Avery slips away, then. She watches him for a moment or two before she turns around and walks out, with the same purposeful stride that she entered with. The bartender does not doubt for a second what was going on there. The way she looked at him while they were dancing. The way she wouldn't let him get up from the table. The way he had his arm around her and the way that Avery was just barely keeping her hand from sliding between his thighs while they sat there. The way they danced.
Well, more power to 'em. The bartender tells Calden to have a nice night, smiling, and Calden is already on his way to the door, maybe five minutes behind Avery, maybe a little more.
It does take time to maneuver through downtown on a Saturday night. There are the LoDoBros and the bleach-blonde girls in stilting heels that seem to occupy every city on weekend evenings, but at this time of night they're over on Larimer, they're at Beta, they're even at the Church (the club, not the religious institution), they're at City Hall (the club, not the actual building). They are not at the Ritz Carlton.
Parking is far, far more expensive in the garage, but all the lots around are full. They ask for his room number: at least he has one to give them. They're already contacting the occupant of that room number to confirm that she has a guest, but they have the politeness of old-world servitude and do not stop Calden from parking. They will collect his money and come for him later if it turns out he's a liar.
The floors are G - 13 and then Club Level. Above that are residences. So: he goes to the Club Level. He takes his hat off, like a damned gentleman does when indoors. He doesn't look particularly strange to the other guests: some of them are ranchers themselves, or own ranches that other people run for them, or have friends from high school who went to CSU for animal husbandry instead of DU for international finance. But he does look different from other guests at the Ritz. They're polite, though. Mostly ignore him; for all they know he's one of the ones that is rabidly successful, painfully wealthy, but refuses to wear tailored suits instead of dungarees and flannel.
On his way down the hall he passes the lounge, where some live music is still playing quietly and people are eating sweets and handcrafted chocolates and drinking champagne, sitting around chatting about their conference or that party. There was a wedding earlier; some of the guests are still talking about it. The people up here are... Avery's sort of people. Urbane. Chatty. They seem like they're having a good time. They are ridiculously wealthy.
He finds 1421 at the end, facing the west. The inebriated couple is in their late forties, and they are trim and bejeweled and the man's wife laughs a little too loud and covers her mouth in embarrassment. Her husband gives Calden an eyeroll, a smile, by way of comisseration and apology. She shout-whispers sorry! down the hall before her husband ushers her into their room.
The door opens. Avery hooks her fingers over the topmost fastened button of his shirt and pulls him into her
fucking apartment of a suite.
It's larger than many apartments, in fact. The living room she's dragging him into is the size of plenty one-bedroom hotel rooms, with two small loveseats facing each other in front of a flatscreen. There are fresh flowers in vases on side tables, there's a longer couch against the wall. She could hold a small party right here in this room, nevermind the powder room around the corner and the 10-person dining room at the other end. The suite even has access for serving staff to the kitchenette in case the are catering an actual party in that dining room, but Calden isn't going to get a tour of the suite right now.
Calden probably hasn't even seen the loveseats, and might not even see the little study with the mountain views. Avery is kissing him, the door shutting behind him, her feet bare now and her body still in that lovely silk dress. Behind her through the glass he can see the western half of the city. He can see the mountains, black silhouettes against the sky. If he has his eyes open. If he's looking at something other than Avery.
Avery is walking him backwards toward that long couch against the southern wall, panting against his mouth as she starts unbuttoning his shirt.
Calden WhiteOut in the hall, Calden smiles back at the inebriated-laughing-embarrassed couple. It's not the tight-lipped, annoyed smile of someone who dearly wishes such miscreants out of their sight, out of their hotel. It's small, but it's genuine and genuinely amused, and he's sort of raising a hand to wave goodnight to them as the husband is ushering the wife into their room when
1421 opens.
His head nearly snaps around. He walks forward, her arm snakes out, and Calden's not wearing a tie so Avery pulls him in by the shirt-button instead. The door swings shut behind him. It's unclear which of them closed it, but it hardly matters; her mouth is on his and he drops his hat on the floor, his arms are behind him and he's wrestling out of his jacket.
He doesn't see the nice little sitting area. He doesn't see the door to the study, or the other door to the dining room. He doesn't see the gorgeous city view and the mountains behind that city, or anything at all, really, because his eyes are closed and he's kissing Avery so ferociously that he's panting when they pull apart for air. His jacket hits the floor. His hands go immediately to her waist, his heat searing right through that slinky silk; his palms slide upward and he covers her breasts, moaning into her mouth, equal parts wanting and relief.
She pulls him in. He's laughing now, low and dark into her mouth. Those bootheels that walked through pastureland and scrubland and dirt and quite possibly manure and then, later, a slaughterhouse chute, a slaughterhouse office, a dive bar's entryway, a dive bar's floor -- those bootheels walk their way across the sleek hardwood or lush carpeting of Avery's hotel suite, missing her bare toes by some miracle, by the grace of some god of sexual hedonism. Her calves hit the couch. His shirt is unbuttoned down to his navel, or where his navel would be, except he's got one of those goddamn undershirts on again. His hands leave her: he whips his shirt off. His mouth leaves her: he whips his undershirt off too, and his torso is a beautiful, massive thing, every muscle mobile and moving in its place, its turn. He drops the white cotton undershirt. He scoops her up
and turns to drop onto the couch
and they bounce on the cushions, him on his ass and her on her knees; they settle, he's feeling for a zipper or a clasp or something, some way to slither her out of that gorgeous dress of hers. His mouth is at her upper chest now, lips to her velvety skin, drifting lower. His eyes are on hers. He's about ten seconds away from sucking her tits through her dress, she can tell.
Avery ChaseThe couch is the closest. Their other options are the floor and the wall. Avery seems to have already made her choice, and since she has Calden's shirt halfway unbuttoned by the time the edge of the couch presses into those shapely calves of hers, it does seem to be close enough that they can be horizontal before they are even undressed.
His touch running up her body to cup her breasts makes her moan. She's been thinking about what he said, how he wasn't sure how he'd survive without those magnificent tits for a week or more. When he called her she touched herself there, thinking of his larger, rougher hands, shivering as her nipples hardened in her own palms.
They haven't stopped kissing. It's barely even kissing. He's taking over when it comes to his shirt, so Avery puts her hands on his jaw, keeping his mouth on her own even as he drops his flannel like he dropped his shearling. They do have to stop kissing when he peels off his undershirt. Avery runs her hands down his torso then, staring at him as he's exposed, panting softly already. Her fingers splay over his lower abdomen. "Fuck," she mutters, whispers, and
starts yanking his belt buckle open, or trying to.
Calden wraps his arms around her, thick and firm, and lifts her up off the carpet. Avery goes easily, neither gasping nor yelping at the suddenness of it. She's getting used to the way he does this. How he picks her up, how he spins himself around, or her. It's not unlike their dancing, only now there's not music. Avery is grinning at him when he sits her down on top of his lap, her legs spread to either side of him. His palms are running all over her then and she realizes, perhaps a moment too late, what he's looking for.
"Here," she says, her voice hushed and quick. She reaches to her left side, finds the tiny tab, pulls it down to loosen the cut of the dress, then lifts her ass and rucks up her hem and pulls the entire thing off, wholesale. It falls half on top of his undershirt on the ground.
Avery is wearing panties that seem to be the same color as her skin at first, til he realizes they're transparent. They're paper-thin, smooth to her flesh. Her bra is the same color but thicker, opaque, smooth to her flesh. One simply does not wear lace or unmolded cups beneath silk. She doesn't descend to kiss him again yet though. He may have stopped at his upper half but once she gets her dress off, Avery is reaching back, arms folded like wings to unclasp that bra, sliding the straps from her shoulders and tossing it aside.
Then she comes back to him. She touches his face and his hair and kisses his mouth, her breasts touching his chest, her hips rolling against his.
Calden WhiteHere brings his hand blindly to hers, feeling for that tab that she finds and slides down much more expertly than he could have. She lifts that dress off, rising up on her knees to do so, and his hands are on her body, following the hem up, following the smooth slope of her torso. He's almost reverent. She's unspeakably beautiful: that trim waist, those
absolutely magnificent
breasts of hers, cupping that lovely bra. Except for once he's not looking at her tits; he's looking at her panties, which are so thin he can see through them, and he wonders if she wore that for him. He can't remember how she answered that question about her dress. His fingers curl until the waist of her panties, start to pull them down, and meanwhile she folds her hands back to undo her bra.
Which distracts him again. Which brings his hands up to cup her breasts as though to receive them, now that they've been loosed from her lingerie. His hands are, indeed, larger than hers. Rougher than hers. It's a different sort of feel entirely from when she'd touched herself earlier while he talked to her on the phone, asked her if she wanted to come to a blues bar with him, which turned out to be a dive bar with a good crowd, good music,
good dancing that led them here. No, strike that. They would have ended up here regardless. He folds his arms around her and wraps her up, pulls her close, kisses her breasts, licks her breasts -- she interrupts him, settling back into his lap. He raises his head. She touches him, her hands delicate on his face -- or perhaps not so delicate. Perhaps she touches him the way he touches her: like she has a right to. Like he's given her the right to.
Her breasts slide against his chest. He sighs into her mouth. Her hips roll, and he pulls her more firmly against him, pulls them together until she can feel him in those heavy working dungarees of his, as hard and ready for her as he was every, single, time they fucked a week and a half ago. Ten days ago. His hands are working on her panties again, sliding down beneath them, over her ass, working that scrap of clothing down with the indirect pressure of his knuckles, his wrists, his hands pushing downward.
Avery ChaseThey would have ended up here regardless, yes. They almost left the club immediately. Avery almost told Calden she wanted him to take her into the back of his truck or the back of her own car and fuck her there. They almost left after that first drink. She thought about touching him while he sat next to her, stroking him through his jeans, and they never would have ended up dancing the way they did. She thought about asking him to skip the club altogether. Just to come here -- summoned cock-first -- and have sex with her.
Again. And again. And again.
Calden kisses her breasts and cups them in his hands. He touches her like he's been waiting far longer than a week and a half to do this again. She rubs herself on his jeans, gasping a little as his knuckles hook under the thin elastic. After a while she slides her hands into his hair and lifts her mouth away from his and guides his face down to her chest again, urging him to suck at her, lick her,
at least for awhile. And for that while, she tips her head back and shudders with every flick of his tongue, trembles as his palms roam over her ass, stretching out that fine underwear of hers. Her fingers stroke through his hair, fingertips rubbing at his scalp. She whispers his name.
With harsh abruptness, she gets off of him. An intake of air and she pulls back, steps off, feet on their clothes, walking backward again. Looking at him sitting there, hair disheveled, erection pressing through his jeans, chest bare, lips reddened from kissing and from some small transfer of her lipstick. On the wall behind him there's some enormous piece of art on unframed canvas on the wall. It is modern and abstract, the colors muted but their application haphazard and chaotic. At once it frames him perfectly, and contrasts with him just like the rest of this room does.
"Leave your boots out here. But when you come in that bedroom, I want to watch you take the rest off," she tells him, and turns
and walks,
and pauses in the doorway to the bedroom, bending to strip her underwear down into a little pink coil on the floor. She shuts the door halfway.
Calden WhiteAt least for a while, they're doing on that couch what they couldn't in the cab of his truck the last time they were alone together. At least for a while, she's letting his mouth roam over her skin; she's luxuriating in the way he kisses her mouth and kisses her neck and -- sighing, moaning against her body -- kisses her breasts. Licks at her nipples, his mouth open, his tongue dexterous and slow. She's not the only one who knows how to take her time. Her hands are massaging his scalp, his name is drifting off her lips, and his mouth is
just closing over her nipple, just beginning to suck at that lovely, lovely breast of hers
when she suddenly inhales and gets up off his lap. Calden's starting to think she does things like this one purpose. Leaves him dazed and heated and stranded like that, his hands following her body and then dropping back to his thighs. His lap feels abruptly cool. His chest feels cold. His cock feels hot, straining at the confines of his jeans, and he starts to undo his fly because he thinks she must be getting up to get her panties off so she can mount him, ride him, fuck him like she should.
But: she doesn't. Avery, who does so love to do this, tells him what he's going to do. Tells him he's going to leave those battered working boots of his out here. Leave everything else on. Come into the bedroom.
Undress for her.
His hand has stopped at his fly. It cups loosely over his erection, through his jeans. He huffs a small laugh that twitches the corner of his mouth, and then that laugh dies entirely because she turns away and his eyes drop to her ass; they're almost sleepy with arousal. She peels her panties off. She rolls them down and she bends, bends, supple as a willow, takes that scrap of silk all the way past her knees.
She can hear him groan behind her when she straightens. She can hear him getting up when she walks away, and she can hear his boots hitting the floor and his footsteps behind her, hard and heavy and fast, all but storming down that distance between the couch and the bedroom door, which she shuts halfway
just to have him slam it open again. It thuds against the wall. He stares at her like a wild thing. She might think he's going to grab her around the waist, throw her face-down over the edge of the bed, drop his pants and pound her. He might think he's about to do that.
Then he shuts the door behind him. He walks forward, he catches her on her way to the bed, he pulls her to him and kisses her hard. He releases her. He steps back or she does, they put distance between, she has room enough to see him, head to toe. And -- a muscle flexing in his jaw, his hands unsteady with impatience, he starts wrestling at the fastenings of his jeans
while
she
watches.
Avery ChaseThey almost did this the last time they were together. She stopped him from reaching under her tank top then, simply because it was uncomfortable and they were in a parking lot, and it's a good thing she did. Otherwise, Calden's mouth would have ended up on her tits and she wouldn't have stopped him. His hands would have ended up down her pants and she wouldn't have stopped him. The cab would have shown up and found nothing but a slightly rocking Silverado with steamed windows and all Avery would have done is wrapped her legs higher around his waist, moaned louder against his shoulder as he nailed her in the miniscule backseat, their limbs tangled.
Instead, she slowed him down and they made out. She could walk away from that. She could rest her brow on the cold glass of the back seat of the taxi, staring out the window as the driver took her from Fort Collins to Denver, dropping her off at this same hotel, accepting close to two hundred dollars including tip for the privilege of being in her presence for an hour.
So: the bed instead of the couch. That's what she wants, apparently. It's a whim, really: the frustration of being unable to straddle him and undress him or herself completely at the same time. The sudden desire to watch him strip -- and more specifically, to watch him strip for her. She gives him some of that, though, as she walks away. He gets a glimpse of her, wet and dark and wanting, when she drops her panties with that demure little bend before straightening up and stepping out of them.
Moments later, Calden storms into the room. They have no reason to close the door at all but he does. Avery is already on the bed, enormous and soft and facing windows to the west. She is lying back against the pillows, only slightly propped up, watching him come in like a caged animal. He doesn't catch her unless he crawls on the bed after her. He doesn't kiss her unless he comes around the side of the bed and lifts her to his mouth. She, regardless, has one arm up over her head, forearm resting above her hair. Her other arm is draped loosely over her middle, like a sash almost, her fingernails hinting at the possibility that she might touch herself without ever doing so.
Calden yanks open his belt. And the button of his jeans. And the zipper, dragged harshly down with a sound as ragged as his breath, but metallic instead of human.
"Slow," she murmurs, and it's a reminder, of more things than one. That hand over her middle slides upward, cupping her own breast, thumb stroking her own nipple. "It's all right to go slowly, darling."
Calden WhiteSo he doesn't catch her after all. He wants to -- he's halfway around the foot of the bed and he's thinking to grab her, lift her, kiss her, flip her, fuck her, all that.
He doesn't. It's not fear of her, fear of being thrown through the wall or pinned to the floor or anything like that that stops him. He has never feared her like that, and that is, truthfully, crucial to everything they have between them. The one tenuous, hair-fine line that they can never cross, not if they ever expect to have this again.
Digression, though. Point is: he doesn't stop out of fear. That would cheapen and taint everything. He stops because he wants to. Because she wants him to. Because she wants him to go slow, to undress
for her
and show her just what she's getting out of this. He's breathing so hard his chest heaves with it, his shoulderblades move with it. He yanks the button open and whips the zipper down and she reminds him: slowly. He pants something like a laugh, harsh and ragged.
"You're gonna give me a heart attack," he breathes, "and then where would you be?"
But: he goes slowly. He slides that zipper down those last few teeth. His jeans begins to sag off his body immediately, and he lowers them, pushes them down to his thighs, lets them pool around his ankles. He steps out of that puddle of coarse denim. He stomps out of his socks, using the toes of one foot to peel the other foot's down, and off. He has his boxers on still, and they are plain white and soft cotton today; perhaps he doesn't own anything more exciting than that. He is, to put it crude, pitching a rather impressive tent there, and that should come next, but
he undoes his watch first. It's a heavy thing, metal with a segmented metallic band. It's nice. Nothing too fancy, but nice. Quality. Expensive. He drops it on the floor atop his pants and now, finally, he edges his boxers down. He pulls the elastic away from his abdomen, slides his free hand under -- she can see his eyes close of their own accord for an instant when his palm finds his cock, holds it against his body to keep it out of the way of the garment as he pushes it down, and off.
It drops like his jeans did. Softer, though, making barely a sound as it touches the floor. Now he's standing naked, his feet apart, his cock in his hand. And, his eyes on her hand at her breast -- her hand so tantalizingly close to her cunt -- he starts to stroke himself without her urging or her permission.
"Are you gonna touch yourself?" It's a husky almost-whisper. "I want to see you touch yourself for me."
Avery ChaseIt's strange to think that in some ways, she has greater cause to be afraid of him. No matter what she knows of herself, no matter the imbalance of strenth and power in this room, it's hard for her to let go of all those years when it was different. When she was different. She was not taught from childhood how to control her strength or how to be gentle with her kin. She was taught how to be a good kinswoman and a good wife and a noble representative of her family to another, one that she would be absorbed into. She was taught how to cope with long days and nights and weeks and even months of waiting, never knowing the truth until it was too late.
Avery is a Philodox. Avery knows what she is. She feels it when she dreams. She feels it when she wakes and takes her first deep breath. She feels it in those stabs of fury that shoot through her when some pet peeve is set off and she has to stifle the desire to turn the whole world red in retaliation. She knows what it means to be Garou.
But this is new. This is different, though Calden might not know that he's the only kinsman she's doing this with, has done this with. The only man, period. Not that she was a virgin the night he met her, of course; but whatever it is they're doing, it's new to her. Whatever he is to her, it's new. And when he comes stalking into the room after her, slamming the door open and looking like he's going to eat her alive,
it takes her a moment to remember that he can't really hurt her. That he's not the only one who needs to remember to stay in control.
then where would you be?
"Finding someone to heal you," she says, instantly and quietly and with a surprising and sudden depth of sincerity. Without embarassment or shame. Without hesitation. Naked and at fault, she would find someone to fix him, find someone to take care of his heart and restore it to him. That's where she would be. She says it and then she hears herself say it and laughs, because it seems so absurd that she took him so literally, so seriously.
That laughter is breath. She licks her finger and rubs it over her nipple, going back to her enjoyment of him. As his jeans come off. And his watch -- there's something unspeakably erotic about that, to her, staring as he stands there in his boxers, unfastening his wristwatch and taking it off. Avery's eyes are hooded, darkened, when he does that. When he takes his cock and pulls it against his belly, when she sees his hand around it like that. When he starts stroking it.
She breathes in sharply, breasts lifting, and he's saying Are you gonna t--
but she is then, quickly licking her fingers again, sucking on them, reaching between her legs to start to stroke her clit. She forgets to be wary of what happened last time, though that thought was present for a moment not so long ago. She forgets that the sight of her playing with herself made him lose his mind last time, that he hurt her, that they almost didn't recover from that. All she can do is part her thighs and reach down.
Her gasp shivers in the air when she rolls her fingertip in a little circle around her clit. Her back arches. She's wet, and he can see it now, watch as her fingers spread that wetness.
Calden WhitePerhaps he's sensed that in her: that she is not quite like those wolves who were born and raised knowing what they were. Knowing their strength and their potential, knowing their destiny and their fate. Surely he was aware, at least, that she has none of the cruelty some of those other wolves eventually learn. Even when he hurt her, entitlement never flared in her eyes. Brutality never reared to the surface. There was never any outrage that he, a mere kinsman and not even of her exalted tribe, would dare. She didn't throw him off, didn't throw him into the wall, didn't turn him under and put her teeth to his throat to show him who was really capable of hurting whom, here.
He hasn't asked her why, though. Why not. Calden thinks there is -- there must be -- an unspoken law between them, a line he's not allowed to cross. Don't get too serious. Don't get too real. Don't spend the night, don't drive her all the way home, don't talk about the deeper whys and hows, keep it superficial. Light. Enjoyable for all. Which must be why she didn't stay. Which must be why she didn't let him put his hand on her back, coming out of the shower, as though to shield her from the cold.
Which doesn't explain why, when he jokes about having a heart attack,
she answers the way she does.
Which doesn't explain why, either, when she answers the way she does -- his eyebrows twitch together. He gets this look on his face, a little aching. Then she laughs, and so he laughs along with her, but there are still faint furrows between his eyebrows.
But then that expression changes. And that furrow to his brow is different now; it stems from need, from lust. He's asking her if she's going to and then she is, and he's panting a breath out. They're both touching themselves. They're both stroking themselves, and his hand ramps up a little as she opens her legs. His eyes track straight there. He bites his lip when she catches wetness from her cunt, spreads it to her clit; he takes a few steps closer, his balance in his hips, his balance in his groin, the whole of his body and weight and attention centered on the rhythmic passage of his hand over himself, again and again.
At the edge of the bed he pauses. He switches hands. Calden is a righthanded man, and his left isn't so practiced. But he licks the palm of his right hand, licks right up to the tips of his two middle and index fingers, and as his knees brush the side of the mattress he reaches down.
His fingers slide over hers and between hers. He joins her there between her legs, rubbing her clit for her, sliding his fingertips between her lips and over her slit, slipping, brushing, touching those exquisitely sensitive few millimeters at the very opening of her cunt. His eyes are dark; he looks drugged. He's stroking his own cock in fierce, fast pumps of his fist, his bicep and chest flexing on every pull. But his hand on her is gentle, is delicate,
is a tease, really. Especially when he draws away. When he brings that slicked hand, those wet fingers to his mouth. Sucks her wetness off, growling low in his chest at the very taste of her, going to his knees in a hard thump like some invisible hand has pushed him down by the shoulders. Now he's there at her feet, waiting at the edge of the bed, both his hands lowering: one cupping his balls, one stroking himself,
slower now, slow and easy as he looks up her body to find her eyes.
"Come here," he mutters. "Let me have that pussy again. Rub it all over my face."
Avery ChaseOf course she would find someone to heal him if he had a heart attack. And let's not get this confused: Avery is not an airhead. She doesn't think that this somewhat-older lover she's taken a shine to is that much older. She doesn't think, for a moment, that he is really going to clutch his chest and fall to the floor because she wants him to undress for her,
stroke himself for her,
slowly.
It's just that when he says that, laughingly, there's a strange little ache in her, too. What would she do. Where would she be. She would be finding someone to help him. She would fix it. Because he is kin not of her tribe. Because she would be partially responsible for his heart's seizing. Because she's a decent person, and the truth is: her situation management skills are better than most.
Avery realizes she's said something a little odd for the moment when Calden's eyebrows furrow like that, and when he looks at her the way he does. She laughs, because she's so terribly awkward sometimes in her sincerity, and he laughs with her, and maybe she can tell that he'll remember that and maybe she's just hoping he forgets it, which won't be hard, because she's touching herself and he's staring at her, staring at her cunt and her fingers on her cunt, panting at the sight of it.
At least for the time being, they both forget.
When he came in the room, Avery was lying sort of sideways, sort of diagonally on that neatly made, very large bed. Her head was closer to the foot of the bed than the pillows, but she'd torn one free to proper her head up all the same. She wanted to see him come through the door and down that little hallway to find her. She wanted to watch him take his pants off -- and his watch, and she still doesn't know quite why that particular sight turned her on so much -- but now he's coming closer.
Avery draws her legs back up onto the mattress as his knees are hitting it, her smile lopsided and mischevious and then collapsing into a soft exhale as he licks his hand. He reaches forward, leaning over her, touching her like that. For a few seconds, she lets him. Her head tips back, a wanting, gasping little cry leaving her mouth. Her thighs are open for him, but she doesn't move her own hand away. It's as though she knows --
he's teasing her. So she doesn't dissolve when he withdraws his hand. Her chin lowers again, her eyes find his face again, right as he's slipping his fingers into his mouth to suck her taste off. Avery shudders, but that's nothing compared to the way Calden just drops to his knees. Almost like a supplicant. She can't see what his hands are doing anymore. She lifts herself up on one elbow, her other hand still rubbing between her legs -- almost mindlessly now -- so she can look at him again, but she still can't see his body, his cock, the way he's stroking it.
"What are you --"
Oh, she knows what he's doing. What he wants. And so she grins when he says it. Tells her to come over there, grab him by the hair -- well, he doesn't say that in so many words but he has to know that's what will happen -- and grind her pussy on his mouth.
"No," Avery smirks, and draws her legs up the bed further, preemptively, as though knowing he might very well grab her ankles and haul her over the edge of the bed. "You didn't shave, and I believe we had a deal about that," she teases him, and though grinning, bites her lip and pressing her hands -- both this time -- to the mattress, lifting herself up to sitting. "Get up here or I'm going to fuck you on the floor."
Calden WhiteWhat are you--
" -- you know what."
No.
And she smirks. And he does, in fact, grab at her ankles, but she's quicker than that, smarter than that, drawing her legs up the bed as he lunges his upper body onto the mattress. He didn't shave, she informs him. He exhales a laugh and he grabs a handful of the bedspread, tugs, for a moment she might think he'll just tug and tug and tug until she and everything else on the bed come tumbling down into his lap like cartoon flowervases off a tablecloth.
But he doesn't. She summons him up and tells him or else, and in all truth her threat isn't so much a threat as a promise of an entirely different sort of delight. Still, he flattens his palms on the bed instead and hauls himself up like a swimmer out of water, like a gymnast on the rings: a smooth rise, a tuck of his legs up, his knees sliding on the bedspread, then. Kneeling at the foot of the bed, he settles back on his heels, his eyes on her cunt, his eyes on her demurely drawn-up knees, his eyes on her breasts and his eyes on her eyes, finally, as he starts stroking off again.
"I could just use my tongue," he bargains, murmuring, that fiendish grin of his grin spreading slow as honey. "I could spread that sweet little pussy open and just ... lick you all over." His hands pause. She can see his cock pulse in his palm as he specifies:
"Very, very gently."
And then he's stroking again. A little harder, a muscle in his thigh pulling and releasing; the smooth rotation of his wrist bringing his palm up and around, up and around, working the head of his cock until he starts to pant his words: "I won't grind or suck or rub my face all over you. It'll be good for you, Miss Avery. No beard burns. I promise."
Avery ChaseIn this form, Calden is vastly stronger. He is tougher. But Avery is faster, and quite a bit so. She evades him easily, and he tugs on the bedspread and she laughs out loud, bright and pleased, getting further out of his reach. When he hauls himself up she's grinning at him, caught between a smirk and a smile and a laugh all at once.
The majority of a king-sized bed is between them when he settles there, kneeling, his hand drawn inexorably back to his dick. He starts telling her what he could do. He starts bargaining. He turns himself on more by saying it.
He turns her on, with what he says.
Avery just watches him, lips open, til she closes them and licks them and huffs a breath out. She laughs, very quietly. "Don't call me Miss Avery, you sound like a child talking to a teacher."
It's completely beside the point. She hasn't moved in several seconds, since she crept up on the bed. They're perpendicular to each other, her body elongated over the mattress, her feet toward him, her elbows starting to nudge against the pillows where she holds herself up, looking at him. She doesn't tell him no again, at least.
Calden WhiteHe didn't hear a no there. That's progress. He slides across the mattress on his knees and his shins, coming closer to her legs. His mouth quirks -- "Miss Chase, then," he amends, sound so very contrite. "Lady Chase, maybe? Or,"
he wraps his hand around the inside of her knee. And slowly, coaxingly, as though she were some sort of wild creature that might startle and run right out of the room if he were not careful about this -- he opens her legs. He folds her knee up to make room and then he eases between her shins, still kneeling, still upright, watching her eyes:
" -- is it just Avery?"
And his fingertips touch her again. His left hand, this time. He strokes himself with that same, slow, lazy rhythm, and she's so wet that his fingertips are wet almost immediately, and then his fingers, and then the upper pads of his palm as he slides his fingers inside her.
His eyes have gone hooded. That onesided grin has faded into something quite focused, quite intense. His thumb finds her clit; rotates. His eyes hold hers and he drops his mouth to her up-bent knee, kisses her as hotly and as drenchingly there as he would her mouth. Or her cunt.
What a gentleman: he asks permission. Or maybe he just wants to hear her say yes:
"May I lick your pussy, Avery?"
Avery ChaseHe doesn't get through his whole list. She's smirking at him, lazier now, as he says Miss Chase, and her eyebrows flick, her lips quirk, she gives a subtle bob of her head as a nod. She's on the verge of smirking at him even as his hands are coming onto her. Wrapping around her ankle, sliding up her calf, cupping her knee, spreading it from its twin.
Avery keeps her eyes on his eyes. Even when he reaches down to start playing with her again. She's quiet, but her intake of breath is still audible when Calden slides two fingers into her. Her breasts lift with that breath. She watches him kiss her knee.
She says nothing. Her eyes flutter closed. She leans into his hand, into his circling attention to her clit, panting softly at the ceiling.
Calden WhiteCalden would be lying if he said it wasn't just a little gratifying to see how readily, how luxuriously Avery responds. If he said it wasn't more than a little arousing, mindblowing, to watch her breasts lift on that quiet inhale. Watch her eyelashes come down. Watch her words fade. Watch her hips lift to his hand. He's smiling again, and he hardly even knows it. It's gratifying, but that's not triumph in his smile, or anything like that. There's no competition here. He takes his hand from himself; it braces against the bed as he moves over her, leans over her, and now, now he's kissing a soft, soft path from the top of her knee
to the side of her knee
to the inside of her thigh
to -- nothing. For a moment, there's just his breath washing warm against her clit. If she looks at him, she can see him sprawled on his stomach, up on his elbows, his lower legs hanging off the edge of the bed. She can see him staring at her cunt with almost laughable intensity, looking at her like she's holy, like she's paradise, like he's entranced by the sight of his fingers dragging
ever so gently out of her.
He paints her clit with her own slick. Coats her thoroughly, gently, evenly. He licks his lips; he swallows; he might actually be salivating. His eyes never leave her cunt, even as he turns his head to the side, kisses her thigh again, bares his teeth, bites her there very lightly.
Licks his fingers. Sucks them clean. Spreads her lips open, just like he said he would -- leans in. That first touch of his mouth is feather-light. He strokes the tip of his tongue all around her clit, delicately and precisely and slowly, lapping up the wetness. Drawing back, Calden takes a moment to taste her. Savor it. His eyes flick up to hers. He kisses her other thigh. So sweet, he whispers,
and goes back for more.
Avery ChaseThe first time Avery moans is when Calden slides his fingers out of her. Her fingers curl into the bedspread, her back arching again. It's almost as though she's forgotten him, transported somewhere where she can feel but not see, experience but not understand.
Only that isn't the case. She hasn't forgotten him. She shivers just before he starts to touch her, spreading wetness from her opening to her lips, her clit, as though flavoring her for his enjoyment momentarily.
A part of her wants to tell him not to tease her, not to make her wait, but the greater part wants to wait. Wants to tease herself. Wants, in fact, to come on that slowly licking, savoring tongue of his. She presses her lips together and moans, softer now, when he draws his head up to kiss her thigh and tattoo a whisper into her skin. Those lips part, gasping, when he descends again.
A little time. Not very long. One of her hands leaves the comforter and rests on the back of his head. Her fingers splay and spread through his hair, massaging his scalp. They are going quite slow indeed, now. He promised not to rub his face on her cunt, grind his tongue on her, suck her clit. He told her he would even shave his face for her, and then he shows up all bristly, so he has to be
very gentle.
She tastes like honey. When she's moaning. When she's struggling a little against the sheets, trying not to fuck his face, squirming slightly anyway. When she smooths her free hand over her own body, cupping her breast and stroking her belly, running her hand down her thigh. She tastes like honey.
Calden WhiteConsidering the way they went at each other last time, considering the ungodly howling and wailing they gave voice to down in his guest suite, considering the things they said and the things they did and the ferocious way he ate her out last time,
considering the way he stormed into this room like he was going to tear the building down around their ears if he didn't fuck her immediately,
this is so slow and languid as to be surreal. It takes a very long time. He takes a very long time, licking at her, lapping at her, breaking his promise just a little and sucking at her clit, wrapping his lips around just that sensitive little bit of tissue and making her arch again, taut as a bow, lovely as a painting.
She tastes like honey. And he laps it up, quite literally and quite shamelessly, dipping his tongue into her cunt to lick up her wetness as it comes. After a while he's muffling mmphs, he's panting quietly as he pleasures her, he's reaching up her body with his hands so large and slow, covering her hand where it covers her breast, stroking her body as she strokes down her thigh. For a moment her fingers touch herself, and he licks her there too, kissing her fingertips, nipping at the soft pad of her thumb.
And when she's squirming,
when she's struggling a little, trying not to fuck his face, trying not to grind against his mouth, his bristly jaw, his rough cheeks,
his hands come to her hips. He holds her firmly where she is. Holds her down a little, kissing her cunt, kissing her there and whispering shh, shhh to her like a secret. When she stops writhing his tongue goes back to her clit, so slow, so thorough, playing with her clit now, teasing her, going at her a little more firmly. His fingers press to the opening of her cunt. He slides them inside her again, quite gently, and she makes him wet to the knuckles, wet to the palm. He doesn't fuck her with his hand. He just keeps his fingers inside her, gives her something to grip, to bear down on
while he laps -- moaning -- so slowly, so firmly, so greedily at her clit.
Avery ChaseShe's not screaming now. She's not wailing. But then: she didn't scream like that when he ate her out last time. Either of the last times. Avery did moan, though. She gasped and she whimpered and she made all manner of noises.
She's quieter this time, though not by much. And he's softer. He's going slowly, he's going gently. They're less... oddly combative. Maybe because it's the second time they met -- there's less anonymity. There are all the little things they did and said. There's her holding his hand and laughing and leaning into his side as they watched the band. They've danced. His heart has flipped and she's looked him in the eye while speaking words of potent sincerity.
Maybe they're just doing something different. Maybe, maybe, it doesn't bear too close of a look.
Avery is blissful, squirming and whimpering when he sucks on her clit, gasping when he pins her hips down and holds her there to kiss her, bearing down and goraning when he slips his fingers into her. He laps at her like an animal drinking actual, literal honey. She hears him grunting and breathing between her legs, just like an animal, licking her a little faster, harder, reaching up to feel her tit in his palm while he does.
She stops trying to ride his hand. She bites her lip as he flicks his tongue quickly, flutteringly, over her clit. It quivers on his tongue when he slows again, presses the flat to her pussy. There is sweat on her skin now, heat rising to every surface of her that she almost can't bear. She has lost all sense of time. Coming closer to orgasm she has the fleeting thought that she would not mind keeping him around, fucking him regularly, often, if he is going to do this to her every damn time.
Avery's fingers clench on the bedspread again. She holds his head where he is, her body and breath both shaking. Those little gasps of hers stagger over each other, climbing and ascending until they're a ragged arpeggio of descent. Whether he holds her or not now, her hips buck. Her ass rubs against the sheets, back arching. She comes beautifully, when she comes slowly like this, symphonically, reaching a crescendo of taut stillness that then flows into easy waves, rolls of her upper body from upper back to hips, smoothing into low moans and long strokes of her pussy against his tongue, which,
one assumes,
is still amicably extended for her taste.
Afterward Avery is flushed, her skin gold and pink as a sunset, her lips still as red as strawberries in June. She looks awakened, as fresh and startled as though coming alive from a mythologically long slumber. Without a word -- though with several deep breaths and enough of a pause to keep herself from fainting -- she reaches for his shoulders, she pulls him upward as she is sliding down, working herself under him and him over her.
Avery doesn't say a thing. She starts kissing him, hands running down his sides as soon as his heavy body is between her legs, as soon as she feels his hip-bones pressing to her inner thighs. Her palms cover his flank, and she shudders. One hand, deft and determined, reaches between the two of them. She takes his cock from him, if he's still holding it, if he hasn't brought his hands up to hold her, wrap her up, push himself up over her. Very quickly, though without rushing, she presses his head to her slit. She grabs his ass. She rolls her hips and her mouth tears away from his. She takes him inside, pulls him into her, groaning past his ear,
a groan that seems to be breathed in somehow, landing heavily and deeply inside of her just like he does. It's exhaled in a gasp instead, just as heavy, just as rich.
Avery breathes in again. This time the exhale is a sigh, a pant, as her mouth goes to his earlobe: "Fuck me." His earlobe enters her mouth, hot and wet as it is, sucked past her teeth while her legs wrap around him.
Calden WhiteWhat a long, slow, indulgent interlude that was. What a pleasure, and what a privilege, to bring her off like that -- to flick his eyes up and watch the roll of her body stretching out across the bed; to feel her cunt clenching in waves on his fingers; to taste her so sweet and honeyed on that endlessly agile tongue of his,
which presses firm and steady and unrelenting against her quivering, shivering clit as she comes. He keeps his promise: there is no rubbing of his face. There is no grinding and sucking; there is no rolling in her scent. There's just his tongue. And his lips. And that gentle, devastating moment of suction at the very, very end,
when she's coming down from that symphony of an orgasm,
when she's pooling out liquid into those last fading clenches. That's when he wraps his lips around her clit and, flicking her, sucks in a slow-rising wave that might
just
blow her mind a little.
Afterward she is flushed, she is summer and sunsets and glory itself. He thinks of that drink she had, sunshine. He thinks of pre-raphaelite painters and flaming junes. He's smiling there, though that smile is half-hidden because he is still tending so very lovingly to that cunt, he is still nuzzling her clit and kissing her lips and licking, licking, licking the opening of her cunt and the length of his fingers as he withdraws those fingers so lingeringly and reluctantly from her.
Calden leaves the way he came: with a kiss, a warm press of his mouth against her clit. As he's straightening she's reaching for him. She pulls him to her, then. And he goes to her this time, no argument, no bargaining. Neither of them speak. The mattress jounces beneath her; her thighs are toned and her breasts are downright voluptuous, but his body is a hard-hewn expression of strength and surety. He's large, heavy, covering her, settling between her legs with a deep, low sigh.
That quiet little smile has settled on his mouth again. He looks at her fondly; except no, that's not quite the right word. Too pale. He looks at her adoringly, quite happy to be right here, quite happy to be pressed against her and settled against her, aligned to her down the length of their torsos, her thighs silky-soft to either side of his hips. He meets her kiss with open eyes, closing them only as her hands reach down -- passes the broad plains of his back, crosses the dip of his waist, molds over the tight muscle of his ass.
His cock flexes of its own accord, then, twitching between their bodies. He hasn't touched himself for some time now -- not since he put his hand on her body, put his hand on her hip, put his fingers in her cunt -- but he's so unflaggingly hard, as though her arousal, her orgasm, has transmuted somehow into his ardor. He gasps against her mouth when she wraps her hand around him. Sensation zings through him, almost too intense to be called pleasure, as she guides him there, grabs him, pulls him into her.
He lets her guide that first penetration. There's no brutal slam this time; no furious thrust. He lets her pull him in, deep, his groan a lower, rougher counterpoint to hers -- an erotic discord there in the spaces of her hotel bedroom. When they stop, pause just a second, he pulses inside her. He rubs his brow against her cheekbone, against her temple, and it's a silent entreaty: let him fuck her. he wants to fuck her. he wants to move inside her, grind against her, come inside her, see her come again. He moves over her, getting his bearings and his balance: shifting his weight to his forearms and his elbows, wrapping his arms under her shoulderblades, under her back.
He groans again when she tells him: fuck me. Her legs wrap around him like she's shifting in the saddle, settling in for the ride. Save a horse, he thinks inanely, and the end of that groan turns into a huff of a laugh, which skews sideways again into a gasp. He responds: he flexes into her, pushing deeper, a slow thrust that shifts her beneath him, presses her up the bed a few degrees. His mouth is at her shoulder. She nips his earlobe and he withdraws, he enters her again, faster this time, long and smooth, a stroke of his hips as fluent as anything they did on that dance floor.
A little harder, then. His arms still wrapped around her, his chest pressed to hers, the weight and strength and mass of that body she likes so much securing her against the heaviness of his thrusts: a little firmer, and a little faster each time -- fucking her just like she asked, nailing her on that huge soft bed of hers.
Avery ChaseThere's so little pause between her orgasm and her pulling at him, wrapping him in her hands and arms and legs and mouth. There's so little pause between her drawing him into her, gasping in his ear, telling him not just yes, not just go ahead but telling him exactly what she wants right then. What she wanted at the saloon -- a damned saloon, of all places -- and what she wanted when she first heard from him again, delighted at the sound of his voice and the promise she imagined in it.
Avery is glad she kept the hotel room for a little longer. Maybe when she decided to do that it wasn't just to give her kin time to settle into the house. Maybe she was thinking of this weekend, of the fact that she knew Calden would be in town, that he wanted to call her, that he wouldn't care if she did summon him, snap her fingers and tell him to get that mouth back where it belongs. Maybe,
just maybe,
she fantasized about exactly this.
Her breasts are pressed against his chest because he isn't lifting himself fully off of her for leverage. At least not yet, or not right now. She's holding him, and she's welcoming him, and gasping eagerly as he starts to fuck her in earnest. Her legs wrap higher; her back arches to take him deeper. Polite, sweet obscenities trickle past his ear, little fucks and gods and, at her least creative, just ohs, ever brighter, ever more wanting.
She is looking up at him now. The way she couldn't, or just wasn't, when they were mauling each other on the couch. The way she couldn't, or just wasn't, when he was kneeling on the floor asking not-too-politely for the privilege of tongue-fucking her. The way she couldn't, at all, when he was up on the bed, coiled and curled down to lick her like that, carrying her into and through her orgasm, holding her clit in his mouth and licking it softly when she almost couldn't bear it afterward, making stars burst behind her eyelids.
No stars right now. Just Avery looking at him, watching him as he fucks her, heavy and firm and steady and then
faster, their bodies energetic enough to rock a less expensive mattress in a less expensive hotel. She wonders what it would have been like in his bed, surrounded by his smell. She clenches hard around his cock at the thought, groaning, her eyes losing his for a moment. Her nails dig into his back between his shoulderblades. They aren't flirting, they aren't fencing with their words. The laughter they were sharing a little while ago has faded, though not suddenly dropped away, like they can't think clearly enough to even be amused for long before another pulse of pleasure goes through them.
He's going to make her come again. All Calden has to do is look down at her face, look at her torso tightening up and feel her hips winding on him. He's moved her up the bed just from the way he's giving it to her, every flex of his hips taking him more firmly into that tight cunt of hers. She bites her lip. She whines under him as he's starting to just nail her, whimpering behind sealed lips.
He's going to make her come again. Soon.
And she is breathing, panting raggedly, gasping now almost coherently: "Oh, fuck me. I want your cum in me. I want your hot, filthy fucking cum in my pussy, you fucking bastard."
Avery punctuates her vulgarity, every time, with a hard grind of her pussy onto him.
Soon.
Calden WhiteOh, they're back to this, are they: filthy and bastard and -- of course -- Avery telling Calden in crystal clear language, in no uncertain terms, and in great detail
exactly what she wants from.
She's going to come again. He can tell. He's only known her two evenings; a week and a half, if you really stretch the definition. And yet in that time he's managed to gain quite the familiarity with her. Her body, anyway. Her response. The way she fucks. The way she comes.
And the way she laughs. The way they fence with words sometimes. The way she looks when he's done something unintentionally hilarious but she's too polite, or perhaps just too sly, to laugh outright. There's that, too. Which is
so treacherously endearing.
Calden laughs -- breathlessly, under his breath -- while Avery is calling him all sorts of names. Those polite little fucks and gods and ohs have dissolved into those tight little whimpers behind her lips -- and every one of those whimpers is locked to one of those tight hard grinds of her pussy, and every one of those grinds is matched against every stroke he's giving her, and so
it feels a little like he's fucking those sounds out of her. That he's giving it to her so good that she can't help it, she's making those noises, she's saying those words, and oh, it's not a competition and it's not a battle, he's almost a little embarrassed to admit it even to himself, but it does turn him on. It does get him off to see the way she responds. Of course it does: this is the man who has, on two separate occasions now, turned down the prospect of his cock in her pussy just so he can eat her to orgasm. This is the man who is watching her, watching her face and her eyes and her mouth and the way sweat is making that golden hair of hers stick to her temples -- drinking the sight of her in like that is every bit as intoxicating as the contour and weight of her breasts,
the taste and heat of her cunt,
that body of hers, that smile of hers, that smirk.
"Say it again," he pants. She's telling him: oh, fuck me, i want your cum in me, and he gasps: "Say it again, tell me what you want."
Which is different from say it again because i want to hear you say it. It's different from say it again because i want to hear you beg. That's not what he wants; on some level, perhaps as unexpected to Calden as to anyone else -- god, he does like it when she tells him what she wants. He likes it when she tells him to come here, lick this, touch that, fuck me. He likes it when she says she wants his cum in her, she wants it, fucking bastard, filthy brute,
give it to her,
come.
And he does. Her words hit him, trigger something cataclysmic, quake right down to his loins. He grabs at her back, his own spine bowing; his head bowing to her shoulder. His muscles tighten; he thrusts heavily into her and then he grabs her, clutches her close, all but coils around her.
He bellows against her upper chest when it hits. She meets him, he fucks her, she grinds down on him, he moans. He comes deep inside her, which is almost a redundancy; there's nowhere else, no other way he would want to come.
His hand grabs handfuls of sheets. He's still for a moment, or as still as he can be when he's pulsing inside her, when he's panting so hard over her that his entire body heaves with every breath. Then he gives up being still. He gives in to it: rolls his hips against hers, starts fucking her again, fucks it into her, pounds it into her, pounds her into the bed in these
slowing, heavy, gasping strokes. And then just grinding. Grinding the shaft of his cock against her clit, grinding his hips against hers, wringing the very last wisps of their pleasure out.
Some time later, Calden laughs, low and blurry and loose. He has collapsed atop her. He is likely squishing her again. He nuzzles against her shoulder gently, and the curve of her neck.
"You know you're conditioning me," he murmurs. "One of these days you'll say filthy and I'll come even if I'm standing in line at the bank."
Avery ChaseIt feels like he's fucking those sounds out of her because he is. Because every thrust he gives her makes her back arch a little harder, tips her head back again, makes her lose it. She doesn't feel like he's battling her, winning against her. Calden is pleasuring her, and as well he should, because otherwise, what are they doing here,
what are they doing together,
why did he call her, and why did she meet him at that bar?
Avery lifts her head from the pillows under her to kiss him, which cuts off some of his words. Say it again, say it again he tells her, gasping, and she kisses him instead, moaning into his mouth. She's not sure she can form words, and she's barely capable of understanding them right now. Her arms are around his shoulders, loose but strong, while she wetly, softly, hungrily kisses her taste from his lips and his tongue.
"Fuck me," she gasps again, when she can't breathe and her lips part from his. They're close enough to brush against his mouth, though, his chin. Her eyes are closed, her lashes dark on her cheeks, silver and charcoal makeup still glittering softly on her eyelids. "Calden, fuck your cum into me. Fuck me. I want you to --" her words catch, and she shudders, panting: "-- I want you f--" and they catch again, broken up again into pieces:
filthy
make me
fuck...!
Calden, I want your f--
--filthy
and so on, until there's nothing left, not even scraps or tatters. Just Avery arching, hard, taut as a newly strung bow, her arms leaving his back and her hands grabbing the bedspread beneath them. She groans, deep and needful, winding her hips on him, working not just her orgasm off of his cock but drawing up a moan, long and loud and wailing, undulating, the sort of near-scream that he had to stifle at his house over a week ago. She's coming then, beautiful and aching. He's coming then, grabbing at her back, burying his face against her shoulder, burying his cock as deeply as he can go without hurting her.
They quite disturb the sheets with all their clutching.
And for some time after, they are both just grinding against one another, slow circles and thrusts and counter-thrusts of their hips together. Avery, lucky thing that she is, feels wave after wave of pleasure ripple through her on some of those grinds. She loses track, whether it's multiple orgasms or just one orgasm going on forever. Her hands come from the sheets to his arms, holding onto him, biting her lip while she rides every wave out until they begin to smooth out of her. Her spine smooths, too, settling her back against the bed.
Calden just collapses, huffing, laughing, likely feeling the clenching pulls of her cunt around him with every new aftershock of pleasure. She's slick with sweat and cum now, glistening and gleaming gold under him. She shivers from one last spark. She whimpers, and he's nuzzling her, heavy on her, and saying words.
"What?" she says, sounding like someone half-asleep or half-waking up. Her eyelashes flutter, and her head turns to look at him. The words gradually process their way through her mind. She huffs a laugh. "You are filthy," she informs him. "And heavy. And not being nearly as attentive to my breasts this time," she adds, without even pretending that she's not chastising him. As though to accentuate the sentiment -- or just to accentuate those aforementioned breasts -- she lifts her arms, stretching slightly, then letting them fall loosely over her head. Her head turns to one side, chin against her upper arm, lips parted and eye closed while she catches her breath.
Remembers her name.
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