keep it simple.

Calden White

Calden,

gentleman that he is, who even asked if he should get a condom before they dismantled each other on that couch, and who'll throw in the towel gracefully if and when the time comes,

knows when he's beat. He never finishes that question. He stops trying. He comes on command, really, which would probably be a Big Fucking Deal to a kinsman less secure, more competitive, with a bigger chip on his shoulder. It's not a big deal to him. He's not thinking about it. He has better things to think about, or rather -- to experience, because thought is sort of out of the question right now.

And after: his arms are still around her. He's very heavy now, relaxing, still flexing into her a little, and she

uses that prime, primitive, primal body of his to finish herself off.

And he gives her that, too. Without complication, without issues and insecurities and Big Fucking Deals. He turns his face against her neck again as she arches against him. He gasps quietly against her skin, utters a low grunt now and then; slides his hand down to lift her hips, angles her against him as she starts moving again. His other hand reaches up the bed, grasps the edge of it, grips it so hard he might possibly find rips in the more friable side of mattress later. And he stays with her. He focuses so utterly and so thoroughly on her: gives it to her, gives his cock and his body and himself to her

while she's riding it out so lazily,

while he's moving into her so slowly, so deeply, so firmly.

Much later: Avery orders him off her before he cracks her ribs. And Calden, who has indeed all but collapsed over her at the end of her orgasm, makes this sound that's too tired to be a laugh but wants to be one anyway. He stirs heavily to the side. He makes an abortive effort that doesn't really go anywhere. She has to push him a few times to get him to try again. Then he sort of rolls thataway, the mattress dipping under his heavy shoulder as it hits the sheets. A deep breath expands his chest. His hand drifts

(shocker!)

to cover her breast. He can't help it; he plays with her even now, rubbing his palm over the outer curve, stroking his thumb past that rosy pink nipple of hers. A small, savoring smile curls the corner of his mouth up. His eyes are half-closed. He looks rumpled, disheveled, thoroughly exhausted from fucking and being fucked.

"I love your tits," he muffles. "I love your body. I love your cunt. I'd eat you out all over again if I thought for a minute you'd let me." A moment's pause. Then, wry: "If I thought for a minute my tongue could handle it."

Avery Chase

Oh, she laughs at him when he can't... quite... manage to roll off of her. When she has to shove him. She's playful again, which gives her an energy that had faded. She rolls him off and sighs, soaking up the cool air to sap heat from her flesh. She smirks at him and then watches his hand come to cover her breast. No, not just cover: play with. Fondle. Stroke.

Avery sighs, amused and tolerant, as she slides herself off of him. She doesn't quite move out of his reach, but she feels her pussy quiver at the loss of him and tries to mentally tell it to just hush.

He loves her tits. Her body. Her cunt. He'd lick her out again, after coming inside of her twice, if she wouldn't buck him off -- or, more likely, crush his head between her legs. Avery huffs a laugh, shaking her head at him. "You love, you love, you love," she mutters, softly mocking, as she rolls onto her side from her back and touches his chest, running her hand up to his bristly jaw. Her fingernails trail over his chin while she muses: "You'd think a man who revels so fully in licking pussy would be cleanshaven. Hmm."

She rolls toward him. Presses that long lean lovely soft body to his primitive, heavy, dark, hard one. Her hand is in his hair. Her mouth is on his mouth, drawing his soul out from his breath. Her body is aligned to his in such a way that her breasts are just below his jaw, her kiss tipping his head back. Her breast moves against his beard. Or moves in his hand. It is entirely possible, even likely, that he's still groping her.

That kiss goes on a long time. Drenching as summer rain, the summer rains that come later to this part of the country and come in big, fat drops that douse everything around for brief interludes during the afternoons and sometimes in storms overnight. She licks his lips when she's done. She kisses him softly after that, seals something inside of him that he won't be able to find, bring to light, or name.

Truthfully: she does not mean to.

"I should leave soon," she says, quiet.

Calden White

They both react when she draws herself off of him. She just hides it a little better. He doesn't try to hide it at all: his fingers twitch against her breast; his eyes fall shut and his lips part on a sigh. Whether or not he'd faceplant between her legs again if she let him -- or even just between her tits -- the truth is he's fairly worn out at this point, himself. He's worked all day. He's cracked an axle boot. He's partially butchered an elk. All right; minimally butchered an elk, but still. He butchered. He roasted. He had a fair amount of scotch.

He fucked her. Several times.

So: he sighs. And his abdominals contract on themselves, spontaneously, at that last delicious slide of her cunt. But that cock of his is softened, quiescent finally. He glances down at himself with a sort of fond self-amusement. He's a bit of a mess, really. They both are.

He laughs when she criticizes his beard-bristle. And his raises his head, and smiles at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling with good humor. "I wasn't expecting company," he points out. "And I was definitely not expecting to entertain a lady."

And yes: his hand is still on her breast when she rolls close. He feels the shift in the gravity of that marvelous tit of hers, feels it weighing into his palm differently. Almost experimentally, he cups her, weighs her, rubs her. Her kiss tilts his head back, which is probably a good thing, because

he was this close to sucking her tits again. And god knows that might get him hard all over again.

That kiss goes on a long time. Drenching as summer rain. Melting away his smile, that sly banter of theirs; melting away the playfulness with which he'd touched that beloved breast of hers. He kisses her deeply, lingeringly. He holds nothing back. He touches her -- almost reverent in this moment, his hand warm on her body, his palm covering that nipple he must have overstimulated to some degree in all his addicted worship; his fingers curving over her breast almost protectively.

When it parts, she licks his lips. His eyes are closed. He looks transported, and so she kisses him again; hides something in him. The moment, perhaps. The complexities behind her eyes, maybe.

He opens his eyes again. There's a moment when he's almost solemn, looking at her. He doesn't -- though he wants to -- ask her to stay. Stay the night. Come upstairs. Sleep in his bed. He'll make her breakfast in the morning; she can see what a dick his father is; he can

let her in a little

before he drives her to Fort Collins or Denver or wherever it is she's headed. He doesn't suggest any of that. His hand comes to her face, and he strokes her cheek. Drops a kiss on the rise of her breast.

"You should come back," he whispers.

Avery Chase

"Should I?" Avery murmurs back to him, her lips in a half-smile, watching him worship her breast with his hand as though now his mouth is too tired, his body too worn out to risk wanting her again. She watches him kiss her there, whisper against her skin. Her hand lifts and touches his head, fingertips trailing at curve around his ear without quite tucking any hair back or touching that ear. "Perhaps," she muses, without promises.

Of course not.

She bends her neck and kisses him again, soft still, and begins to draw away. "Come," she tells him, drawing his hand from her breast to her hip and then off, but holding it with their fingers interlaced. "Shall we tidy up?"

Calden White

His hand follows the contours of her body, and his eyes follow his hand. Her skin seems unbelievably soft, smooth, warm. Leaves his palm tingling. His fingers miss the feel of her when she sits up and he follows, rising with a silent surety that comes from sheer strength. Their fingers are still loosely linked, and as she starts to slip out of bed

he realizes he wants her again.

Maybe she can see it in his eyes. That dark flare of desire; the way he licks his lips thoughtlessly, and the way his eyes drag down her body before flicking back to hers. Really, though -- he knows it's getting excessive, it's getting a little absurd, he has to be up early tomorrow, and he might actually die of exhaustion if they get anywhere close to the level of intensity they hit last time again. So he's going to be rationale. He's going to be reasonable. He's not going to --

he tugs her back. He's sitting on the edge of the bed; his arms winding around her waist draws her into a slow-motion collision with him. Her legs between his. Her thighs against his stomach. His chest against her abdomen, and his mouth -- what a coincidence -- at the level of her breasts.

He kisses her over her sternum. He kisses her breasts, gives her nipple a single, gentle, playful little suck that starts to turn into something else, something neither playful nor singular nor even altogether gentle, but --

then he lets her nipple slip out of his mouth. He fairly faceplants between her tits, rubbing his face there unshaven and scratchy as it is. Calden lets out a muffled, low laugh, and then mutters, "Okay. Okay. I'm stopping now."

Quite reluctantly he lets her go again, his arms unwrapping, his hands trailing down her back, lingering over her ass; nope, stopping, stopping, dropping off her body to find her hand. Stopping now. Really.

"You should definitely come back," he adds, following her into that bathroom where she showered off the blood of the elk when she first stepped under his roof. "I'll even shave my face if you insist on it. But I'm not shaving my chest."

Avery Chase

Avery does rise to her feet, and Calden's hands trail after her, caress her. He sits up as she's standing, following her as though tied by a string. She notices, but she's noble enough to pretend not to. They should tidy up, they should wash and shower and clean up the scotch and the billiards and their clothes and douse the fire and

he wants her again. Something tingles in his touch when he gets to the edge of the bed, and gleams in his eyes. Her hair slides smoothly, soundlessly over her shoulder as she turns her head and looks at him. He's roaming his eyes over her skin, licking his lips like he can still taste her -- which, frankly, he probably can. Her eyebrows lift. He pulls her against him anyway, and she goes

ever so easily, smirking fondly as he wraps his arms around her.

Calden can hear -- even feel -- her intake of breath when he startles nuzzling and kissing and licking her breast again, sucking on one nipple in a way that makes her exhale a heavy pant of air. Her hands are light on the back of his head, stroking through his hair, but she doesn't pull him away. She doesn't do anything but laugh when he rubs his face on her breasts, because by now she already knows he can't get enough. That laugh flutters and flips in the air between them, tickling his ears. Avery says nothing, but okay, okay Calden says for her, insisting that he's stopping. He's stopping.

He's touching her ass as she steps back again and as his arms unwind from her waist and she is rolling her eyes, give me strength, and she thinks of all the horrible, horrible things she could do to him right now but she is not sure she could explain to his tribe how their kinsman died in bed, smiling like that.

It's a silly thought, and she grins at herself, and she swats lightly at his hands on her rump. "Filthy bastard," she mutters, affectionately or with something like affection. That is what she called him while he licked her pussy the first time, eating her out through her panties as best he could like he couldn't remember how to get them off or like it turned him on to leave them on her.

She walks around the edge of the bed, stretching out a bit, and then looks back to find he's following her still. He says he'll shave his face but not his chest, and she laughs. "I wouldn't dream of such a ludicrous request," she tells him, then puts her hand on his chest and runs her fingers across that hair, up to his throat, looking at his face. "You," she tells him, her voice lowered, "stay here. I will be right out."

Calden White

He is, in fact, following her still. He'd probably follow her right into the shower -- is probably planning to, in fact -- and when she turns around he's rather close to her, the way he was close to her when they came downstairs to play billiards, because of course that's all they were going to do. His eyes were somewhere south of her shoulderblades again: on those sweet dimples at her lower back, or on her ass, or on her legs. She can tell because when she turns his eyes take the scenic detour up her body, and he's leaning down to her with his shoulders rounded and his hands reaching for her hips because he's going to try to kiss her again,

but she runs her hands up that brawny chest of his, tells him to stay. He smirks. Lick it. Fuck it. Come. Stay. Maybe next time she'll just snap her fingers at him. Clothes. Off.

"You realize I'm in desperate need of a shower here." That's actually rather true. She had one a couple hours ago. He still smells like cattle. Under the rest of it, anyway: the sex and the sweat and the smoke and the scotch and the Avery. "Lucky for you I'm a gentleman and I'll let the lady go first."

He kisses her after all -- leans across the distance even if her hands are pushing at his chest; catches her mouth. It's a quick kiss, but not a light one. He mmphs against her mouth. Then he stretches his hands out to the bathroom door's frame, bracing his palms there as she goes in. His head tilts when she turns around. He's staring at her ass again,

unless of course she shuts the door in his face.

Whether she's right out or out half an hour later, Calden takes the opportunity to clean up a bit. He retrieves their clothes. He tosses hers atop the bed -- not quite wadded together, but not particularly folded or sorted either. He rolls the billiard balls into their pockets and racks the cues, corks the scotch, collects her empty glass, pours the last of his sctoch --

well, no. He doesn't pour them down the sink. He's a Fianna. He drinks it, and then he stacks the glasses at the foot of the stairs to bring them up later on. And he does all this minor upkeep, this casual housework

stark naked, padding about on bare feet. When she comes out he's sitting on the edge of the bed, reading some rumpled paperback he got off the little bookshelf in the corner. Because of course, Calden is the sort to stock his guest room with some decent reading material.

Steam drifts out the top of the frame when the bathroom door opens, dissipates against the ceiling. He tosses his book onto the rumpled sheets and smiles that wry smile of his as she emerges.

"You know you could stay the night if you wanted."

Avery Chase

It's true: Miss Avery Chase has been ordering him around -- well, not all evening. At least since he kissed her, though. Did she want to go upstairs to his bed? No, here. And then she said off, get them off when it came to her pants, and he was all too happy to oblige her on both counts. When she was done letting him lick her and she wanted to suck on him, she shoved him back and did so. When she decided how she wanted to be fucked that first time, she looked at him and informed him, though not in so many words, that he was slacking and he'd better get to it.

Again and again, most of the night now, she's been telling Calden what she wants, how she wants it, and rather than stinging his pride or making him feel like a pet dog, he's found her playful and endearing and sharp. Neither of them are lapdogs. Neither of them are wilting flowers. They have both been forceful tonight, and the mixture was itself a force. Of nature.

Maybe next time, he thinks, smirking and amused. And maybe there will be a next time. But he thinks it; he doesn't say it.

Avery smirks right back at him. "Oh," she murmurs, lips softening as her hand runs up past his jaw, down again, over his shoulder and onto his arm, "you poor, dirty thing." She leans in. He leans down. He kisses her and she kisses him and it isn't light, but

it isn't quick, either. He makes that sound and Avery only kisses him harder, fiercer, til their bodies are together and his hands are braced against the frame of the door and she is gasping softly to feel her breasts against his chest.

They part, and her mouth tastes like him, and she licks her lips.

"Gentleman my ass," she scoffs, and

shuts the door in his face.

Steam curls out from under the door a little later. Not for terribly long; Avery may be a bit luxurious, but she's also a guest, and she's also beginning to think

she's been here for hours. Hunting on his land, showering in his guest room, drinking his scotch, enjoying his fire and his game room and fucking on any flat, soft surface they could find. And he can't seem to get enough of her. He can't seem to stop himself from touching her, fondling her, licking her, and when he does

and when she kisses him

she can't seem to stop, either.

Avery rolls her neck under the stream of heat, eyes closed and hair back into the water. She exhales, sighing, as the warmth envelopes her and rinses her and soothes tired muscles. She can almost still feel him in her, the way he was from behind, and she shudders a little.

Some time later, though hardly half an hour, the door opens. She glances out and sees him on the bed, away from the proverbial -- and actually quite literal, in this case -- wet spot, reading some book. Her clothes are there. She knows her thong probably still smells like sex. The alcohol is wearing off a bit, and she leans against the doorframe, hair wet and body wrapped in a towel.

She knows she could stay the night.

Avery confirms that with a nod. "I know." No riposte, no wit, no laughing parry of a deflection. "It's for the best if I don't, I believe." That's spoken softly, maybe even a little gently. Her shoulder leaves the doorframe as she lifts onto her feet, walking over the carpet. She sits on the edge of the bed beside him, her back close to his hip. One arm holds her towel around her body, covering her from chest to upper thighs in soft, thick terry.

Her hand, as soft and clean as his is rough and filthy, touches his fingers. Lightly, lightly, smooth and cool from coming out of the shower now. She strokes those fingers of his, strokes callouses and knuckles, looking at his eyes, which have as much of a hint of green as hers have a hint of deadly, glorious silver.

"I will give you my number," she says, "if you would like to see me the next time you're in the city."

Calden White

That soft, clean towel she found in the guest bathroom is a pale creamy yellow, which is in truth a dangerous color for a blonde to wear because she risks looking washed out. Avery, however, does that look washed out as she steps out of the gleaming lit spaces of the bathroom. She looks glorious, luminous, golden, and Calden's eyes reflect his appreciation.

And like everything else in this guest suite, that towel she's wrapped around herself is neutral, unobtrusive, and also a little shorn of personal touches. He must have hired an interior designer when he renovated and refurnished this place -- one look at that red-checked shirt of his tells her Calden hardly rides the height of fashion -- but it was a good one, and one that consulted with him. There's a sense of who he is in the rest of the house, even if she hasn't seen his bedroom. It's there in the big stone mantle that dominates the great room; it's there in the bold, sturdy lines and the exposed wood, the sense of rustic simplicity that almost belies the undoubted expenses that have gone into this place.

This room, though, doesn't really have that same personality. It's nice, and it's comfortable, and it's well-appointed and a guest would lack for nothing here -- but it's a little bland, a little toneless, a little pale and wan compared to the rest. One wonders if he would have let her stay in this room, if she'd wanted to spend the night. One wonders if he would have wanted her in his own bed instead.
Of course, neither of them find out. Avery declines. Calden's mouth moves a little, an expression too rueful to be a smile. He doesn't look surprised.

"I thought you'd say something like that," he says.

She comes to sit beside him. This does surprise him a little. She takes his hand and he leans into her a little, bumping his shoulder gently against her. It's a gentle, playful sort of hello. She offers her number and something like a proposition. At least; he hears it as such, and laughs.

"I'm in the city every other weekend," he reminds her. "This could turn into a standing appointment if you're not careful, Miss Chase."

Avery Chase

There is enough warmth, enough golden tan, to Avery's skin to stop the yellow from doing anything but illuminating her. Beyond that: Avery is Silver Fang. Even those who hate them cannot deny their grace. Helios may have caught their eye, and Luna may have cursed them for it, but though her love felt unrequited, it never faded. The blessing still rests on them, sun and moon alike. It rests on Avery.

Their hands are touching, and she is smiling, and he laughs.

Avery's smile does not change. It doesn't grow or falter, but her voice remains mild, her fingers still stroking between his knuckles. Her eyes do not waver from his. The touch, the eye contact, the look and smell of her -- it could be hypnotic. If he were still drunk, particularly. "I am hardly going to summon you cock-first, Mr. White," she murmurs, somehow managing to make crude and vulgar language sound poetic, sound fashionable, fit for all her polite circles.

Her head tips, her regard steady. "That's why I'm going to give you my number, and not the other way around. I enjoy your company, clothed or otherwise. So if you would like to see me on some of those every-other-weekends, and if my schedule allows it, then we shall pursue a lovely friendship."

Leaning over him, bringing with her the smell of the water and the shampoo and the soft herbal soap, she kisses his brow, then his cheekbone just beneath his eye, then his lips, very lightly. Avery draws back, even if he seeks more from that kiss. She smiles at him. Her eyes glint.

"Wash," she says, ordering him around again without really realizing it. "You are a veritable smorgasbord of stale scents. I will remain until you emerge."

Calden White

"I wouldn't exactly complain," he replies, quite frank and more than a little amused, "even if you did summon me cock-first. Or tongue-first. Or personality-and-conversation-first. But seeing as how you're too polite to do the summoning," that smile is veering back into a smirk, "I'll call you when I'm in Denver."

She's kissed his brow while he finished that sentence. She's kissed his cheekbone, and then -- finally -- his lips, which makes his words drift off somewhere forgotten. He smiles into that kiss. He starts to kiss her back.

She draws away.

He lets her go, huffing a laugh as they part. They smile at each other. Then he lifts her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles the way he's only seen in movies or done as a joke. It might be something quite more commonplace to her, though.

Avery Chase

That smile veers into a smirk. He makes light, calls her too polite to do the summoning. She stirs, slightly, as he does so, drawing back from that kiss with an inscrutable regard for his features. Her lips part, as though to speak, but she shakes her head -- acknowledging it, but dismissing it as well, and advising him all at once not to ask. She kisses him again, quick and light, and pulls away to rise so she can dress and he can go into the shower.

When he reaches for her hand she lets him have it, but when he lifts her hand to his mouth her fingers curl under. She accepts it with a smile that is tight at the edges. It never winces. It just tightens, ever so slightly. Her head nods to the door. "Oh, just go," she says, shaking her head with a laughing exhale.

Calden White

[COME ON KAHSEENO I PAID FOR FIVE DICE, GIMME THE GOODS.]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 7, 7, 10) ( success x 2 )

Avery Chase

[1: She's trying to be real.

2: She doesn't want to try and explain this to him FOR REEZUNZ.]

Calden White

[cut my last post off at "commonplace to her, though"!]

Calden White

There are little flickers of reaction in her that make him wonder, a little. That make him look at her a little more keenly, studying her. He sees that for once she's not making light; doesn't want to make light of it. He sees, too, that there was something there, some tension when he kissed her hand, that she doesn't want to discuss.

So they don't discuss it. Not that, anyway. She tells him to just go --

he remains where he is for just a moment longer.

"I meant it," he says quietly. He's serious now, too; as serious as she. "It's not going to bother me if you call me because you want to see me. Whether for sex or conversation or dinner or just a game of billiards. I wouldn't feel used. I wouldn't feel obligated to say yes.

"But if you'd rather keep it simple, keep the ball in my court, then that's how we'll do it."

Avery Chase

The way her head tilts when he says I meant it is almost avian; there's more grace to it than if she were merely a wolf, and not a wolf who is also the daughter of Falcon. He still has her hand; she did not yank it back and he has not let go of it, though neither one is clinging. A moment ago she was shrugging it off, huffing a laugh, telling him to just go -- telling him she wouldn't just vanish while he was showering.

He wouldn't be bothered even if she just calls him for sex. The truth is, if she were human, Avery might feel embarrassed by that -- annoyed on some strange level, even if that's what she would like and no more. The truth is: some part of her does feel that way. Unsettled, uneasy by his blatant acknowledgement that, yes, it would be quite all right to meet up every couple of weeks, fuck until they can't move, and then go about their lives. And the truth is also: when Calden says that, seriously now instead of their quips about cock-first, tongue-first, something fierce flickers in Avery's eyes. Something of the hunter he saw when she leapt over his truck earlier. Something of the blood-letter, the meat-eater, the scotch-drinker, the woman who groaned with pure relief when she got his cock in her mouth.

That part is true, too. That lives in her, entwined with her humanity.

Avery, who stood a moment ago to make room for him to rise, and who stood a moment ago to put some space between herself and him -- him as stand-in for her own discomfort -- slowly sits back down, her hand relaxing into his. She leans toward him, wordless, and kisses him. No light thing, this time. She tastes lovely, smells like honey and rain, even though he is a great warm pile of filth. Still she kisses him, warm and wet and deep,

and long,

because despite herself she wants him again.

Her mouth draws back gradually, and slowly, meeting his eyes, exhaling a humid sigh. "At least for now," she says, quiet. And then whispering, serious, but with that lighter edge they've kept so keen between them, half-teasing (but only half): "Would you like me to shower with you, Calden?"

Calden White

Neither of them really goes out of their way to acknowledge the dichotomy in her -- that divide between human and wolf, natural and supernatural. They both know it's there, though. Neither of them shy from it either.

The truth is it attracts him. Just like her wit and her intelligence and her conversation and her half-playful courtesies attract him. It hits him on a deeper, less cerebral level, though. Primitively, unthinkingly, he likes the flash in her eyes. He likes how she'll slap him and then laugh that laugh of hers and drag his mouth back to hers. He liked the firm grip of her fingers in his hair,

and the way she tasted, honeyed and wild, silver and gold.

She sits. He leans into her even as she's leaning toward him: husky, brawny creature, all shoulders and biceps, big hands that could lift her up -- Avery, who is no bird-framed anorexic -- like she weighed nothing at all. That kiss is not light, and it is not brief. It goes on long enough that he's beginning to press into her, turn toward her, eat at her mouth, change the way he breathes.

When she draws back, their eyes find each other. At least for now, she says, and he nods. Nothing more to it than that. Simple

And he smiles faintly at what she says next. He leans closer, his brow to hers. His mouth close enough that it's hard to tell whether it's his lips or his breath that touches her when he speaks. "Yes," he says, "but I can't promise I'll keep my hands to myself."

Avery Chase

So far, Calden has not tried to be coy about what he wants. Maybe at first, when he was being a good host, when there was a woman -- who may be quite a bit younger than him, though it's hard to tell -- sitting in his living room. It would be against the laws of hospitality for him to make a pass at her unless he was almost certain that it would be well-received. Dishonor and shame to his house if he crossed that line, and so on. He was being a gentleman, and trying not to read much into her words, into her physical proximity, into the way she was staring at him as she tipped back her scotch.

But really, since they got downstairs, he hasn't hedged at all. He kissed her. He snarled against her pussy, he gasped when she went down on him, he has told her a serious and heartfelt yes as many times as she has given him a smirking no.

Yes, he wants her to shower with him. He just isn't making any gentlemanly promises.

Avery laughs, soft and warm and smiling. She lets the towel around her body drop to her waist, her hands roaming over his shoulders to his back, leaning closer again with their brows together. He can see those glinting eyes, that curving mouth. "I suppose that's only fair," she says, "since I don't intend to."

Calden White

"If you don't stop that," he whispers, that smile of his echoing hers, echoing in his eyes and his voice, "we won't even make it to the shower."

Maybe he means dropping her towel. Or stroking him like that. Or kissing him, or whispering to him, or -- laughing like that. It doesn't matter; he wraps his arms around her in turn and he does, in fact, lift her: rising, hoisting her against his body, linking his hands under her ass. That towel of hers slips loose if she lets it -- lost somewhere beneath their feet, on the deep pile of the carpet. She's all warmth and golden skin, nudity and nakedness; that slim, curvaceous strength of hers.

Neither of them seem to be in a great hurry. He kisses her there, standing beside the bed they've thoroughly wrecked and wrecked each other in. It's moments on end before he starts wandering toward the bathroom she so recently vacated. There's still steam in there. There's still the scent of shampoo and bodywash on the air, light, citrus-spicy.

The floor in here is tile. He lets her slip down and out of his arms. If she's turned the light off, he turns it back on, and while she turns the water on again he scoops water from the sink, drinking out of the cupped palms of his hand. Definitely not the type to subsist on bottled water, Calden.

It doesn't take long for the water to warm. He steps in first, turning his back to the spray, hold his hand out for Avery's as she follows. For the first five or ten minutes he's actually rather task-oriented and intent on getting clean: he wets himself down, and then lathers up. He prefers bar soap, really -- but that seems unhygienic in a shared bathroom like this one. So bodywash it is, squirted out of the bottle in the corner, and while he's working it over his shoulders and across his chest and under his arms and down his stomach he's standing under the spray, letting it soak through his thick hair. It takes a while, but he learned to share in kindergarten: he moves out of the way when she needs to rinse, or when she simply needs to stand under the spray to get warm. By the time he's washing the rest of himself -- all the way down to the tips of his fingers and toes -- his hair is almost black with water. Shampooing causes enormous suds to form, washing down his back later when he rinses it out. He opted for the convenient two-in-one: no conditioning required.

With the last of the shampoo running slick down his back, he reaches out and wraps his arms around Avery again. He pulls her against him, turning her around, back to his chest. They're both clean now. They smell like the same toiletries, and like each other. He wraps his arms around her waist, warm amidst the steam and the water, a final few suds washing away to nothing between their feet.

Avery Chase

Avery does not stop. She drops her towel to her waist. She leans toward him and they kiss and he moves toward her, into her, getting off the bed and lifting her in a few concise motions. She wriggles a little against him as the towel slips completely off of her body, wrapping her long legs around his waist, letting her breasts push against his chest while her cunt presses to his abdomen and his hands lace under her ass. Avery is looking at him, watching him, with that stare and those eyes, as she has been all night,

unable to stop hunting him, unable to stop devouring him, even after she's had her fill of him.

He seemed to make her a promise, but he breaks it. Avery touches his body as he walks a few steps from bed to bathroom, and she shivers when he sets her down on her feet. She turns and bends almost immediately to turn the water on, one hand braced on the edge of the tub. As he drinks water he gets quite the view, which is the apparent intention.

Avery gets in first. She's already wet, already clean but for the places she rubbed against him just a few moments ago, and she stays out of his way. But, as promised: she does not keep her hands to herself. She smirks at him as he scrubs all the various scents off of his skin, tracing lines on his body through soapsuds and sucking water off his nipple when those suds are rinsed away. Calden is working very hard to get clean, and he has to, because his companion does not seem to care. In the end he's rinsed clean, smells like himself and like soap and water, and Avery is no more asking for a turn under the spray than she is politely permitting him to turn her around and wrap her in his arms.

Avery is facing him, moving closer to him, and without much ado or preamble, taking his cock in her hand and giving him a few slow, smooth, long strokes in her hand. She wonders how far off dawn is. She laughs at herself inside, which plays out in a grin across her lips, as she gives him another caress. "I bet you're still filthy," she mutters, watching his eyes.

Calden White

She could, if she wanted, imagine him working the cattle with this sort of focus and drive: his mind set to a task, his body accomplishing it to the exclusion of all distraction. He scrubs and he suds and he rinses and he skims, and all the while she's drawing designs on his body, putting her mouth on him. He smirks at her but carries on getting clean, even though her mouth on his nipple makes a hard shiver rake down his back. Makes his hands stop momentarily in his hair, then trail forgetfully down to push his fingers through her wet hair. Hold her there a moment.

Then he kisses her. And he goes back to washing. And she

is patient, as all hunters must be from time to time.

When he's finished, Calden tries to draw her to him. She comes closer, but she doesn't turn politely to fit herself against him like they were finished with each other, like they're just going to cuddle awhile in the water and then part ways. She steps into him. And when he tries to turn her, she resists.

He gets this look in his eye, this alertness, this keenness. This quirk to his mouth, too. He reels her in and steps into her and they all but collide somewhere in the middle. The shower is large, but the two of them make it feel small. He makes it feel small: takes up all the room, makes it impossible for her to get anywhere without touching her. Though, perhaps she wouldn't mind that so much.

Especially since she is touching him now, reaching her hand down -- so bold, so unwavering -- to wrap her fingers around him. She's watching his eyes, and so she sees how that first stroke glitters in his irises, blows his pupils out, makes his gaze lose a bit of focus. Her mouth curves; she smiles like a cat in cream, like she's satisfied with what she can do to him, and in truth: she should be. He responds to her so readily, so unequivocally, so shamelessly. Oh, there's no shame in him at all -- no complication to his arousal, no sense that somehow this is a game with winners and losers. Her smile makes him smile too, and there it is again; that faint edge of thoroughly masculine pride, as though he's just so pleased to pass her muster.

His eyes fixate on her mouth as she's telling him again how filthy he is. She's hardly done talking when he leans roughly into her and kisses the words right off her mouth, ardent. Those strokes of hers are long, smooth, experienced, and he doesn't hesitate to respond. He rocks against her hand, presses into her, firm by the third stroke and hard by the fifth; slides his cock against her stomach if she'll let him. If she'll hold him there, trapped between her palm and her body, while he eats at her mouth

and pushes her against the tile

and picks her up again, quite suddenly lifting her with those big work-roughened hands of his. It's far from the first time she's wrapped her legs around him like this, but it is the first time they've been so clean, so wet, so bare. It's also the first time he's put her against a wall like this, bracing his feet, bearing both their weight. They're so very close together by necessity. He feels utterly solid between her thighs as she locks her ankles at the small of his back: a rough-hewn torso tapering to a tight, muscular waist.

And she feels unspeakably soft, and smooth, and sleek, her breasts pressed against him, her stomach pressed against him, her cunt pressed against him until he shifts her and holds her, holds her up with his hands laced under her ass. Her breasts come level with his mouth. He gets distracted. He can't fucking help it. It's like there's a magnet between his tongue and her tits, and now he's sucking at her nipples again, growling with his mouth full. It sounds a bit like words, something about magnificent fucking tits and he's not a gentleman at all, is he, talking with his mouth full: where are his manners? Gone, that's where. He's growling and sucking and still thrusting against her, or at least moving in those slow deep rolls of his hips as though he's thrusting against her, or into her, even though with her hoisted up so he can get at her tits his cock barely brushes her cunt.

Eventually he lets her down. Or maybe she gets impatient, tells him to put it inside her, tells him to fuck her before she loses her patience. And he lowers her, his biceps flexing, chest bunching: lowers her with his head bowed to watch, his hair plastered and dripping. It makes him shudder when he finds her; that hot wet heat that has nothing to do with their shower. It makes his cock jump, his breath catch. She has to reach down to guide him; he has no free hand. His brow furrows and his mouth opens; a silent exhale as he lowers her onto his cock, inch by inch, achingly slow this time, careful because

this. this is the last time. really. really it is.

They fuck. There in the shower, water hitting them from the side, sluicing down his back and her leg, between them bodies. They fuck in hard, athletic coils of their bodies, his hands holding her up, her hands fisted in his hair, behind his head, pulling his mouth to hers

and then to her neck as she puts her head back. Her breasts: well, he finds his way there all on his own, and this time his back bows, he stays inside her, he fucks her while sucking on those magnificent fucking tits of hers, gives it to her in these firm, solid thrusts that have those magnificent fucking tits of hers bouncing against his mouth, bouncing on his tongue. She starts laughing as he's fucking her like that, all but contorting to get the best of both worlds, which drives him a little wild, and abruptly he's straightening up and turning around and whipping the shower curtain back -- she's tightening her legs around him to stay on him -- he's stepping out of the shower, she can feel every step he takes radiating through his legs, through his cock, a dull percussion inside her. He could set her on the bathroom counter, that would make sense, but no: it's to the wall again, the bathroom wall this time, dry at least. The water is still blasting. This is so bad for the environment. Neither of them remember to care.

Against the wall, then. Her wetness slicking them up. Her arms and legs wrapped around him, clasping him close; his fingers spread over her ass, her upper back to the wall, his hands urging her, moving her, all but bouncing her between the wall and his body, bouncing her on the smooth fast slide of his cock. He's groaning at the end, and this time he doesn't hide his face against her neck or her hair or her shoulder or the bed, the wall. He's looking at her this time, looking right at her. Watching her, drinking the sight of her in, the sheer glory of Avery Chase in the midst of some truly exquisite fuckery; drinking it in, giving it back.

Holding her eyes even as he's hitting his peak, letting her see every microexpression, every flicker and shred of what he feels and what she's doing to him. Even as his brow wrinkles, even as the muscles of his face pull taut, even as his eyes are glazing and he's panting open-mouthed, curling his lip, baring his teeth, startlingly feral in his intensity: he pulls her down, slams into her, pushes her to the wall and comes inside her in sudden, obliterating waves that go through him so hard it's a miracle he doesn't pass out.

In the wake of orgasm the ferocity goes out of his eyes. He's panting for breath when he kisses her, and it's a loose, inexact thing. His hands loosen. He rubs her ass in slow, luxurious circles, his brow falling to rest against hers as the corners of his mouth quirk; as he laughs this laugh as low and loose and inexact as his kiss. He's going to be completely exhausted tomorrow, he thinks. Today. Surely it's well past midnight, closer to the dawn. He's going to be exhausted and worn out and aching and

just... terribly... pleased with the world.

Avery Chase

They fuck. Because he's still filthy and she's still wanting. He's in her again as he's kissing her, lifting her up once he can bear to let his mouth off of her breasts for a few seconds. Avery is looking down at him, watching his cock slide into her, feeling it, until her eyes flutter closed and her head tips back and she moans, the sound resonating off the tile, shivering under the water, vanishing in the air before it goes anywhere. She does get impatient. She gets wet and she starts rubbing against his torso and working herself downward to try and rub her clit against the head of his cock and she starts whimpering, whining almost, til he lets her nipple slip from his mouth and meets her eyes.

They fuck, Calden's feet braced on the slick ceramic and Avery's feet linked behind his back, holding him in her. Yes, you fuck, you son of a bitch, you fucking -- and other such inanities, since by this point she can't even think anymore. Truth is, she can barely move to meet him. She's starting to wonder if she'll be able to run home without lying down to rest halfway. She does know it's unwise to stay, it will mean things she doesn't mean, it could say things that aren't true, and in the end she doesn't really want to, but

she did want to stay for this, apparently. She can barely remember her own name, though, barely notices when he takes her from the shower and puts her back against the wall. Calden curls his body so he can fuck her suck on her breasts at once and she squirms, grinding on him til orgasm crests over her. Her hands clutch at his back, his arms, his shoulder, grabbing for purchase, her gasps echoing past his ears. She comes so soon, so liquidly, her body molten and unbearable. When he lifts his head to look at her, watch her as he goes on sliding her on him, bouncing her on the wall, Avery's eyes look as scattered as clouds at sunrise. She licks her lips, watching, him, taking him, panting to try and breathe again while his own breath is rising, hitching, holding for a moment just before he lets go.

By the end of it all -- and it must be, finally, the end -- Avery is shaking again, not from emotion or intensity or anything but sheer exertion, sheer exhaustion of a body that is not, in this form, capable of quite this much excitement for such an extended period. She is dizzy, and yet she kisses him just as loosely, but sighs halfway through it and lets go, too worn out to continue. She lays her head on his shoulder while he strokes her ass. She closes her eyes and it's rapture.