This is different from how it was in the kitchen. That was, in truth, another variation on the mating dance. There was something deeply erotic about the way they took meat from one another's hands. Licked at the fingers and sucked at the tips. Drank wine, gulped it down, kissed, bit.
This is not erotic. It is warm, and it is tender, and it is -- intimate. They finish the steak between them, all of it, leaving nothing but bones and the scraps on the bones. Calden gives Avery the last bite. He sets the pan aside and he sucks his fingers clean, wipes them on that paper towel that he tosses into the pan to take out to the kitchen. Later. Tomorrow, maybe.
Avery's eyes close. Her wineglass droops from her fingertips until she feels Calden taking it from her, plucking it gently free to set on the nightstand. Then the faint rustle of his drying hair against the side of the bed: he swallows the last of his wine, too. Warmed to the bone, lazy with drink, he levers himself up to his feet with a hand on the edge of the bed. Stands there a moment, swaying a little,
before he sinks down on the mattress. Lays himself out beside her, antiparallel, one forearm flung across his eyes, the other stretched across the bed nearly to the other side.
He should get some water, he thinks. He should get a couple glasses and put them here, or else they'll wake in the morning with pounding hangovers...
Calden falls asleep. Left alone it'll be an hour, two, before he wakes again. By then his thighs will feel vaguely strained, his legs heavy from dangling off the bed so long.
Avery ChaseThere seems to be no question at all that Calden will stay the night. There isn't, actually: he said he would stay until she kicked him out. She hasn't kicked him out. She won't let herself, for one. And as time goes on and as the wine swims into her bloodstream and makes her eyes glassy, her desire to make him leave grows less
and less
until it's gone. Or at least sleeping.
Avery's eyelashes flick once, halfway, when Calden takes the wineglass, but he gets the instant impression that perhaps this is something she's used to; the woman has servants. The woman has dedicated servants, aware of her blood and what her rage could do to them. Silver Fang servants, loyal and eternal. These are the sorts of servants that, if need be, could quietly and respectfully undress Avery in her sleep and tuck her into bed. Maybe have.
She doesn't startle much when he takes the wineglass. That's what that adds up to.
There's another flutter, larger, when his weight comes up onto the bed. Avery is draped along the very edge like a cat hanging off the back of a couch, and as the mattress moves she shifts so she does not roll to the floor. She rolls inward instead, her limbs bumping against his limbs briefly, her head facing the foot of the bed, her feet tucked against the pillows. She does not seem inclined to alter that positioning. And Calden lays himself down nearby, but not touching. Not completely.
Avery is half-asleep. She doesn't hear him fall asleep. She doesn't watch him. She drifts off herself, not thinking at all about anything, anything, because in this form she is more fragile, she is weaker, she is more susceptible to drink and exhaustion.
Draped across her bed, they succumb.
--
When Calden wakes, an hour or two, there is blonde hair casting a gold curtain across his stomach. Avery is sleeping against his hip, where the towel is folded in on itself and softest. Cushiest. The back of her hand is resting on the outside of his knee. Her other arm is resting over her stomach. Even in sleep, her fair cheeks are flushed from wine. Her head is heavy. Her breath is even.
Calden WhiteCalden is thoroughly dry, by then; the hair on his head tousled, the hair on his body soft. His skin, where she doesn't touch him, feels a little chilled by the cool and conditioned air in her unit. It's not that that wakes him but the rather overwhelming need to take a piss, though, and so
though he doesn't want to leave her or wake her
he eases Avery's head from his hip, her hand from his knee. He tries to slip out of bed silently and stealthily, but the truth is Calden is more brawn than dexterity. It is not easy for him to attempt ninja tactics.
So she might well wake. But she might well sleep on too: wine-drugged as she is. Either way he gets gently out of bed and picks up the pan, the wineglasses, that half-finished second bottle. He walks them out to the kitchen where he does, in fact, get some water. Brings some back, two tall glasses with condensation already beading on the sides. He leaves them by the nightstand as he lets himself into her bathroom.
Before he comes out he washes his hands. He rinses his mouth, swishes and spits. He dashes cool water on his face and dries himself on that towel around his waist, and modesty hardly seems worth it at this point so he leaves the towel in the bathroom -- tossed over the top of the shower door or over the curtain rod. Returning, he turns lights out as he goes -- the one in the bathroom, the one in the hall, the one by the chaise, the one by the bed.
It's quite dark in her room, then. And if she hasn't already awoken, she will now when he slides his arms under her and lifts her off the bed, murmuring for her to pull the sheets back
or at least to hold on to him so he can shift her weight to one arm, propped against his body or his knee or something that will keep her from sliding ingloriously to the floor,
while he tugs the sheets and the comforters back himself. Laying her down like that draws a thread of desire through him. He bows his head and, if she lets him, he kisses the soft dip at the base of her throat; he kisses her between her breasts. Stops there, taking a breath and letting it out, lifting his head, climbing into bed beside her instead.
He feels awake now. Thinks surely there's no way he can sleep like this -- but
if she doesn't move, if she doesn't speak, if she sinks back into slumber,
soon enough so does he.
Avery ChaseAvery does not, this time, wake. Her head slides off of him and to her bedding with the very softest of motions, rolls a bit, and she smacks her mouth, and sleeps on. When he comes back to her room from the kitchen, the entire condo silent yet softly lit around him, Avery has managed -- all without waking -- to tuck her robe more around her bared legs and curl up in the center of the bed. She sleeps quite soundly, just as he learned the last time he was in town and slept beside her in her hotel room.
Calden passes her by. Calden takes his piss and washes his hands and rinses his mouth and wipes his face. He strips himself naked when he leaves the towel where it is, tossed somewhere to air-dry rather than dumping it on the floor in a puddle of Egyptian cotton. The room grows dark with his passage, and Avery sleeps on, only more soothed by the quiet and the dousing of the lights.
So of course, as soon as he touches her, she wakes. "What--" she begins to murmur, instantly, as though someone is calling her, calling her, they need her, something has happened, but
it's just Calden.
"Oh," she says, as though he's answered her, and goes quite easily into his arms to be rearranged. She drapes herself over him, not quite coherent enough to even ask what he's doing or why or what's happening. She is still quite drunk, and perhaps even a bit blacked out, but at least she went there willfully. This wasn't a mistake.
Calden, in a way not even remotely similar to the methods of her servants, tucks Avery properly into bed, but he leaves her in her robe. She is laid down, laid out, and Calden kisses her neck. She stirs a little when his head moves down her chest, not towards him but away, her shoulders turning slightly before she gets too tired to move them anymore and she just relaxes her upper body again. There was a faint nnn sound of protest, but it went nowhere. Just like Calden, in fact.
She sleeps, her breathing ragged for a brief period, then slowly steadying out again.
He sleeps beside her, though he thought he couldn't, not with her so close, not with her so very, very far away.
They sleep together. The second time.
Third?
--
Middle of the night, the bed moves and the covers pull back for cold air to touch Calden everywhere, and Avery leaves the bed without preamble or hesitation. She wavers to the bathroom and pisses and washes and wavers back out again, dropping her robe on the floor as she half-stumbles back to bed. She at least has the grace and courtesy not to flop, but it's close. And the room is cool enough that when she climbs back under the covers, naked,
she aligns herself entirely to Calden's side, thighs to his thighs, arms slipping around his waist, face nuzzling his chest, soaking up his warmth. As though all they did was eat steak and drink wine and fuck all night and fall asleep just like this, naked and warm and entwined.
She feels awake though. Briefly. She has slept for what -- three, four hours? She quite adamantly keeps her hand where it is on his lower back; it drifts nowhere. She does not even kiss his chest. She isn't sure if he's awake or not. She keeps quite still, breathing in the dark.
Calden WhiteThis time it's Calden who doesn't even remotely approach wakefulness. He does mutter in his sleep a bit when warmth suddenly retreats and turns to cold. When she sat up he was on his back, sprawled large and lax and space-occupying on her bed. By the time she leaves for the bathroom he's rolling onto his stomach, curling up instinctively to protect himself from the chill.
When she comes back, he's still on his stomach. He's quite thoroughly asleep, one arm flung across the warm hollow where she used to be; face turned to the side a bit, but mostly pushed into the pillows, breathing heavily and steadily and with just a bit of difficulty because, well
you try breathing with a face full of pillow.
She doesn't quite flop. Silver Fangs do not flop. She ... drapes. She stretches herself alongside him, against him, and this finally wakes him. A little, anyway. His breathing changes. Then he turns his head, rooting against the pillows until he finds a bit of cool air. He makes some low sound in his chest, somewhere deep beneath the span of her arm, the wrap of his muscles, the cage of his bones. And then he turns, in heavy abortive twists, as though this was just
so much
effort.
Until he's on his side, sort of, and also a bit on his back. Until they're aligned to each other, more or less. Her hand was on his lower back, and then on his side, and now it's at the side of his stomach, where his obliques tuck against his abdominals. Where she can feel him breathing, steady and solid; not an apex predator like her, no, but something large and certain and not easily taken down nonetheless. His hand finds hers, covers her, moves it up until it rests on his chest -- palm over a nipple, fingers spread over his pectoral. He's so rough; so hairy, put plainly. Silver Fangs wouldn't let themselves get into this sorry state. Wouldn't let themselves look like this, like a barbarian who hasn't discovered the wonders of modern grooming. They'd shave or wax or something; they wouldn't go for the 'rugged look,' as he puts it.
He's not a Silver Fang. He's not a son of Falcon, high-flying, ice-eyed, austere. He's a son of Stag, a creature of wood and earth. Dirt under his nails and in the creases of his palm, most days. The smell of animals and wildgrass on him, most days. Not right now, though. Right now he's warm in her bed, he smells like her shower and her new sheets; like the wine and meat he brought; like sleep.
He's not sleeping. His eyes are open now, glimmering in the dimness. They are close together and neither of them are moving, neither of them are making a move though he's moved her hand from one spot to another, a little more intimate. After some time, some very long span of time,
Calden lifts his head from the pillow, a little. His hand covers hers on his chest, but the other is turned palm-down to the sheets; it's not wrapped around her, it's not holding her in place. He leans toward her, very slowly, very gradually, as though anything faster might send her startling away. Retreating, a spirit, a legend, one of those pale phantoms that haunt the tall tales of his tribe; a woman by day and a wolf by night, a woman by night and a memory by day. The sort of thing, lovely and unforgettable, dream-haunting, that you meet on the side of abandoned country roads at night, who accept a ride from you in the tamer versions, who ride you like a stallion in the racier ones,
and leave nothing but a broken heart in the morning. Yours, of course.
His brow touches hers first. Then his nose alongside hers, his breath over her lips. He waits; there's the slightest quiver in the tensed muscles of his stomach, his neck. If she doesn't draw back -- if she doesn't resist or reject -- his mouth, then, touching hers very lightly. There's a bristle on his jaw again, but his lips are soft and gentle.
Avery ChaseHe does not wake. He only moves her hand over his chest, like her palm is meant to keep his nipple warm now, and Avery curses him in her mind a bit. She almost wakes him instead. She thinks of climbing over him and telling him to open his eyes and look at her, rise to her, give it to her. She wants him, keenly and damningly. In her thoughts she urges him to wake. She urges him to find her, come back to her. Suddenly, though it does not surprise her -- it does not even enter her mind to be surprised -- she wants very badly to not be alone.
open your eyes, open your eyes, open your eyes she chants to him as he resettles, sleepy and warm and heavy.
Calden opens his eyes. He lifts his head a little and looks at her. He approaches her like the mythological woman in white, forever searching for her lover, forever longing to feel warm again, loved again. He lets his brow touch hers, and then there is no tantalizing pause, no tensed anticipation, because Avery's mouth is lush and full against his own, sudden but not frantic, not rushed, not frenzied. She kisses him like she did when he walked in the door. Kisses him, in fact, like she hasn't seen him all night. Or for weeks.
Her hand slides off of his chest, down his side, around his back. She is pulling him to her, slow but ardent, her palm firm on the slope of his flank, but she is also leaning into him, over him, her breasts on his chest and her body just an inch, maybe less, from sliding atop his entirely. Avery halts their kiss only for a moment to breathe, whispering in the dark what she hasn't ever said to him, and hasn't needed to:
"I want you." Her mouth presses to his again, her tongue slipping against his through their lips. Her hand can't keep still; it runs up his back, into his hair, ruffling through it as she devours him,
drinking his soul like the spirit he thought of just a moment ago.
"Calden, I want you."
Calden WhiteHas she ever said his name before, like this? He thinks she must have, there must have been a time or two, there must have been, when she was gasping his name not to inflame him, not to tease him, not to tell him oh Mr. White I don't know if I should but
like this: wanting, unequivocal, Calden. There must have been. He can't remember a single instance, though. He can hardly remember anything at all, and though he approached her cautiously, carefully, millimeter by gentle millimeter, she responds to him like a summer storm. One of those warm, dark, all-encompassing things that sweep down from the mountains, that sweep across the plains, that leave his cattle standing nonplussed and cud-chewing, tails to the wind; that leave him sodden and muddy-booted, drenched to the bone.
Her hands are everywhere. Not rushed. Not frenzied. Slow, but ardent; firm, pulling. She doesn't have to tell him she wants him. He knows. He can feel it. But she tells him anyway, and he gasps against her mouth, kisses her as her hands run up into his hair. He touches her, his hands run down her back as though expecting to find some last shred of clothing to be removed -- her robe pooled around her hips, maybe, or a bra, a pair of panties.
There isn't anything. There's nothing left at all but her skin, warm and soft and lush and golden, golden, every inch of her spun of gold. His mouth at her neck, and then at her collarbones; he sits up, surges up, his knees rising under the covers until she's straddling him in the valley between his torso and his thighs. He tugs at the sheets beneath her, they slip and slide and give way, and then it's their bodies together, skin against skin. His hands at her waist, his hands covering her back. His mouth on her breasts, and the sigh he lets out, then, groaning with relief, like he's been starved of this for more than a few hours. More than a few weeks.
"Ride me," he mutters against her skin -- those few seconds when he can bear to let go of her, anyway. Those few seconds before his mouth is back on her, sucking at her nipples like that's what they're for, what's what she's for, she was made to be worshipped: "Take me inside you, Avery, god, I want you to fuck me."
Avery ChaseSeldom does she say his name, his given name. Seldom does she say it even like this, thoughtless and open, panting softly that she wants him. She wants him.
And as she has known since some fleeting moment in his company, at his house in the north, Calden also wants her. Badly. Achingly. It has no part in why she kisses him the way she does, though. There's no exultation in power over him or anything as tawdry and tainted as that. There's only desire, and it runs over him like rain as she touches him. All he has to do is put his hands on her, gasp into her mouth like he does, and she begins to move onto him, climb over him, her palm braced firm and certain on his side. Her hair falls around his face, veiling what little light there is to be seen in the room, smelling lightly of gardenias, and sleep, and Avery.
His hands find her naked. She hasn't been naked since she sat up and got out of bed. Since he started to dress himself. Since she pulled a robe around her body to hide it from him, to hide the vulnerability that comes with feeling hurt, and lonely, and confused. Without even questioning it, Avery dropped her robe to the ground when she came back to bed and slipped in beside him. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, to undress herself completely before coming back to her bed, particularly when that bad has a very large, naked son of Stag lying beneath the covers. It seems the most natural thing in the world now to have his hands roaming over her, searching for scraps of clothing that aren't there, tracing fingertips over and beneath her ass. Natural as that is, though, it makes Avery shiver.
Calden kisses her neck and holds her to him as he sits up, suddenly, hands on her back, pressing against her spine as it arches. "I'm wet for you," she whispers in his ear, but it's not that she thinks he doesn't know; it's not that she herself is surprised. She simply is. She wants to say it. She wants to hear him
groan, like he does when he finds her breast and kisses her there, kisses over and over on the soft curve and then engulfs her nipple with his mouth. Avery presses down against him with her hips, firm and solid and unbearably warm on his lap, while he pants for her. ride me. take me. fuck me.
She wants him.
He tells her to take him.
So she does.
--
Even as she takes him, Avery keeps Calden where he is: sitting up, his thighs under her flank, his mouth on her breasts. Her fingers are in his hair moments after she guides him, begins sinking down on him. Slowly. Her muscles and her joints ache from wine and awkward sleep but she relaxes gradually. The feel of him makes her slick, makes wetness surround him and slide him further into her. And if he looks then he can see her, her eyes closed, her face turned to the side as though this helps her breathe, her mouth open in a soundless moan. She goes so slowly. By the end her thighs are quivering and her cunt is pulsing around him, squeezing him, fucking him even before she's started to move.
And she doesn't move. She holds him within her like that, shaking from unadulterated want, til her head slowly turns and her eyes slowly open and meet his, stare at him, open him right up.
Avery kisses him. Again. And only when she has him there, mouth open to hers, head lifted to kiss her,
does she start to ride him.
Slowly.
Calden WhiteShe
drives him
a little out of his mind, doing what she does. Whispering what she does into his ear, hiding those words there like some secret suggestion, some unfurling seed. She feels him shudder, hearing her. She feels his hands gripping her hips, then sliding up her back.
And it's slow. It's all so very slow; dreamlike in the darkness, until even the vividness of their bodies and their joining takes on a surreal clarity. His hands open; cover her from shoulderblade to shoulderblade. His mouth takes her nipple, and he groans, and she rides down against him,
finds him achingly hard for her, feels him gasp and jolt beneath her as though she'd run electricity through his body.
She touches him. His hands find their way to her waist, hold her there. She starts to take him inside herself and he leans back, his shoulders to the headboard; his eyes closing, his lips parting on an unvoiced sound. She goes so slowly. His head arches back, and then drops; he opens his eyes and he watches with his brow furrowed, that caught breath exhaling in a shiver. Her face turns to the side
and this is when he wraps his arms around her, all that enormous strength in him carefully held in check; this is when he pulls her closer to him until her breasts rest against his chest, until she's close enough that he can kiss her cheek, kiss her neck, kiss whatever it is he can reach of her while she
sinks
down those last few inches.
There she pauses. There, with her cunt pulsing, her thighs quivering. He's shaking too, a fine shiver in every weightbearing muscle of his body. He's holding her and his toes are gripping the bed; he rubs his face against the hollow of her throat and bites her gently, gently on the shoulder. She has to push his head back, when she turns to face him. She has to push her palm over his brow or grip him by the hair, though once he feels the impetus in her grasp he goes willingly, lets that space open between them, opens his eyes to find her looking at him.
Clear-eyed daughter of Falcon. Silver and blue, lost in the darkness: just an impression of clarity, then, an impression of eyes that can cut truth from lies, secrets from stone. Calden is panting quietly, and looks at her like he's lost, like she's found him, like he can't remember what it was like to not be inside her like this. His eyes don't close when she kisses him. He kisses her back, slowly, drunk with desire; giving in to the moment.
When she starts to move his head falls back again, thumps quietly against the headboard. He makes a low sound, his throat moving as he swallows. His hands rub across her waist. They lift to her breasts; lift her breasts, too, gently and reverently, hold them in his large palms as she rides him. Every slow downstroke makes him pant. Every gliding upstroke makes him groan. He sits up again before long; wraps his arms around her again, and the next time she rises he holds her there a moment, clasps her against his body, the head of his cock still just barely within her --
holds her there so he can suck at her breasts, lick at her nipples, kiss her over her heart
and over her pulse
and on her mouth, hiding a groan there as she comes back down on him.
Avery ChaseSlowly, this time. Avery slowly, achingly, sweetly, kissing him when he can bear to take his mouth from her throat or her breasts, stroking his hair back and murmuring to him. She goes slowly as though she's afraid he might, in fact, collapse in on himself. As though he might perish if she takes him too fast, if she ramps him up too high. There perhaps is some measure of reality in that: sometimes he does lose some control. Sometimes he goes at her like he can't think anymore, he can't exist anymore unless he's fucking her with all his strength, everything he has, even if it's more than she can take. And that is a rough though, troubling to both of them and hurtful to both of them.
But that isn't really why Avery goes slowly. She doesn't take him like this because she's afraid, or because she's distrusting. She takes him slowly because she wants to feel him. She wants to feel every moment of this. Because he seems so filled with longing for her and she can only slightly comprehend that, just as she only slightly comprehends it when other garou are drawn to her voice, to her strength. Avery treats him delicately, in her way, because she is finding herself
caring for him,
and she does not want to shatter him.
--
This is how it is: in the dark, and with deep, slow grinds together for the longest time. With Avery panting softly and Calden's hands fondling her, holding her. Sometimes his hands are on her breasts and he is deep inside of her and her head is tipped back, her spine a bow. Sometimes she is bent over him, kissing him, panting as her fingers splay over his jaw.
She laughs once, breathy and warm on him, saying just one word: scratchy as she smiles, kissing him again, their bodies close and her hips moving her cunt on him in wide, warm circles, those tits he loves so much resting on his chest, his hands large and open over her ass to feel her movement, follow her path.
And this is how it is: her hands on his chest, watching him as she rides him faster, sweat under his palms where they meet her skin, the sound of her gasps filling the darkness. Her body bending again, folding over him, her hands clutching -- somehow gently -- at his flesh, her hair swinging, brushing against his arms, the words
come with me,
which sound like a plea more than permission,
when stars die in her eyes.
--
Afterward she is motionless on him, drowsy and feeling simultaneously glorious and incredibly ill. She doesn't want to move. Dawn isn't far off. Avery lays atop Calden, her legs to either side of his thighs, her torso matched to his, her head resting on his heart, her hair cool and clean where it spreads over the rest of his chest. Her hands rest on his sides, holding him while she pants, catching her breath. She thinks again of horses after a race, those deep thudding heartbeats, that fine sheet of sweat, the expansion and release of his ribs.
Calden WhiteNever before has it been quite like this. So slow. So sweet. That's what he whispers to her as she rides him in those slow gyres: so sweet.
So sweet, while her hands cup his scratchy jaw. So sweet, while she leans against him and moves on him and his hands follow her and his mouth explores hers. And her neck. And the arch of her collarbone. And her shoulder, the soft round of her skin over the undeniable strength beneath. He might be far stronger than her in this form, built to work tirelessly, built to endure, but she is not without her own tenacity.
Sweat slicks her back when he wraps his arms around her. That's near the end, when he can't bear to have her far away anymore, when he can't bear for her to lean back even though it affords him such a view. His arms go around her and he pulls her close, he holds her close with his forearms looped around her waist, her body aligned and rubbing and moving against his, and the truth is
the feel of those breasts of hers against his chest drives him a little out of his mind, just as it does every time, just as it does when he meets her after two weeks and she wraps her arms so lazily around his neck as he bends to her, kisses her hello.
He doesn't know how he goes two weeks without this. He doesn't know how exactly those days are sustained by work and cattle and all the minute, infuriating details of managing, overseeing, running a business that quite literally deals with life and death and flesh and meat -- but they are, and they do go by, and then she's here and she has him, she takes him inside, and he
forgets
the world.
He's down on his back near the end. She's bent over him. Come with me, she whispers. Which is not permission; which is not even the sort of demand, command, with which she spurred him to the finish once. And he is close. She can tell, because he doesn't even try to hide it or hold it back: he's close and he's panting, his face turned to her neck, his hands holding her and his arms holding her and every inch of him trying to hold her, touch her, be with her, and when she says
what she does
he lets go of the last of his restraint. It slips through his fingers and then it's gone; he lifts her on the straining, smooth push of his hips; he groans short and rough against her ear, quiet as though they were still playing that game, quiet as though he didn't want even a sound to come between them. His arms hold her. He hardly moves, coming inside her: stays just like that, flexed, shuddering, a taut gasping arch, his face buried in her hair, the bend of her neck.
Eventually,
he relaxes. Comes back down, literally and otherwise. Tension leaves his body. She drowses over him. He drowses with her, and though he was so quiet when his orgasm took him he can't stop panting now, as though only now does exertion and passion catch up to him, have their way with him. His chest lifts her bodily with every breath. His sides move against her hands. She thinks of horses after a race. He thinks of very little at all, except that she feels soft and supple and perfect. His arms loosen. His hands cover her ass, gently now, as though to keep her warm or keep her close or simply
keep her here.
His breathing steadies, pull by pull. He closes his eyes.
Avery ChaseIt's never been like that. World-destroying, playful, erotic, dangerous -- all these things. But it hasn't been like that.
And they haven't been like this, lying together this way afterward. They slept together once and he left in the morning and it wasn't awkward but it was congenial, distant, gracious, friendly. This is different. The way he fed her by hand when she couldn't bear to be touched otherwise. The way he woke to find her curled up, head near his lap. The way that later, she came naked to bed and whispered that she wanted him. He's never seen her so far gone, so hurt, so exposed in her damage.
She has never seen how gentle he can be with a wild animal, without coddling, without stroking. Just allowing her to be what she is, as she is, quiet and companionable.
Avery holds him, and he holds her, and neither of them say a word. His cock pulses inside of her occasionally. She has to catch her breath anew every time. She feels already hungover, and awful, and knows that her body is poisoned with it, but she doesn't want to move. She doesn't even stroke him with her hands. Avery just remains where she is, until eventually she can breathe enough, until eventually she feels him start to soften, until she is so sleepy that if she doesn't lie down on the bed instead of her lover she's going to get truly sick.
So gently, gently, she rises up a bit, and slides off of him, but is never far. Avery slides to his side, her back to his ribcage, using his bicep as a pillow, and
is asleep in seconds.
Calden White
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