you poor thing. you insatiable beast.

Calden White

Oh, he hears that challenging if. His eyebrows deflect upward just a little and the corners of his mouth quirk, but none of that stops what he's doing. And what he's doing, of course, is wreaking sweet havoc on her, threading that shiver down her spine as he sucks, licks,

doesn't really get his fill of her because she's sliding down again, her nipple popping gently free from the suction of his mouth. She can't see it from here, but maybe she feels it when she settles back against him -- the rekindling of his desire, his cock hardening again, still filthy from fucking her cunt like that.

Doesn't that sound nice. It's his turn to shiver. His palm smacks onto her ass, rubs for a moment. Then his arm tightens around her waist, keeping her right there as he sits up.

"That sounds like I might just be developing a new favorite way to pass an evening," he says. "Wrap those lovely legs of yours around me, Lady Avery."

And when she does, he rises -- a quick boost of his hands tossing her a little higher on his body, her thighs around his waist now. He leans sideways to snag her tank top, her panties, his red-checked shirt, his t-shirt, and her yoga pants off the couch. His jeans are on the ground, and that's too damn precarious to try to pick up, so he just kicks that article ahead of himself, wallet thumping, keys jingling, all the way from the back to the game room to the hallway to the guest room, where he latches the door gently closed.

A flick of a switch turns on one of the lamps on the nightstands. It's not a lot of light, but it's not total darkness either. He wants to see her. They do seem to like looking at each other. The last steam of her shower has faded, but it's still a little more humid in here. It's cooler in here without the fire too, though there's a hearth in here as well. A fire in every room: it's like he's a Fianna or something. Exposed rafters overhead, too. And a very generous bed, thick and soft. He tugs back the covers before he lays her down, crosswise on the mattress,

and goes to his knees at the edge of the bed. He lays a kiss on her lower belly, an inch or two below her navel, and for the first time there's just a hint of shyness in that smile of his, turning it lopsided.

"This gonna gross you out?" he whispers.

Avery Chase

They cannot seem to get enough of each other. The way they keep staring at each other, devouringly. The way they talk. The way he licks at her, slaps her ass, mutters that he has a new favorite, which only makes her smirk. She tightens her knees against his hips like he's a damned horse, then slips them around his waist as he stands up.

Avery doesn't cling to him, worried he may drop her. If he's going to drop her she can catch herself. If he's going to drop her she will laugh at him for trying. She smirks at him, archly, and informs him: "You know nothing of my titles," when he calls her Lady.

"Leave it," she adds, when he pauses to reach for their clothes. She's licking his earlobe, suckling his neck, and he is sticky from where her pussy touches his skin, from where their skins stick together. "Just fucking leave it."

Maybe he does. They end up in the bedroom either way, the fire still burning behind them, the lights still on, the billiards game half-played.

What light Calden summons for the guest room is dim. Avery, who has spent half the night tracing her eyes over his body, does not argue. She is kissing him now, fully and hungrily, her hand curling behind his head to hold him there, right there. He should be able to find his way to the bed that she passed earlier, when she showered. It's his house, after all.

Not so long later, he slides her down his body to the bed. Not on top of the covers: she notices that. She lays back on the sheets, thinking to pull him over her, reaching up his arms slow and sliding to pull him over her, permit him to mount her face to face this time, but he kneels. And that is well and good, too.

Avery lifts herself to her elbows, smirking at him as he smiles up at her. "You smelled like cattle and slaughter when you put your hands on me," she tells him, both a reminder and a rejoinder, but also, invitingly, fondly almost, as she sits up, reaching for his face, sliding her palm over his cheek.

"You're a filthy bastard," Avery says soothingly, stroking the hair back over his ear, "and no,"

rather than 'but',

"it will not 'gross me out' to have you lick me after coming in me." Her tone turns thoughtful, musing, weighing her options: "But if you don't get on top of me and get that cock back inside of me, I may rip your hair out."

Her finger and thumb tweak his earlobe. She smiles. Sweet. Bright. Sunny days, Memorial Day at the club, and so on. "Don't you want to fuck it again, Calden? Don't you want to see me moaning under you?"

Calden White

There's a fire burning outside. There isn't even a screen over the fireplace. He should be worried about his goddamn house, with all its lovely expansive architecture and its exposed wooden beams and its rustic stone hearths, burning down in ashes. He's not, though. He's not too worried about their clothes strewn all over the place either -- he'll have the good manners to try not to let his parent hear him having sex, but he's a grown-ass man and if his dad still thinks he's some kind of virgin then he's evidently senile. Nor is he worried about that half-played billiards game, or the two glasses flattening the felt, or the bottle with its cork uncorked.

He does think, if only momentarily, about grossing her out, though. Not -- and this is a subtle but important distinction -- about her thinking he's gross. Thinking poorly of him. Not that at all. He doesn't want to make her uncomfortable, is all.

And she assures him: she wouldn't be. But. And the but conjures his grin up again. She tweaks his earlobe. He kisses her thighs. She teases him, lays herself out for him like some juicy morsel, some shimmering prize, and

Calden,

who smelled like cattle and slaughter and now smells like sex and more sex, who doesn't have the bristle of a kin whose good nature has been abused, who doesn't have the cringe of a kin whose good nature has been thoroughly abused out of him,

snaps his teeth playfully at her wrist. Pushes her legs apart. And plants his mouth on her clit. It's no gentle butterfly session. It's intense, ravenous, his lips tight to her flesh, his tongue flicking and darting and circling and rubbing, sometimes, pushing against her clit until she can feel the fine quiver of flexion; drawing back, then, fluttering, sucking.

She can pull him off, of course. If she really wants. If.

Avery Chase

No one waits for her at home. There is no home yet. There's a hotel room, locked and bolted, the key cards sitting on top of the mattress still in their envelopes. She does not need the keys to get back. She needed only to run, as far as she could, into the empty north where there were winter-lean creatures waiting to be put out of their misery, forgetting that spring is coming.

She needed this, though, too. Avery said as much out on the couch, catching sight of herself in the night-glass, feeling her body more relaxed than it has been in hours and hours and days and possibly weeks now. She almost craves the drop after, the decline. She knows she shouldn't. So she craves this, instead, and

he obliges.

He kisses her thighs. Suddenly, achingly, she cups his jaw in her hand and kisses him, at utter counterpoint to the teasing and tweaking and the filthy things coming out of her mouth. She kisses him, drinks him like wine, and then falls back on the guest bed, arms over her head, sighing into the dim light.

Her legs go easily over his shoulders. She arches at the first touch of his tongue, breasts lifted heavenward, spine bridging over the sheets. She moans when he starts to suck on her. She doesn't grab at his hair like before, though; maybe pulling his hair out wasn't a threat so much as an inevitability.

Calden White

Maybe he heard that nakedness in her voice when she told him she needed that. Maybe he has the astuteness to understand she wasn't just saying that, it wasn't just something fancy ladies say after they've been thoroughly fucked by cowboys stinking of cattle. If he did, though, he also had the astuteness to know not to ask her about it. Not then. Not now.

Definitely not now:

because right now he's busy, you see, he's going at her like he's been starved for weeks and she's ambrosia, she's milk and she's honey, like she tastes the way gold looks. She arches, and she doesn't resist him; she takes to this like this, too, is her due. Maybe it is. Maybe that's what being royalty means nowadays: it means she can go onto some kinsman's land, she doesn't have to ask his errant warders for permission (and god knows where or who they are), she can charm and allow herself to be charmed, she can while away a delicious hour or three or five taking what is so unabashedly and willingly offered. Giving what is so abundantly and unreservedly given.

So: she doesn't resist. She takes to this. And feeling that, feeling her uncoil out like that, feeling that moan of hers descend right through the axis of her body to quiver against his tongue, Calden stops holding her thighs apart like he thinks she might slam them shut if he didn't. He runs his hands up her body instead, following that delicious arch, spreading his fingers over her abdomen, over her ribs, finding

those lovely breasts of hers, those happy handfuls that fill his palms so very well. He cups her, he plays with her nipples, he takes his pleasure in her because there's such pleasure in the giving, such pleasure in working his mouth on her like this while she moans, while she shivers, while her thighs tremble and her cunt pulses.

He's hard again. He doesn't reach for his cock this time, though he can feel the weight and fullness of his erection; the heat and the building ache of it. He keeps his hands on her body, kneading, stroking; he keeps his mouth on her clit, sucking, licking. He takes his time. He's going to get her off this time -- he's quite determined and resolved about this -- but oh, there's time. He has all the time in the world, and so

sometimes he pauses, he slows, he takes his mouth off her and kisses her thighs with his face wet from her slickness; he kisses the lips of her cunt and the dip of her navel and all the way up to the underside of her breast, her nipple, before receding down the bed again. For a while he spreads her with his fingers, and he licks her so delicately then, goes at her so lightly and gently and patiently until she starts whimpering impatience, and then; then he's doing it again, shhhing her, a twinkle in his eye, sheer mischief.

Avery Chase

He heard something in her voice when she groaned that that was what she needed. Maybe it was nakedness, stress, anxiety from some mysterious source. Maybe it's the moon being so close to full. Maybe the hunt, the meat, the bloodshed was only part of it. Maybe she hasn't gotten fucked in weeks or months and was sick and tired of her vibrator.

Calden doesn't know her. And no matter what insight those clear eyes and the half-moon's touch on her might give, Avery doesn't know him, either. At all.

Neither of them care.

Last time, she stopped him, but only so she could go down on him, her spine stretched out, ass lifted, mouth eager. Last time, he fell back and watched her -- and stopped her, so he could kiss her again, so he could fuck her pussy instead. It doesn't seem to surprise Avery that Calden, on this round, chooses licking her to his heart's content. Who wouldn't want that? Who wouldn't be honored to go down on her, eager to taste her, longing for the rapture of making her come?

So she arches and purrs and moans and winds her cunt on his tongue, riding his face more slowly than she rode his cock, but with a very similar rhythm. Every downstroke makes her release a softer version of those cries that, in the game room, told him how close she was to coming that it would be wise to shut her up somehow before not only his father but his next-farm-over neighbors could hear her. She shivers when he decides to massage and stroke her breasts, but not because she wasn't expecting it. She might very well have ordered him to it if he hadn't gotten there on his own soon enough.

The first time he takes his mouth off of her to kiss her thighs and her navel and whatever else he thinks he's doing, she nearly smacks him in the side of the head. But she doesn't. Avery said she might rip his hair out. Avery might grip him a little too hard when she reaches down, threading those elegant fingers of hers through his hair, guiding -- and then pushing -- his face back down between her legs. If that's what he wants, that is damn well what he's going to get. She exhales, shuddering at the next contact of his tongue on her clit, still so terribly sensitive.

She doesn't exactly whimper her impatience. She just orders him back where he has decided he belongs, even sighing: "You can have the rest when you give me your cock." A new shiver goes through her; she smiles and then she laughs, breathily, at her own demanding. And then:

starts riding his mouth again, moaning, guiding his tongue with her own stroke.

Calden White

They're not locked in some bedroom war here. There's no spite, no viciousness, no real animosity to the way they're going at each other. There is, however, this tantalizing thread of challenge running through it. It was there when she said if. It was there when she told him to fuck her again, take her to bed and lay her out under him and fuck her nice and hard, wouldn't that be nice? -- and he responded by getting on his knees instead.

It's there when he makes her wait a little. When his mouth drifts from her cunt. When he slows down, when he gets gentle with her, when he takes it to such inordinately slow, delicate levels that she knows, she can tell he's just playing with her on purpose. And it's there when she responds: threads her fingers into his hair

and grips

and guides

and then flatout pushes his face down between her legs. And she does have to push. He makes her push, makes her shove, resists her, crawls up over her body and sucks at her tits, goes at her until she has to put both her hands on him, in fact, to push him down by the shoulders, to pull his mouth

to that wet, quivering cunt of hers

the very sight and scent of which makes his eyes gleam. Makes his goddamn mouth water. His resistance snaps suddenly, like a rubberband pulled too far. He growls: he goes at her with a sudden, starved fervor. She shudders: still sensitive. He laughs again her pussy, muffled, delighted. If she even thought for a second his resistance was real, she'd know then it wasn't: she'd know because he's so fucking eager, such a ravenous thing, such a goddamn connoisseur of clit. When her back arches he slides a hand under her spine, supporting the bow of her body, tilting her hips just a little more so he can shoulder her thighs a little farther apart, put his mouth a little more firmly

right where it belongs.

She starts riding his mouth again, moaning. He moans too, a rough muffled sound against her clit, because the way she moves turns him on, because she's riding his mouth like that's what it's for, moans because she's unraveling herself into the moment and her wetness is on his tongue, in his mouth, slathering his chin, and he's quite literally licking her up. Eating her up. His eyes are closed now, his brow knitting with concentration, with focus, and -- yes -- with pleasure.

Avery Chase

For a moment she almost stops pushing him down. Fine: he wants to stray, he wants to pause, he thinks he's going to make her come anytime soon if he keeps wandering around like that, he can have it his way. She very nearly stops pushing and starts pulling him up, because as she said: he can have the rest of her, breasts and mouth and thighs and belly, when he's ready to put that awful cock of his back inside of her, give it to her again.

But he relents, and he growls and descends again, eating at her ferociously now, hungry, moaning and laughing against her cunt, like any of that wandering was more of a struggle for him than for her. Avery's thighs open to either side of him. She keeps her hands in his hair, as though to make sure he stays right there, and after a while he finds her rhythm again. She finds that groove, that comfort, that ability to let her mind and her body go. It isn't always easy. The softness of lips and tongue on her pussy seems to require more time, more patience, than the more brutal, forceful sex of hard thrusts and a solid cock. It's as though it drives the inhibition out of her.

After a while: her hands in his hair soften inexplicably. She strokes his hair, sighs, panting now as he goes at her, as she rides him. Her fingertip traces his ear. She starts to squirm a little, her cries taking on a whining edge, needful and mindless. Her hips buck sharply once and she shudders, and she shivers, and she starts making noises that almost sound like weeping, they're so plaintive.

After a while: it's just vowel sounds, impossibly pretty and equally impossible to find pretty words for, because they are harder than gasps and softer than grunts, higher than groans and shorter than moans. He knows that sound, though, from every woman he's ever touched that was willing to voice her pleasure. If he could see her now, he would see her face lit up with delight, her eyes closed, her brow knitted but not deeply, a look on her face that is on the verge of laughter as she is lovingly, sweetly punched with orgasm.

He is so close he can feel her clit itself trembling on his tongue. She tries to wiggle away, like she can't bear it, whimpering now, whimpering in a way she hasn't all night, sealing her lips against the sound and only managing to make it more erotic as a result. Avery squirms away after a while, closing her thighs, twisting her hips away from him, his face, because he's still licking her, tasting her, chasing the scent and flavor of her orgasm up the bed, and she can't physically stand it anymore. She rolls to her side, then her stomach, arm under her torso, hand covering her pussy, fingertips gently rotating without stroking her clit directly, panting as she starts to come down.

Calden gets to see that, watch that. Her shins are on his shoulders now, the seam between her thighs tight and leading up from the backs of her knees to where he can see the tips of her manicure, the cleft of her ass, the shining of wetness where he licked here and where she came. Avery just grinds, writhing for several seconds until the muscles in her back and her legs and even her arm can't handle it anymore. She exhales pantingly. She rests her cheek on the bed's sheets. She closes her eyes and she relaxes her body, gently slipping her hand out from under her, sighing.

Calden White

If he could see her now:

and he can. Because when her moans turn into something else, when the noises she's making hits that pitch, that timbre, he opens his eyes. He looks up the length of her body, all that skin the color of gold and cream, all that writhing, arching, shuddering loveliness laid out like that, balanced on the cusp of orgasm, balanced and then tilting, tipping, pouring molten over the edge.

He groans with her orgasm. He made a sound like this, almost the same as this, when he came himself out on the sectional couch of his game room: rough, releasing, gratified, overcome. And maybe she's right. Maybe it is an honor, a goddamn privilege. To see it; to be the one so honored as to bring her there. Bring her off. Get her off like that, his hands covering her breasts, his mouth on her cunt, his tongue working her clit, fluttering and flicking and finally lapping at her, over and over in the warmth of his mouth, heavy unrelenting strokes that make her jolt and shudder and squirm. He holds her there, just a little longer, groaning still against her, licking her still, chasing her up the bed as she retreats.

And now she's whimpering. Now she's making these sounds, these erotic, helpless little sounds that arouse him so fiercely he can feel his heart pounding, he can feel his cock twitching so hard the head of it snaps against his abdomen, leaves a strand of precum there. She's twisting out of his grasp, away from his mouth. He's panting as he lets her go, sweat dampening his hairline and his temples, his back, his chest. He's a mess. He has her cum on his face, her taste on his tongue. She rolls on her stomach and grinds out the very last of her orgasm, and he's dropping his brow against her calf and reaching down to take his cock in hand, grip it, squeeze it, hold it the way she's holding her cunt.

She relaxes. He hears her sigh and he rolls his forehead against her leg, kissing her ankle. He pushes up on the bed and crawls over her, his erection arched against his body, his body jouncing the mattress with its sheer size, its mass. He kisses her thigh as he moves over her. He kisses that dimple on her back he'd kissed once earlier. He kisses the lowermost rung of her ribs, and he kisses her shoulderblade, and he kisses the nape of her neck, tasting sweat and salt and her. He's on all fours over her, and something like compassion or mercy keeps him from even thinking of coaxing her to spread her legs, lift her hips, take his cock, but

he's kissing her neck, he's nipping her earlobe, he's nuzzling the dip of her spine and kissing her over her heart. It's all so lazy now. He comes down to the mattress, lays himself alongside her with one leg crossing over hers. His chest is rough against arm, or her back. His cock is pulsing, wet with precum, hot and hard as a bar of iron against her hip, but

there's something tender, and gentle, about the way he lays his arm over her. Calden kisses her mouth if he can reach it. The corner of it, if she can't manage a real kiss yet. He strokes her hair back, and then he finds that hand she'd cupped over herself at the end of it. Brings it to his mouth. Sucks her fingers clean, one by one.

Avery Chase

Oh, he chases her, greedy and mindless in his own right, wanting more. Wanting, full stop. Avery can barely feel him against her legs, her toes curled as her legs quiver and then relax, stroking his shoulderblades as she starts to relax, to melt, to go limp.

Calden is slow about the way he comes up over her, then. Gentle, and there is no 'almost' to that. He is gentle, without shyness or self-effacement or fear of her or for her. Just gentle, in the way you learn when you're constantly around animals who only seem docile until they feel threatened, who are dear and safe and loyal when you're easy with them. It isn't the same as treading warily with a skittish creature; it's comfort and it's trust and ultimately those things are tied to strength and solidity, not how well one dances on eggshells. In essence: Calden is slow, and easy, and gentle with the same attitude and confidence that lets him banter and tease and resist her.

He is also hungry, and hard, and kissing her body with as much reverence as one worships a diety or prays before a shrine. Avery shivers and makes a soft sound of enjoyment as he traces his way up. She doesn't for a moment think he'll dare to try and pry her legs open and give it to her now, when she can barely move or speak or remember where she is.

The air in here is cooler than it is out by the fire. By the time Calden lays himself out along her side, half-covering her shoulder, she is grateful for the shared warmth, and purrs softly. She lifts her feet heavenward, flexing her ankles, while he tangles those legs of theirs together. She smiles, eyes closed, cheek moving on the sheets. Just to fuck with him, she wiggles her hip gently against his erection.

"Oh you poor thing," she whispers, without compassion or sympathy, "you should have fucked me when you had the chance."

He can reach her mouth. Her head is turned toward him. She sort of kisses him, barely kisses him, softly kisses him. His fingers streak the smell of her cum into her hair; she doesn't mind that. They are both more than a little filthy right now, sweaty and soaked in pleasure. Drawing back, he decides to suck that taste off her fingers like his mouth isn't already consumed by the same. Avery watches him, and laughs softly at him.

"Goodness," she slurs. "You insatiable beast."