strength, her beauty, see, see, I am lovely and shining like you.
Avery unfurls, and crawls over him, hair hanging down, breasts brushing his chest as she leans over him, hands planted on the cushions and mouth lowering onto his mouth. She kisses him again, slow and drenching and entitled. She draws back gradually, eventually, and finds his free hand to put it on her breast again, wanting to be touched still, wanting him to touch her.
"I imagine you're not very good at Scrabble anyway," she murmurs, nipping his lower lip, licking it to soothe it after.
Calden WhiteSo she doesn't go tumbling to the cushions with him. That's all right. It gives them opportunity to look at each other, which is exactly what they do. She thinks he looks delectable. He thinks she looks pretty damn incredible with that long athletic frame, those curves, that skin, that hair, that face, the way she moves. That mouth. His eyes linger there a moment, turning smoky.
She crawls over him. A hint of reflected light glimmers in his irises as his eyes track her face. His hand is on his chest but he swivels it open on the pivot of his elbow, making room for her when she lowers herself over him. Her breasts touch his chest. His eyes lose focus a little. She kisses him and his eyes close, he kisses her back, unafraid to open himself to it, pour himself into it, deepen it, savor it.
She draws back and his chest rises on a long sigh. He sounds satisfied. Well-satisfied. Lazy, though not sleepy. There's that devilish glint in his eye again when she draws his hand to her breast. He cups her in his palm, and his touch is at once gentle and rough: the callouses on his palm, the stroke of his thumb, the gentle squeeze of his fingers.
"My intellect has been challenged," he declares, a drawl entirely too languid to even pretend offense. "You're going to have to give me a chance to prove you wrong now."
Now he's toying with her nipple. Now he's tugging gently, rubbing it gently between his thumb and the side of his index finger, flicking it until it constricts on itself. That makes him smile too, slow as molasses.
"You should also," he adds, his hand on her waist urging her up, up a little more, up until her breasts aren't pressed to his chest but -- how do we put this delicately? -- right in his face, the veritable fruits of paradise. That fiendishly clever tongue of his flicks out, swirls a slow, unhurried circle around her areola. His eyes are on hers, watching her, and she can see the smile flickering there in his gaze even when he lifts his chin and takes her nipple fully into his mouth,
suckling just like that, slow, pulsing, making that low delighted sound in his throat, like he had all the time in the world to enjoy her. And this. He's forgotten to finish his sentence.
Avery ChaseThe air, dried still by winter and dried further by the fire, feels good on her skin. There is enough coolness to cool her, enough warmth that she does not instantly seek his. She watches him lazily, appreciatively, because they make the sons of Stag so well, don't they? And it is good and lawful to give glory to Gaia by enjoying all the wonders of her creation.
Like: hot-blooded kinsman in their own domiciles, naked and sweaty and staring at her the way he is.
All the same, she doesn't stay away for long. Soon she's walking on her hands and knees to cover him, to let him feel her, to savor and taste him as he savors and tastes her. Still tastes of her, which she likes in some nebulous, instinctive, primal way. She urges him to start playing with her breast again; he does, easily, without the trademark resistance of kin who have had their affability abused, or the trademark instantaneous submission of kin who have just been abused, roundly, completely, always.
She lets him see her shiver, even pulls away from kissing him for a moment so he can see her quake as he plays with her nipple. It's already quite hard, has been since sometime during dinner, when pulses of arousal and want were beginning to go through her. It's a wonder he didn't notice them pressing through her shirt earlier, but then: he might have.
"I don't have to give you a god damn thing," she mutters back to him, softly and sweetly.
Calden urges her up, and she goes easily, stroking her breast over his face once before he finds her nipple and takes it, sucks it, licks her slow. She whines softly, unabashedly, looking down at him and meeting his eyes.
"If you can go again," she murmurs, shuddering softly as he tightens his mouth on her nipple, and there's no small measure of challenge in that if, no small desire for him to prove it, "you should treat me like a lady and take me to bed, and close the door, and fuck me where I can scream."
Avery lowers her head, hair tracing his chin and shoulders, tilting her lips to his ear and whispering: "Doesn't that sound nice?"
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