queen.

Calden White

Laughter comes in the form of huffs and exhales now, as if they're both too blown apart to manage anything else. He rolls off her as she complains of his weight, settling on the bed beside her on one shoulder. His arm lays across her ribs. It's quite heavy, too. He's still between her legs, still inside her; they do seem to like this. He likes it, at least; likes staying inside her for a while, conjoined, filthy, close.

And they're both stretched out lengthwise on the mattress now. They've made it to bed. Calden, however, isn't quite sure if they're rightside up or upside down in bed. He could look and see, of course, could just look for the headboard, but --

then he'd have to look away from her. And he doesn't want to do that. He loves watching her: loves the way she arches, loves the way she gleams and glitters, loves her mouth, loves her eyes, loves the way her words caught and stumbled on themselves at the end, the way those f's pulled her lip under her teeth, the way she bit her lip and shivered on that consonant while she was

coming on his cock.

Avery files another complaint: her poor neglected breasts! It draws Calden's eyes down, flickering to those happy handfuls in question. "Mm," he agrees, quite sympathetic to her plight, and that heavy arm of his moves over her -- the hairs on his forearm tickling against her belly, the callouses on the palm sliding rough over that soft, soft skin of hers.

It's almost like he's teasing himself, withholding a little from himself: he covers her breast so slowly, so gradually, eclipsing that lovely contour beneath his hand. Which is, if we're honest, quite well-formed too. Strong knuckles, broad palm. Long, squared-off fingers. Veins a faint map beneath tanned skin. That's the hand that covers her breast; those are the fingers that, with inexorable gentleness, begin to rub and tease and stroke her nipple back into hardness.

"I really have been neglecting your poor breasts, haven't I," he murmurs. "I couldn't help it. I was distracted by -- "

-- well. He demonstrates: flexes into her, slow, deep-seated; no longer so iron-hard inside her, but still there. Present. With her.

"I was distracted," he finishes, whispering. Smiling. Kissing the underside of her arms as she lays them over her head, lays herself out as careless and confident as some apex predator sunning herself. Calden is moving closer to her, his chest against her side now, lifting himself on one elbow to bow over her body. "Do you think your breasts could possibly forgive me?"

And he licks her. The nipple he's not currently caressing: licks it in a slow, heavy, rough lap of his tongue.

Avery Chase

It really is that simple: she tells him what she wants or what is bothering her, and he nearly always complies one way or the other. No resistance, no eyerolling, no tension of letting the Garou in the room order him around. Not even the macho bullshit of refusing to do something because a woman tells him to or asks him to or wants him to and he doesn't want to be whipped.

Here's one: he rolls off of her because, yes, he's quite heavy, and no longer holding himself up. She wriggles a bit, readjusting to the new distribution of his weight. Her head turns the other way, following him, facing him, sliding one leg up higher to make the arrangement more comfortable. Her eyes are open now. They are looking at each other, his hazel-ish eyes with those hints of green, her blue eyes with those hints of silver. Stag and Falcon wanted no doubt about who they belong to, it seems.

Avery sighs softly and kisses him. Out of nowhere, and for no reason. She kisses him slow and soft right after he rolls off of her and they re-settle. Though her arms stay over her head, her chin tilts toward him and her mouth finds his, tasting him one more time. They part, and she lazily smiles, lopsidedly, which isn't quite the same as a smirk but is cousin to one. Calden, not forgetting what she said before that kiss, looks at her tits.

Here's another one, another stressless compliance: he slides his palm over to her breast, very slowly cupping it. The arch between thumb and forefinger creates a crescent not far from her nipple, framing it beautifully. The pads of his finger and thumb come together just as gradually, brushing over her aereola, closing on her nipple and stroking it softly, teasingly, as though tasting her with his touch.

Avery exhales, and she shivers on the inhale. Her tongue slips out to wet her lips, then they fall open again with a sigh. She whimpers, quietly, when he flexes into her to give her a multi-sensory illustration of his point: he was distracted, and quite consumingly so. Avery relaxes again, after tensing up to meet that thrust, as though she would be perfectly amenable to going another round without Calden ever withdrawing from her. She might very well be.

He moves closer. She drowsily opens her eyes again, watching him. He's lifting up; she follows him like,

yes,

a predator tracking prey. Only he isn't her prey. He does fulfill some of her hunger, though.

"You're ludicr--" she begins saying, to inform him that her breasts are not to be anthropomorphized, they aren't going to be doing any forgiving, if forgiveness is to be had. He's ludicrous. He's ridiculous. He's silly. He's --

"Fucking filthy bastard," Avery whispers, arching slightly, her cunt tightening on his cock.

Calden White

Calden is, in fact, being a little ludicrous. And he knows it, and he laughs, but that laugh is unwinding low and lazy, and that laugh is muffled because his mouth

is on

her breast.

And what a talented, hungry mouth it is. He lavishes attention on that lovely breast of hers now, as though in apology for quite neglecting it earlier in favor of her mouth, her cunt. He takes his time here, too, and his hand strokes her nipple almost soothingly when she arches. When she clenches -- he releases her nipple for a second. Long enough to gasp.

Then his lips close over her again. He sucks at her; he licks her in his mouth. He rubs the flat of his palm over her breast, hypnotic circles, a cycling between the roughness of his callouses and the smoother skin in the center of his palm. He massages her. He strokes her. He takes his mouth from her at length, nuzzles the center of her chest, raises his head to kiss her mouth and look in her eyes for a moment

before shifting his attention to her other breast.

Avery fulfills his hunger, too. That is the truth of it. It's a hunger he didn't even quite know he had. He seemed so content with his quiet life on the ranch. The rhythm of the seasons, the matings and calfings, the feeding, the slaughter. Though surely there were trysts -- surely this sort of physical confidence, this sort of sexual perceptiveness and generosity could only have come from experience -- there was no significant other in his life. Or significant others. There were no frequent female visitors to his house. There is no mate.

His tribe knows he's out there. Of course they know. Even the humans know his family is out there, old Coloradoans with an old claim to old land, with old family practices and family businesses passed down through old lineages. Every Fianna who's been in the state longer than a year or two knows of the Whites, if only passingly. Every Fianna born in the state likely shares some blood-tie, no matter how tenuous. And yet -- Calden is, as Avery noted that first night, so very far away. The ranch is so remote, so removed, and the man keeps to his own territory. It's not antisocial behavior by any stretch of imagination, but it is a deep satisfaction with his own land. His own hearth, and no more. Want for nothing; covet nothing. He keeps to his own home because nothing outside his home drew him strongly and terribly enough to give him reason to stay away for long.

And then there was Avery.

And god, he does crave her. She tells him what she wants and he complies. He does this because it's the chivalrous, gentlemanly thing to do. He does this because it's the decent, non-asshole thing to do. He does this because he wants to please his lover, and perhaps it's a sad commentary on the state of the world that this should be at all remarkable. But above all: he does as she asks, and he does to her what she offers herself up for, because it's what he wants, too. It's what he wants with such enduring, molten hunger that a handful of minutes after he finished inside her so mindblowingly that he could hardly remember who he was, let alone where or why --

he's hardening inside her again. He's flexing into her in slow, rhythm presses that slowly and inexorably and almost without his even noticing turn into thrusts. And all the while he's still pouring attention over her breasts, adoring her with his mouth and his hands.

She didn't even need to encourage him to pay attention, really. All she had to do was lie there, her arms flung over her head, her golden hair spread on the bedsheets and her golden body laid out for him. All she had to do was lie there and wait, just wait and see how long it took before he was all over her like this. Before he was alternating one to the other, rubbing his face over and between those breasts of hers. Before he was cupping them to his mouth, licking patterns around and across and over her nipples. Before he was sucking at her with such hunger and ferocity that he's growling, that he's grinding into her slow and heavy and steady until he's panting against her tits, until he's groaning on the end of every stroke; until they are, in fact,

fucking all over again before they even uncoupled from the first bout.

Avery Chase

Perhaps it's meaningful that as soon as Calden rang Avery up, she thought of skipping drinks altogether and asking if he'd like to come back here with her. Perhaps it's meaningful that though they both wanted to come back here together, they stayed a while at the bar -- watched the band, drank, even danced. Perhaps it's meaningful that he hasn't left her body since they came, and she hasn't urged him to, and now he's hardening in her again, thrusting into her again, and she's sliding her legs up to his waist and rolling her hips to meet him. Perhaps it's meaningful that her heart is turning over in her chest, and she's drawing his mouth up from those poor, neglected tits to kiss him, moaning into his mouth.

And: perhaps it's also meaningful that they had no contact, whatsoever, for almost two weeks. They did not call, they did not text, they did not send each other little thinking of you xoxo messages. They fucked. They made out. She got in a cab and they didn't make any kind of contact again until tonight.

Avery kisses him, but they've already been fucking for long, luxurious seconds by then. She's already been undone; she doesn't pretend otherwise. She doesn't pretend that she's above this, or that he is beneath her. They are all animals in the end. With all their laws and traditions and no matter how much humanity each Garou and Kin alike might claim, they're animals. They're predators. They're hunters.

She doesn't try to roll him over or alter their positions on the bed. All she wants is this. So all the while they're fucking she's holding him with her legs, kissing him with her mouth,

grabbing his shoulders and his arms when it gets to be almost too much,

then grabbing the pillows behind her head, groaning,

and wailing when it is too much, when she's arched back and turning her head to set her teeth in her own upper arm, her other hand raking nails into his flank, urging him on, harder, faster, now, because she can't bear it if he flags, if he slows, if he does anything but pin her down and nail her all over again.

After this orgasm -- longer than the others, somehow, making her writhe and pant and roll slightly under him with each new wave -- Avery is spent. She can barely move. Her legs and her arms are a warm sprawl around him, and those raking nails have stopped urging him, working him with more demand than he ever puts on his own horses. She is stroking him, feather-soft, with her fingertips and her palms, shivering every time he twitches or pulses or flexes inside of her again.

"Oh," she murmurs, soft, and there seems to be nothing after that, nothing but: "Oh, my."

Calden White

It starts so slowly this time that the lines are blurred. Hard to say when they started fucking again, exactly, but by the time she's pulling him up from her breasts they're already deep into their rhythm. He goes to her willingly -- he always does -- and those poor neglected tits of hers get neglected again, at least by his mouth.

Not his hands, though. For some time he moves into her like that, his weight on his side, on one elbow; her leg riding over his hip. It leaves his left hand free. He takes full advantage. His hand passes all over her, pulling at her hip, anchoring at her waist, coming up to cup her breast as he eats at her mouth, drinks those long soft moans from her mouth as they coil and ride together.

It's only near the end, when she starts grabbing at him, when she starts scoring him with her nails, that he rolls atop her entirely. He settles between her legs as she wraps them around him. He moves into her hard, faster, every time she rakes her nails up his ass, up his side, down his back. She flings an arm back, grasps at the pillows. He kisses her hard, eats her groans, loses her mouth when the way he's pounding at her quite literally bounces that point of contact loose. Her breasts are rubbing against his chest with every thrust, he's lowering his mouth to suck at her nipples again, she's turning her head and biting at her own arms and the sight of that,

the sight of that --

Her orgasm was a long, relentless thing this time. His was short, sudden, explosive: like a thunderbolt out of clear skies, dropping on his head. She's not the only one that can barely move in the aftermath. He feels scorched, seared down to ashes. She shivers every time he moves inside her, but it's those feather-soft caresses of hers that sends shivers up his back. That sets his cock twitching inside her. It's a self-propagating cycle of the best sort, and Calden is making these low, panting groans on every iteration. One of them comes out a little differently. Oh, she says. Oh, my. And he laughs: low and fuzzy and indistinct.

Gradually they subside. Gradually their bodies stop torturing one another, and gradually he relaxes against her, heavy and so, so lazy. He does learn: he remembers this time to roll exhaustedly to one side. His arm is still draped over her. He stirs, manages to pull his hand to her body, manages to cover her breast with his palm.

The feel of her makes him pulse inside her again, which makes him make a muffled noise of protest -- at himself, apparently. No more. Not now. And in spite of that he's playing with her again, very slowly, very gently, passing his thumb over her nipple again and again to watch it tighten. God, he does love her tits.

Avery Chase

Avery doesn't bite her arm because she thinks it will turn him on. She doesn't bite it because she's trying so hard not to scream. She can scream all she wants; the staff here is afraid to bring complaints her way. She has no one else staying in this luxurious suite with her. No, Avery bites her arm because she needs to. Because she can't help it. Because she needs to have something in her teeth, right then, when she's coming.

She slows with him. They rock together, and collapse together, and though she strokes him for a while in the afterglow, her hands eventually still, too. She laughs softly when he flexes into her, panting, blowing his own mind. She kisses him again, kissing the laughter out of his mouth. His body rolls; his hand covers her again, and

starts playing with her again, fondling her. Avery gives a faint gasp into that kiss, separating their mouths only in the exhale, looking at him. He's staring at her nipple as it hardens then, watching it tighten into a little bud between his fingers. Avery shivers, and her hand comes softly to cover his. She eases his fingers from her nipple. She covers her breast with his palm, and holds his hand there, and kisses him again.

That hand of hers, manicured and silk-smooth, runs down from the back of his hand to his wrist, fingertips trailing his skin. She touches his forearm, careful not to brush the hairs there backward -- as though he were a cat to be stroked only in the correct direction, lest he claw -- and when she gets to his elbow, turns her hand and brushes her knuckles over the inside of his bicep.

"I love your body," she murmurs, but the words are spoken close enough to his lips that he can feel them vibrating there as well as hear them. She is kissing him again to punctuate her sentence. It's not different from the way she kissed him in his truck when they waited together for her cab. She is making out with him. Somehow the restrained sensuality of those kisses isn't lessened even though he's inside of her. They aren't full, deep, wet kisses like when the two of them are fucking eagerly on bedspreads or in showers. They aren't light, polite kisses. Avery barely even uses her tongue. And yet: she would never kiss him like this in public. It's too intimate. Her kiss breaks again, for just a moment, for a sigh: "I love fucking you."

Calden White

In the aftermath they touch each other with an intimacy usually reserved for lovers who have known each other longer than they have. Or perhaps this is how they learn each other: with these soft little kisses that neither of them would ever let the public see. With the way her hand explores his forearm, grazes his bicep. With the way his hand eases on her breast as she indicates to him without ever speaking a word:

slow down. not so hard. not now.

He slows down. He stops playing with her with such -- intent, perhaps that's the word for it. Intensity; that works too. He gentles. He cups her breast. Holds it in his hand as they exchange those slow, intimate kisses.

She loves, Avery says. She loves. There's something flickering in his eyes, deep, like a salmon in open waters. Calden nuzzles her gently, closes his eyes, kisses her mouth. This one is a little deeper than the others. His mouth parts around her lower lip. There's a hint of teeth; a slide of tongue. When it parts he looks at her across the small distance, and there's something gentle and gently rueful about his smile.

"You love, you love, you love," he whispers, quoting her back to herself. His hand cradles her breast; he kisses her again. "I love being with you."

Avery Chase

True, she can't entirely bear what he's doing to her breast again. For all that they were neglected before, he's paid proper chiminage to her skin with his mouth and his hands and she has forgiven him his earlier error. And they ended up fucking again. Instantly he's back at her tit, teasing it, and she knows soon enough he'll be panting at it again, panting for it and licking her, suckling at her, moving in her all over again,

and she is reasonably sure they'll end up in a neverending cycle, an infinite loop.

But that's not why she stops him. She just wants to feel his hand there, covering and warm and holding. She smiles, one corner of her mouth only, as he relents and cups it in his palm. Her hand does not leave the back of his, and her fingertips rest between his knuckles.

This close, she can see the way the light shifts in his eyes as she tells him she loves his body and loves fucking him. She sees it just before he kisses her, and her chin lifts her head tilts back a bit to kiss him in response. He licks her lip. He scrapes it with his teeth and she shudders. When Calden lets her go, Avery's eyes are closed. She sighs. She opens them and looks at him.

He mocks her words from a week and a half ago, but she laughs, breathy and gasping, to hear them. That mouth of hers is smiling, fond and amused and wide, even when he tries to kiss it.

They look at each other, after those words leave his mouth. Avery says nothing at first, just smiling that smile. When she does speak, it's simple, and quiet, and perhaps a little awkward: "Well... you're with me now."

Calden White

There are a few things he forgot to list off. He loves her smile, too. He loves that those shapely eyebrows of hers are surprisingly dark. He loves that the animal in her is visible in her eyes, and

he loves the way she kisses him. He loves the way she responds.

That slow smile of his pulls the corner of his mouth up as she points out something at once obvious and profound. His hand moves over her -- leaves her breast, finally, and wraps around her side. His arm encircles her again. His chest is pressed to her other side; he keeps her quite close.

"Yeah," he agrees quietly. "I am. And I love that, too."

A few moments go by. His eyes are closed for a while. Sweat has dampened the hair at his temples; sheens still on the side of his neck, the dip of his sternum. He's relaxed and drowsy now, a great beastly sprawl of a man, his heartbeat a firm deep thudding in his chest.

Calden's eyes open again. He's quieter now, and serious: "Should I go soon?"

Avery Chase

Now.

Right now, this moment, he's with her. As much as any person could be. He's still inside of her, and he's come in her twice now. He's with her. But 'now' means 'not then'. Not before, not after. She's talking about one moment. This moment.

It's hard to tell if she's making him a promise or giving him a reminder. Or just being inane. It doesn't matter. He wraps her up, holds her close, til she can feel his heartbeat through her arm. But they don't talk about it. They rest. Avery watches his eyes close, then turns her head and closes her own as well. The way she pulls her body off of his own is slow, and gentle, but she does ease him out of her. She gasps quietly, as quietly as she can, as he's withdrawn. Avery lies there after that, catching her breath completely, drowsing with him.

She half-dozes, dreamily. The sweat lifts from their skins a bit, the room comfortable and not too cool. She is quite sure he might fall asleep, after two orgasms and what was probably a very long day. And she thinks: that would be all right. He could fall asleep here. He'd certainly be safe. She wouldn't mind it if he slept a while in this bed. She might wash and dress and go watch over her true territory a bit. She'd go make sure her father is safe and sound, and all the other kin she's responsible for. She might stop in and have a late-night cup of tea with her father. They would talk about her brother, share their worries about him. Pulling him out of school so close to the end of the year, moving him across the country.

Avery's eyes lift open slowly. Her hand is moving slightly on top of Calden's, rubbing it idly. Right then, he interrupts her thoughts. He isn't asleep. He asks, instead, if he should go soon.

Her head turns toward him. "You don't have to," she murmurs. There's a pause. Her eyebrows lift a bit. "Zach Galifianakis is on SNL tonight." She even pronounces his name with ease.

Calden White

He doesn't have to.

In truth, that doesn't quite answer the question. Should he. For her sake, for his own sake, for the sake of their sanity, for the sake of that unwritten law that may or may not even really exist. When she slid herself off him, she gasped so softly. He made a sound low in his chest, and it sounded a little like loss.

He moves, then. He rolls onto his back, his eyes open now, looking at the ceiling. He slides an arm under her shoulders, under her neck, pulling her close again. He thinks for a moment, and then he turns to look at her again, smiling a little.

"I don't know who that is," he admits. "I don't really watch Saturday Night Live. Or much TV at all."

Avery Chase

Avery just laughs at him when he rolls onto his back and, all the same, insists on pulling her over and continuing to cuddle her. She smirks at him, rolling to her side. Her tits press against his chest, against his ribs. They look as fabulous there as they feel.

She looks a little surprised. "The Hangover?" she asks. Nothing. "Between Two Ferns? Do you have the Internet, Calden?" Avery just looks bewildered by him. "How old are you?"

Calden White

"I've heard of The Hangover," Calden says cautiously. "But I have to admit I've never really felt the urge to watch a movie about having a hangover. Which, as you might surmise based on my tribe," he smirks, "is something I have personally experienced a time or two."

And then a huff of a laugh. "Uh oh. That question. Maybe I should ask you first so I can make up a decent number in case I've broken the Golden Rule of age differences."

Avery Chase

She's grinning at him, leaning half over him. "What golden rule of age differences?"

Calden White

That smirk of his widens as she leans over him. He steals a glance down: looks at her breasts resting against his chest. It's a nice view. His eyes flick back up to hers, and he folds that free hand of his beneath his head again. The other hand threads through her hair. Spreads over her back.

"Age divided by two, plus seven. Don't tell me you've never heard of that before. Do you have internet, Avery?"

Avery Chase

She bites him. Specifically, she leans over while he's touching her hair and bites his chest. It's just a nip, really. Playful.

Calden White

There are humans who would bolt screaming from bed if she did that. They might not even understand the urge, only that it's instinctive, it's overwhelming, it's about survival.

There are kin who might bolt screaming, too. Calden is not one of them. He watches her, his pupils expanding -- a short breath hissing in between his teeth. And for a moment his hand stills in her hair. Then it drifts on, and he resituates his head on his hand, smiling.

"I'm thirty-five," he says. "So if you're over ... twenty-four and a half years old, we're golden. If you're not," he lifts his head again, looking at her with mock gravity, "I'll have to put my pants on and leave immediately. And turn myself in to the social acceptability police."

Avery Chase

He's thirty five. Avery has already stopped biting him by then, but as soon as she heard that hiss of his breath her teeth's grip gentled, pulling gently and then covering the spot with a soft kiss, a softer lick. She spreads her hand over his side and creeps it along his abdomen while he touches her hair, fingertips as yet unsure if they're going toward his chest or his cock.

Then he says he's thirty-five and does some quick mental math about how old she needs to be for their fucking-around to be considered socially acceptable. Avery just

freezes.

She slowly draws backward, staring at him. Her voice is sort of weirdly, quietly wary. "You're... thirtyfive?"

Avery Chase

[fuck with calden]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 3, 10) ( fail )

Calden White

[I HAZ DICE.]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 5, 5, 7, 8) ( success x 1 )

Calden White

He pauses for a moment too. He looks at her -- looks up because she's holding herself over him; looks down because that's the angle of his gaze. Calden's head is canted to the side a few degrees and his eyes are keen, scanning.

The corners of his mouth twitch a little. And then he raises himself on his elbows, wraps his hand behind her head, kisses her firmly on the mouth

and collapses down again. Heavily, bouncing even that expensive mattress a little, with an exhale like even that was some sort of enormous exertion after everything else they did. He smirks at her.

"Too bad you weren't born a Ragabash, Miss Chase."

Avery Chase

He kisses her. She makes a noise of protest, but then he flops down and she huffs at him. "Fine," she says, and lays back down next to him, snuggled to his side, looking at the ceiling. She's quiet a moment.

"So if you're thirty-five," she says aloud, "then when I was born, you were already ten. And when you were going through puberty, I was learning my letters and their sounds. And when you were old enough to vote, I was playing with my American Girl doll. And when you were the age I am now, I was letting Logan St. Claire get to second base while we summered on the island together."

Calden White

"Mm-hm," Calden says, unaffected or at least putting on a good show thereof. "And twenty-five puts you barely within acceptable range. So I, Miss Chase, am free to do with you as I wish."

A pause.

"I'm simultaneously appalled and not the slightest bit surprised that the first boy you let touch those magnificent tits of yours was named Logan St. Claire."

Avery Chase

She laughs softly, twisting around a bit to look at him. "You're free to do with me as I wish, Mr. White," she informs him, and taps his chin with her fingertip. He makes fun of name of the first boy who ever felt her up, and she smirks.

"They were smaller then," is all she says regarding the magnificence of her breasts. "And," she adds, eyebrows hopping with amusement, "you haven't heard my name yet."

Calden White

That tapping finger of hers, that entire graceful hand of hers -- it finds itself caught in his larger, rougher grasp. He kisses her fingertips, smiling, that objectionable stubble a coarse counterpoint to the softness of his lips. As he lets her hand go, he quirks an eyebrow to match hers.

"Is Avery Chase not your given name?"

Avery Chase

She shrugs one shoulder, smiling as he takes her hand, kisses her fingers. "Not all of it," she says coyly.

Calden White

"And what," he takes the bait with a smirk, "might the rest of it be?"

Avery Chase

She is sitting up now, her legs to one side and folded. Avery shakes her hair off of her shoulders and draws herself up straight, proud,

and there it is. With nothing more than a toss of her hair and a squaring of her shoulders, he will remember that she is a queen. There is nothing haughty about the way she looks down at him right now. It's merely the lift of her head, the angle of her gaze, the presence she brings with her. Even when naked. Even when sweaty and damn well fucked. Even with those tits of hers out, even lazing naked in bed with a man who she has had sex with more than talked to.

"Avery Stoneleigh Merriweather Chase, daughter of Philip Chrispher Chase and Miranda Waverly Chase née Wharton, may she rest in peace. Known to the Twelve Loyal and Living Tribes of the Nation as Reverence of Dawn, From Whom the Stars Shall Not Be Hidden by Sunlight."

She touches his mouth with her fingertips, grazing it. "I can't tell you how pleased I am to make your acquaintance, Mr. White."

Calden White

Regardless of what they say around their own fires, even the more rebellious tribes bend the knee more often than not in the presence of Silver Fang majesty. You can't fault them for it. It's literally born and bred into them. A hundred, five hundred, even a thousand years of revolt can't erase the ancestral memories of the hundred thousand, the million years that came before.

And for a moment -- in an eyeblink -- Avery is heir to those million years of kingship. It doesn't matter that she's naked, fucked, sweaty, lazing abed. In some strange way, that seems only to amplify the effect. To underscore just how perfect she is, how pristine and pure, how fit to rule.

Calden is watching her. He's raised himself on his elbows, stretched as unapologetically naked as she. There's a sudden dark wanting in his eyes. Her fingertips graze his mouth -- but he catches her, opens his mouth and sucks those fingers of hers in; immediate, bold, unthinking. His tongue is warm and rough against the pads of her fingers. The undersides of her knuckles. All the way down to her palm: and then he releases her again, slowly, nipping the very tips of her fingers as they graze past his teeth.

"Well, Miss Avery Stoneleigh Merriweather Chase, the Reverence of Dawn From Whom the Stars Shall Not Be Hidden by Sunlight," he murmurs, "I have to confess the pleasure is mutual."

He shifts his weight. A hand extends, covers hers. Takes hers. He pulls her toward him as he lays back again, draws her to straddle him and sprawl over him if she will. When he's stretched out atop her bed again, Calden laces his hands behind his head, looks up at her with a half-smile slanting his mouth.

"Another confession," he says. "I've been thinking about what you said a minute ago. I'm free to do with you as you wish." A pause. His chest rises, a slow breath that he doesn't think about; can't quite help. "I don't know why that turns me on so much."

Avery Chase

"No 'the'," she corrects him, congenially, when he recites her name. "And they say Fianna tongues are silve--"

She stops there. He's sucking on her finger and she's remembering how this night started. How he was so gentle. How he licks her when he puts his face between her legs. For the first time he's ever seen it, Avery flushes a bright pink. It lasts only a moment.

Not a minute later, she rests one hand on his chest as she swings herself over him, straddles him, sits her pussy atop his softened cock and looks down at him as he tells her what she said

and what he's been thinking about it,

and how it makes him feel.

Her hands open, spreading up his torso, caressing his sides firmly until she gets to his chest. They run slower from there, softer, and she leans forward over him to follow the path of her hands. Her breasts brush his ribs and his chest, just barely. Her hands rest against the headboard as she looks down at him, head tilted.

"Because you want to make me feel good," she tells him, and lets one nipple brush over his lips before she pulls away, rising up to just... sit, rocking gently atop him, rubbing herself slowly against him. "Don't you, Calden? Don't you want to make me feel good?"

Calden White

There's that twinkle in his eye again. There's some muted clever retort on his tongue -- that silver or otherwise tongue -- she can tell. Except she never finishes. Except his mouth, and his tongue, are occupied. Except

she's swinging astride him, and that absurd little slogan is winging its way through his mind again, only this time it lights another flame somewhere inside him.

And another. And another, as her hands course across his body like she has a right to touch him like this. He's still as he was. Hands relaxed behind his head, arms up and apart. He doesn't lower them as she explores him. He watches her, though, his eyes sparking as her palms graze a sensitive spot, skim a ticklish spot. As her fingers, and then her palms, and then her wrists slide past his nipples. He takes a breath, short and a little ragged, and she's elongating her spine over her, stretching over him, and he's taking another breath, deeper, just to expand his chest and put him in contact with her.

Of course she has a right to touch him like this, he thinks. He gave her the right. And she is a queen. Her nipple brushes his mouth. His lips part, his head raises, he's ready to make her feel good -- she draws away. He mutes his disappointment, lowers his head again, and in all this time he has not looked away from her.

She sits back. Surely she's not surprised to find him hard for her again. There's a quiet nakedness to his voice, when he answers. He's not bantering. He's not being witty. He tells the truth the best he can:

"Yes."

Avery Chase

That makes her shudder. As much as he likes to make her feel good, as much as he looks at her in utter adoration at times, as much as he seems to realize and accept that she is a queen even if she has no throne,

she loves those moments. When he hardens for her. When he opens his mouth to suck her fingers or her nipples or her pussy. When he does exactly what she tells him to, whether it's to play with her tits or roll her over or just fuck her, harder, harder, Calden. It makes her wet, the way he looks at her now. She squirms a little, indulging herself on his cock, rubbing her slick up and down along his shaft.

"You do, you know," she murmurs, almost whispers, tilting her head back as she works herself a little more on top of him, as though she intends to just rub one out on his cock. "You make me feel so good, Calden."

Avery leans over him again, hands on the pillow to either side of his head, panting softly as she goes on using him like that, a whimper in the back of her throat. "You make my pussy so wet," she whispers, or

gasps.

Calden White

There's a moment, right there when she says you do, you know, caught between naked truth and undisguised lust. Right there, right then, if she looks into his eyes she'll find something like adoration. Like ache. Like the way his heart feels sometimes when he looks at her, nevermind that he's known her for a week and a half.

Two nights.

A few hours, really.

But then she's rubbing herself against him. She's still naked, and he's hard again, and she's so wet, and he

is arching his head back into the cradle of his hands, closing his eyes, drawing a breath in and holding it a second behind closed lips. Letting it out again, lips parting; a flick of his tongue wetting them. He opens his eyes to find she's put her hands down to either side of him, there in the triangle formed between his folded arms and his head. He kisses her wrist,

and while she's using the shaft of his cock as her own personal toy, he's nuzzling her neck, nuzzling her breasts, opening his mouth again to touch the tip of his tongue to her breast. He hardly even moves. It's her motion that rubs her against him for quite some time -- her cunt against his cock; her nipple over his tongue.

Eventually, his mouth closes around her. He catches her breast in his mouth, holds it while she rides him, breathing in harsher pulls now, his nostrils flaring on the inhales; his mouth sucking at her in the same moment. There's a rhythm there. It matches the rhythm of her body; the grind of her pussy. It matches, after a while, the subtle smooth counterthrusts he gives her, rolling his hips against hers, patient, indulgent, making no move at all to enter her. Fuck her back. Though it can be argued: she's already fucking him.