Wednesday, there was a message from Calden on Avery's voicemail, and it's rather unlike any of their other interactions. All two of them, anyway. That voicemail is short; it's not terse, but it is about business. It ends without a mention of when they might see each other again. Maybe he doesn't mix business with pleasure. Maybe he just feels a little awkward setting a date so far in advance.
Friday, Calden is in Denver, but not to meet Avery. He's there to meet Eva Illeshazy, and he's there to exchange notes, and while he does in fact meet Eva no notes are exchanged. Hell breaks loose, albeit in a reasonably controlled way. Calden ends up involved in the very business he was there to investigate -- and really, he was very likely only investigating so he could pass word along to appropriate parties and then stay the hell out of it. So far as unexpected catastrophes go, his ranch provided him with plenty of entertainment in that arena.
Friday, later: he's idling under 1999 Broadway, watching the Guardian he gave a ride to -- the Guardian who was his safety escort, in return -- walk into the tall glass monolith. He has his phone in hand. He has Avery's number on the screen, but his thumb hesitates over the Call button. Keep it simple, they said. Fun, they said, and enjoy and like and friendship. She's not his tribe. She's is not beholden to him by any law or link, of man or of beast, and he is not beholden to her. He wonders if calling her now would seem like calling for help. Looking for protection.
He has no doubt that she would give him help and protection. If he needed it. She is a Philodox. She is a Silver Fang, and in the space of a few words -- something about her servants, distant family, must look out for them -- he knew she subscribed wholeheartedly to noblesse oblige. Or perhaps put more simply: she is honorable. And Calden does not want her to feel obligated. Does not want their association to turn into one of need and succor.
He thumbs the back button instead. And he tucks his phone away, puts his truck in gear -- axle boot all replaced and good as new -- and drives home.
A week and a day go by. It's Saturday again, afternoon. And Avery's phone rings, and it's a 970 number. Calden's cell, if she saved the number from last time.
"Are you still living at that hotel of yours?" He sounds like he's smiling.
Avery ChaseThey don't know each other very well yet. Calden doesn't know her schedule, or when is a good time to call her, so he often gets her voicemail. She doesn't know he comes to Denver any more often than every other week, and for the most part, she tries to put him out of her thoughts otherwise. Even if she were not a werewolf, she would have a great deal to do. She is the lady of her house, after all, and even if the vast majority of her duties are handled by her steward, they still need regular meetings. There are decisions that even Avery's most trusted servant cannot make for her. For all of them.
And there are the dinners. She and her father and brother eat together every evening, or as many evenings per week as possible. It is only formalized when they have guests. When her brother has a friend over, they are expecting to meet his sister as well, but she always seems to be working late or stuck in traffic and those friends are rarely asked to sit across from her for an hour or more while the family has their meal. A fully-grown adult in this world has trouble sitting with Avery. She tries not to inflict herself on teenagers who only think they're adults.
And there are books to discuss with her father. They've been reading together since she was a child. He would ask her what she was reading when she was in college and he would read the same thing. It's their own little book club. It's Thinking, Fast and Slow now.
Calden does not get a voicemail back. Hours later, though, he gets a text message: Thank you for the call. I've heard. You be careful, too.
--
On Friday night, Avery is at home. By the time Calden and Eva are getting scotch spilled on their laps, the kitchen maid is clearing the table and Avery is sipping a cordial while she and her father go back and forth on whether or not they want to go see The Great Gatsby or not. If Calden were to call her then, if he pressed the green button beneath her number -- there's no picture of her in his phone yet, so the image is just a silhouette on grey -- she might offer him a night in her apartment. Not to keep him safe and keep him protected, for she might not even intend to stay there with him that night, but because it's such a long drive back to his ranch. She would be there to greet him, of course, to show him around and make sure he settled in comfortably,
and they might have had sex. Let's be honest about that. The desire for it comes over them like a storm, or has in those two mind-shredding interactions of theirs. It's possible, even probable, that if he in fact wanted comfort or a sense of security or a feeling of safety, she would give that to him. That and more. Even if he didn't ask. Even if the last thing on his mind when he called her was fun or enjoying each other or any of that. It's possible it would have happened anyway.
He doesn't call her. She and her father decide -- when they realize they've been talking so long it's actually quite late -- to skip the movie, and she kisses his brow and excuses herself to go take a hot bath before bed.
A week and a day go by, and Avery glances at the calendar and realizes that another of Calden's weekends in town is coming up. She considers calling him first, seeing if he is indeed planning on being around. She considers moving around a Sunday meeting with her accountant just in case, then thinks better of it. She is hardly going to clear her weekend just in case Calden wants to see her. And given the delicacy with which she must treat their encounters due to her nature and his, Avery decides not to call him first. She doesn't want him to think she'll chase him down. She doesn't want him to think he has to see her when he's here on business. She doesn't want him to fear her claws sinking in, her teeth baring.
They are werewolves. It is not easy for them to have something but not truly possess it. The instinct is there, even for one as gracious as Avery Chase.
--
This time, he does call.
And his number is, in fact, saved in her phone. She feels that same thrill go through her, and presses her lips together. The last time she saw him, he was rolling over, half-waking as she left the bed. The last time she saw him, she crawled back over him and kissed his mouth drenchingly, satisfyingly, stopping just short of tugging the sheets back down and eating him alive. I have to go, she'd told him, and told him to stay, order breakfast if he liked. She'd sealed it all with that one last kiss, grinning, telling him she'd see him next time. It was friendly, if a bit brief and a great deal of temptation. It was hard not to feel like she'd excused herself partly to just give him some room to breathe and relax before going home again.
This time, she picks up.
"Avery Chase," she says when she puts it to her ear, followed by: "How are you, Mr. White?" This is how she says hello. He is smiling on the other end, and he can hear the smile in her words as well. He asks if she's still living at the Ritz-Carlton. Avery laughs. "Oh, no. I've settled in at the house with my family. But I did buy a condo at the Residences." Which are, as he may very well know, located right above the Ritz-Carlton, and, as grand as it may be, it is not anywhere close to the limit of the propery she owns already in the region. "I stay there occasionally."
When her rage is high. When she's fought with her brother and she sees that flinch in his eyes that he doesn't want her to see. When she needs a break, when she needs privacy and isolation. When
she might like to fuck a well-muscled kinsman of another tribe.
Calden White"Rather taken with that part of town, are you?" he laughs, even as he's jotting down a little note on a sticky: Residences. He underlines it twice, mindlessly.
"I'm driving another dozen steers down today," Calden continues, "and I've been informed that my latest batch of dry-aged cuts is ready to go. I'm thinking of reserving a porterhouse or two for myself this time. I also," there's a faint shuffling as he switches his phone to his other hand, and in the background she can hear a thump, a thud, an increase in ambient noise as he steps outside, "just happen to have two bottles of red and some string beans from my garden in my truck.
"So I was thinking, Miss Chase. If you happen to have salt, pepper, butter and a gas grill at that condo of yours -- how does dinner for two sound?"
And in the background: the bark of a cattle-dog; the bellowing and muttering of a handful of unfortunate bovines about to take the first and last car ride of their lives.
Avery ChaseCalden isn't there to see it, but she smirks. She could say something to mock him there, about being taken with this, that, or the other, but she doesn't. She does not add the number of her condo, because he does not ask. They move on, to more important matters.
Namely: he's coming into town today. Avery lifts her chai and takes a small sip from the edge of the china. She's smirking a little bit again as he rambles about meat. As soon as he gets to the part about reserving a porterhouse for himself she knows where this is going, but she doesn't interrupt. She sips her cup of mid-day tea and spice and honey and cream, licking her lips while he gets on with it.
Avery can hear the cattle, and finds herself feeling a gentle pang of mercy for them. Even as she is salivating for their meat. She's noticed, as time goes on, which twinge of emotion and sensation grows stronger.
She also notes that while he seems perfectly comfortable inviting himself to her condo, he makes no mention of coming to her house. And that's for the best, and it shows her he's not some lovelorn idiot, eager to meet her father and family and so on. She has the spare residence, just for herself, and... perhaps just for this sort of thing.
He may not hear the clink of cup on saucer as she sets the little footed receptacle down, due to the noise on his own end, but he'll hear her voice, clear and calm and right next to his ear,
just like it is when he has her on her back. Just like it is when her nails are digging into his shoulderblades and she's whimpering, and saying his name --
"Mr. White, you certainly have no qualms about inviting yourself over, do you?" she teases. "There's a downside to your master plan, sadly. You may have noticed a distinct lack of a balcony when last we met. The private residences, I'm afraid, are no better equipped, but the Beauvallon was full of old people and dogs and One Lincoln Park is a little too close to the sept for my tastes, so I settled. I don't even have a fireplace," she adds, her horror more than a little tongue-in-cheek. Avery is well aware of her own privilege. She grins to herself. "I can get you a cast-iron skillet, if you like."
There's scarcely a beat of a pause, though, before she also asks: "May I ask if you've remembered to shave? Coming to the big city, and all." She lifts her teacup again. Her smile shows in her voice. The unabating lust she seems taken with whenever she speaks to him is more opaque, though the question itself lends it some transparency.
Nice ways of saying the truth. Nice, pretty ways of saying that she is thinking of his face between her legs, his tongue oh so gentle, panting over her the way he does. Nice ways of saying that she's growing wet just thinking about him.
Calden White"The humanity," Calden drawls, not even bothering to sound horrified at her lack of a fireplace. Though -- then again, this is the man with a mantle in every single room. "And I might have noticed the lack of a balcony, except I was chained to your bed."
A pause. A smirk that she can hear; perhaps one she can almost imagine taking shape on that well-made-yet-tragically-bristle-surrounded mouth of his.
"Gently and figuratively speaking, anyway."
He's outside now. Cattle and dogs and men, trucks and dirt. He has to talk a little louder to be heard, which of course means he can't very well go about shouting about bedrooms and beds and being chained to one, figuratively or otherwise. "A cast iron skillet will have to do," he begrudges, "and an oven, if your majesty has one of those." And there's a faint scuffing: his rough palm over his rougher jaw. "Hmm. I suppose I'll pack a razor and freshen up before I show. Though I warn you, I wear the rugged look better.
"Eight again, then?"
Avery ChaseAn image blossoms into her mind like a rose in response to his explanation for his lack of attention to his surroundings, and Avery finds her fingertips momentarily lax on the handle of her teacup. A moment too long spent in that image and she might find her mouth watering, but she blinks and he speaks and she smirks, too.
"I have a fine oven," she informs him. "But again: you have no knowledge of my titles, Mr. White. And wouldn't you feel silly if I were a baroness or countess and you were calling me majesty in jest?" Her tone is joking, but it's still implied that of course: he would feel terribly silly and stupid then. It's hard for her to imagine anything but red-faced embarrassment to be caught doing something like that.
She sets her cup down again and stretches out her legs. "I'll be the judge of how I prefer you," she tells him, regarding his 'rugged' look or otherwise. "Eight is fine."
So it's a date, then. Eight o'clock, her place, porterhouses and wine and string beans and he'll even shave. "Calden," she says, which is semi-serious (but only semi-), "just so there's no confusion or question of it... I do intend to chain you to my bed again tonight.
"Figuratively," she adds. Then: "At least at first."
Calden White"I'd be red as a beet," he deadpans. "Eight it is, then."
The phone is coming down from his ear when he hears her say his name. So of course the phone comes back, and he hm?s, and she says
certain words
in a certain tone
that make his jeans feel a little tighter. "No confusion or question at all, miss," he replies. "I'll be sure to request the grand tour up front so I don't interfere with your plans later on."
And then the logistics: "What's your unit number?"
They say their goodbyes. Calden slips his phone into his pocket and strides out under the sun, parking his stetson on his head to help Ian and Jimmy usher the last of the cattle onto the trailer.
Some five or ten minutes before eight, Avery's doorbell rings. Or maybe her intercom. And a little after that: Calden at her door, a denim shirt this time instead of red-checked flannel; jeans, boots, cleanshaven. His hair is still a little wet, just beginning to show its waves and its russet again. He smells clean, but not particularly like any soap or other. Must have just grabbed a quick rinsing shower somewhere, along with a moment alone with a shaving kit.
There's a paper-wrapped package under his arm. Not a gift, per se, though perhaps one could rightfully consider a bundle of choice meat an appropriate gift for a wolf. Also, two bottles of wine, their necks caught in his fingers; a bag of fresh-picked string beans dangling off his pinky. It makes it quite impossible for him to sweep her up into his arms, but
that doesn't mean he doesn't step into her the moment the door opens, lowering his head to kiss her mouth. Hungrily. It's been two weeks, after all.
Avery Chase"Nineteen-thirteen," she tells him, which is the floor and unit. It's one of very few residences in that building, and to tell the truth, the lack of balconies and the somewhat odd location mean that not even all of those twenty-five condos are occupied. That is yet another reason she chose it. "I'll call the concierge and request that you be escorted through the private lobby. Though not right to my door, of course."
They say their goodbyes. She clicks the 'end call' button and sets it down on the table in front of her where she sits on the patio, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. She would have him here, now, if he weren't in Bumfuck, Egypt at the moment. Avery's fingertips massage her lips for a moment, feeling her breath through them, feeling a faint tingle throughout her flesh.
--
Avery arrives herself at seven. She inspects the residence and dismisses the maids and butler who came earlier today to dust and tidy and air the linens. She will not require their presence for the remainder of the evening. Knowing her habits, her quirks, none of them find this odd. None of them even assume she'll be having guests. They tend to the particulars of her life for her. They don't question it, and they leave.
For her part, she opens the windows in her bedroom when she arrives and begins to undress. And change. And get ready. An hour later, when Calden knocks on her door, she walks through the hall and pulls it open inward, looking at him. Looking him over, from boots to bare jaw to eyes, and all he has carried to her door in offering to her.
Avery is carrying nothing, and wearing less. He's seen that pair of underwear before, or one remarkably like it, all black and white stripes and sitting low on her hips. The bra, opaque black yet covered with a fine layer of lace, is new to him. She deigned to wear a white drape of some thin, light fabric over it all, perhaps because it's cool in her condo, perhaps to give him one more thing to take off. And yet, the way she stands there, the way she looks at him,
he's the one that seems underdressed for the occasion.
Calden moves into her, feeling her bare belly against his own through his shirt, feeling her mouth open against his, feeling those tits of hers up against his chest with two -- with two too many -- layers of fabric between them. Her hand comes up, stroking fingertips from his earlobe down along his jaw, deceptively soft and slow compared to the ferocity of their kiss.
Avery is all but pulling his face down to kiss her neck. "Do you want the tour?" she asks him, more than a trace of a gasp in her voice already.
Calden White"Oh mary mother of god,"
is the mutterance that comes out of Calden's mouth when he sees what Avery is and is not wearing -- proving once and for all that the Whites are, in fact, irish catholics who perhaps conveniently substituted gaia for mary and stag for god. That bag of string beans rustles against her thigh as he all but runs into her, his mouth eating at hers so ravenously that one might think he wouldn't be able to bear a day away from her, let alone fourteen.
Those beans hit the ground first. They go when his little finger slackens, when he forgets about the bag and the fact that he shouldn't drop it on the ground. The meat goes next -- that butcher-wrapped package of short loin, dry-aged in some chilly, sealed environment as meticulously controlled as any wine cellar. It thumps to the floor as Calden is lifting that hand, lifting that arm, pushing his fingers into her hair and cupping the back of her head,
supporting her gently as she tilts back, pulls him to her neck. He kisses her there, too, no less hungrily or savagely, but: their hands are deceptively gentle; their touch is warm. He's growling against her throat, nipping at her skin, now his hand is pressing down her back, pressing her against him through those two-too-many layers. Now at the small of her back. Now pulling her so firmly against him that can't possibly miss how hard he is, already, just like that,
because she answered the door like that,
because she's her, and he's him, and their chemistry is off the charts.
His face is smooth tonight. He's not going to scrape welts into that fine smooth skin of hers as he quite literally goes down her body: kissing her, bending her over his arm, pulling her bra aside with his teeth because he still has bottles of wine in his hand and those, those might actually break if they hit the floor. If the floor is hard. He's honestly forgotten: he could be standing on carpet, could be standing on satin and silk; he hasn't bothered to notice.
She's saying something about a tour and he's managed to draw one cup down, he's fixing his mouth on her nipple and sucking at her flesh with this low, rough moan that sounds like relief, sounds like need, sounds downright carnivorous.
"After," he mutters. That goes for everything: the tour, after. The food, after. Conversation, after. The bed, after. And then his mouth is back on her. He's going to his knees right there in the entryway. He tongues her navel; those bottle of wine thud onto the floor, but at least it's a controlled descent, at least he didn't drop it from three feet up. Now his hands are finally free, and he doesn't even hesitate: he yanks those lovely hiphugging black-and-whites off of her, strips them all the way down those long golden legs of hers, grabs her ass in his hands and pulls her forward so roughly that
it's a shock, it's a revelation, when he puts his mouth on her clit like that. So gently; so drenchingly. Tongue first, seekingly; and then lips. And then his whole mouth, his hands tilting her hips for access, his biceps bulging against his shirt as he takes a share of her weight. He makes that sound again, that low, rough noise, relieved, needful, worshipful,
down on his knees, still fully dressed with his freshshaven jaw and his damp hair, thirty seconds after walking in the door,
eating Avery Chase out.
Avery ChaseIt's somehow appropriate that he would exhale an oath to a modern-era goddess before dropping to his knees in worship before her. What are the garou but gods compared to men, and what are the Silver Fangs but gods among the garou? And if not gods -- though the most megalomaniacal of them would not argue with this definition -- then at very least, blessed. Look at Avery herself, beautiful as though she were put together from lines of some sonnet: hair of gold, eyes of lapis and silver, lean-limbed and firm-breasted, tasting of honey and milk, every inch of her skin flawless.
Almost every inch. Perhaps it's meaningful that she answered the door wearing and not-wearing what she did, and not just because it meant she would rather take him now than wait. That bra does not conceal the scar of an exit wound that destroyed all illusion of her humanity. It's a strangely small thing, not as ugly as it could be, but she is not fond of it. The dress she wore when she met him two weeks ago did not reveal it. The dedicated clothes he saw her wearing when they first met kept her two scars well-hidden, front and back. She has never started out baring it, that discolored reminder of her own death and resurrection.
Calden could not care less. He goes to her, and the bag of string beans is cool on her thigh for a moment before they thump to the floor, along with steaks wrapped multiple times in butcher paper. And he is all over her then, pressing her back, pulling her against him, there, feel me. Avery sips the air as he works his way down her torso with his mouth. She does not bend very far; she presses him back, presses right back into him as he ducks his head and grabs the cup of her bra in his teeth. Tonight her lingerie is rougher than his jaw, all that lace, but it's out of the way easy enough. Her nipple is hard already, and she shudders and lets go a dissolving gasp when he rubs the flat of his tongue against it. Around it. He closes his mouth and starts to suck on her, and Avery's knees would buckle if she did not refuse to let them.
After. All right. They can eat after this. They can tour the apartment after this. He doesn't even seem inclined to leave the little triangular foyer. One cup of her bra still pulled away from her breast, Avery reaches over to the door as Calden is setting the wine down and putting his hands on her hips, working his fingers under the elastic and the cotton. She flicks the deadbolt with a smooth but metallic thud. It is her last pragmatic thought for some time.
Her fingers are in his hair, holding him back a moment as she steps out of the panties he so helpfully worked off her hips and down her thighs. She holds him there, inches from her flesh, as though to make him look. As though to make him wait, and watch her, and make him obsess over that cunt that is being bared, hinted at when she lifts one leg, then the other. All Calden feels then is her fingers loosening, relenting, allowing him to pull her with his hands and seek her with his mouth. Her body jerks, lifting, when he slides his tongue between her lips and strokes it on her clit. She tries to part her legs a little more for him, leaning back against one of the inner walls. Slowly her leg just lifts, opening her. The arch of her foot comes to rest on his shoulder, not pressing down but merely balancing for now, while
Calden
groans against her pussy. It clenches, and relaxes, and honey wets his tongue in answer, in yes, in blessing.
Calden WhiteHeld back while Avery steps out of those sleek panties -- now a scrap of black and white on the floor -- Calden looks, all right. He looks at her, that body she's so kindly put on display, all that glorious golden skin, the dip of her navel and the slope of her stomach, the rise of her breasts half-covered by the bra she put on and half-bared by the way he tugged it down. He looks at her shirt slipping down to reveal a shoulder, an upper arm. The tendons in her wrist, tensed where she grips his hair.
He kisses her there: the inside of her wrist, lingeringly, while her thighs move and her feet step, flick that little bit of fabric aside. He reaches up to her, covering her breasts in his fingers, rubbing his palms over her nipples, following it around and behind to release that little clasp. It's an undressing in reverse, innermost to outermost. His hands follow her back and her sides all the way down again, and as she releases him he goes to her,
he touches her with his tongue, deeply and thoroughly intimate; he feels the way her body jerks and his hands run over her skin, soothingly.
She lifts her leg, sets her foot on his shoulder. He kisses the inside of that thigh, wordlessly and lightly, as though to thank her for being so polite as to open herself like this. Then his hands grip her a little more firmly, supporting her on his palms
just in case she forgets to refuse to let her knees buckle.
He goes back to her. He angles his head, he noses her lips apart, he goes at her with singleminded devotion, eyes closed, mouth open. He can feel her growing wet, taste it, scent it, and it hits him on a level so primal he couldn't put it into words if he tried. He dips, the tip of his tongue sweeps across the opening of her cunt, slowly, achingly slowly, swirls through that new slickness, up between her inner lips until he finds her clit again.
And there he remains -- her wetness slathering on his chin, his hands holding her to keep her right there for his adoration: nibbling, sucking with his lips; tonguing her with now the flat, now the tip, now these light, fluttering touches, now these heavy, deep, uncompromising strokes. He murmurs into her flesh as he devours her: low, vibrating sounds, hungry and thoroughly satisfied at once.
Avery ChaseDeep. Intimate. That's what this is, and what it's been since the start. She gave up after that first halfhearted slap. She was high on the hunt and the moon and the whiskey and the subtle, stirring flirtation they'd been sharing for what felt like hours. Avery has no idea why she slapped him. It just seemed the thing to do. Maybe because right then she didn't want him to kiss her. She wanted him to fuck her.
Since then she has learned that she does want him to kiss her. Like this. There.
"Oh, there," she moans, when his deft tongue strikes her a particular way. Her hips tilt and she arches her back, the sleeves of that soft, light wrap falling down to her shoulders as she lifts her arms over her head. Calden has her bra undone and it's slipped down, but with the way she moves it hides and reveals her breasts at turns. He's not looking now, anyway.
This, she thinks, is how all of their dates should start. A quiver goes through her, a gasp in its wake. She looks down at him. She watches him, fully clothed and denim-clad against her mostly-gone black and white lingerie. She thinks: I should just keep you down there forever,
And it says something about the sort of person Avery is, the sort of wolf and the sort of Philodox, that what she says as she stares at him eating her out is: "I should just keep you there forever."
Calden WhiteWhich makes Calden laugh. Which makes him let go this rough, muffled sound again her cunt, because it doesn't make him stop. Well; not for a moment, anyway. Not until he gives her another long, lingering lick that ends with a brief suck -- intense.
"You'd get bored," he whispers, grinning up at her, coming up to kiss her an inch beneath her navel; leaves a touch of wetness here,
goes back for more.
Avery ChaseYou'd ge -- is as far as Calden manages to get in that sentence. He licks, he sucks, he makes her knees buckle, and then he tries to talk. She tightens her grip on his hair again and essentially pulls him face-forward to her pussy again, groaning. It's not that she really does want to keep him there forever. It's not that this is even her tendency: to pull, to shove, to force. It is in her to demand. To be entitled to what she wants, and all of it, when she wants it.
The reason she rather thoughtlessly, mindlessly pulls him to her clit again is that she is already so close. She's been thinking about this all day. While he was bringing the cattle to Denver, while they were dying, while he was giving himself a shave before putting on a clean shirt, she was thinking about having sex with him. She's fucked him for hours now, in multiple ways and rooms and sometimes he's been cleanshaven and sometimes he's worn that 'rugged' look, but she's been fucking Calden all afternoon. Her free hand is flat on the wall behind her, and then not so flat, her knuckles bending, looking for purchase that just isn't there.
He flicks his tongue over her again and again and again; Avery groans and grinds against his mouth.
Calden White-- so he doesn't finish that sentence after all. It dissolves back into that laugh, that warm sound that drizzles through so many of his words and sentences and kisses. He puts his mouth back where she wants it, and just for a moment
he's looking up at her, his eyes bright and warm and wanting and adoring; the green in the irises visible in the direct lighting of her foyer. He looks at her arched over him, grasping at the wall, looks at the shiver beneath her skin, the way those restless, reaching motions of hers stretches and eases and turns her body. He keeps one hand where it is, supporting her; the other wanders, reaches up to cup a breast, toy with the nipple; reaches up to cup her jaw and trace her lips, slides down to splay over her abdomen. Wrap around her thigh.
He holds her like that, between his hands, urging her foot over his shoulder and down his back, urging more and more of her weight onto that sturdy, strong frame of his. Maybe that means something to. Maybe it's just a means to an end, a way to ease her out of those last restraints, because
he knows how close she is, he can taste it, he can sense it in the quiver of her flesh. His shoulders shift; he shifts his weight on his knees, presses a little closer, closes his eyes; intent now, focused and ravenous, his hands grasping at her where they hold her -- losing hold of that humor, that laughter; submerges back into his hunger for her taste, for her pleasure, for the way she looks and sounds and feels when she comes.
Avery ChaseShe loves the way he laughs. She doesn't say this. They've teased each other about that, I love, I love, I love and after the last time it feels strangely unwise to keep on doing so -- to Avery, at least. But she does. It amuses her and it warms her and it makes her laugh, too. She squirms into it, looking down at him, him looking up at her, and she smiles.
Avery catches his hand over her breast. She follows his touch up to her jaw and turns her head, kissing his palm and his fingers, soft and slow and sweet. She lets her hand leave his hair and fondly, gently swats him as he tries, keeps trying, to pull more and more of her weight onto him like he needs it. He thinks she's restrained, that holding herself up will stop her. Calden has become quite good at bringing her off, but he doesn't know everything.
He knows this, though: when she comes, and when she dissolves, whose name she's calling. When her knees buckle, finally. When her weight does fall on his shoulder and his neck, by god, not because she willed it or he wanted it but simply,
simply because.
Calden WhiteAnd of course,
he takes her through that orgasm. Of course he doesn't stop -- of course he keeps up that ferocity, that intensity, until her orgasm hits a crest and then begins to fall down the other side. That's when he slows. That's when he becomes lazier, gentler, lapping at her quivering clit, tonguing her clenching cunt, licking her long and slow and savoring until the last of her climax grips through her and lets go.
Then she's liquid, she's warm, and he's giving her a series of last, lingering caresses. It's like he can't quite bear to stop: like he's promising himself just one more, one more lick up her slit; one more suck of her clit. One more kiss. One last nuzzle.
By then her knees have unhinged. He lowers her gently and carefully. His arms come around her; she slides down into his lap and he receives her, sitting back on his heels, kissing her in an ascending trail from her lower belly to her diaphragm. He holds her a moment, her stomach to his chest, his arms firm around her waist and her hips: holds her there so he can nudge her bra all the way down and
lick her nipples so slowly. A little bit playful now: teasing her with the tip of his tongue, laying sucking little kisses from the underside to her upper chest. Kissing her clavicles. Kissing her neck, and behind her ear,
as she finally comes to a rest on his lap.
"That was quite the hello, Miss Chase," he whispers, smiling at her then: their faces and their bodies close together.
Avery ChaseAs soon as he saw her, the blood rushed out of his mind to fill that lovely cock of his. He wanted her to feel it when he stepped across her threshhold; he wanted her to feel how hard he was already, and slid his hand down her back to cup her ass, tug her closer, feel it, feel him, want him like he wants her. Or maybe it was just an acknowledgement of what he already knew. She answered the door in lingerie. She told him in no uncertain terms on the phone that he was going to be fucking her tonight. He knew what she wanted when he took that razor to his chin tonight. He knew what he was coming here for.
To bring her meat. To bring her wine. To fuck her. To, in every way possible, satisfy her hungers.
"Stop that," she whispers, drowsily, running her fingers again and again through his hair. He keeps licking her one last time. He keeps tasting her, nuzzling her, going for her clit with some low, subsumed groan. She doesn't swat him, though. She lazes between his shoulders and the wall, one foot still on the floor, her eyes closed, sweat dampening her brow and her breasts and her back and her thighs. She feels warm; this is why she kept the condo so cool.
Her fingers stroke his hair, again and again, working it backwards. Avery has no intention of sinking down into his lap, but he wants it so badly. He is all but pulling her down onto him, hands up her back, mouth up her front. She laughs softly as she relents, and descends. He's nuzzling mindlessly at her breasts, tugging her bra down, and a smirk curls her lips though her eyes are still dreamy. Avery lifts her hands to her shoulders and that light, summery wrap of hers. She slips it down and off to pool pale on the floor. He's having to wait, here, now, to put his mouth on her breasts, but she doesn't mind making him wait. She doesn't think he minds much, either.
Slowly, unhurried because she has already had what she wants for the time being, Avery drops the straps of her bra down to her elbows, one after the other, then slips them off her forearms and wrists, dropping the lace-covered black thing off to the side. Now, utterly naked, she knees over his lap, pressed to his still-present and likely even more forceful erection through his jeans. Calden is now permitted to lick her breasts. He does. She allows him to kiss and lick her neck as well, her earlobe.
He makes some coy remark and she smirks, stroking fingernails softly down the back of his neck. She holds him there, twisting, reaching back for her wrap to draw it up on her body again, slipping her arms through the sleeves. No bra. No panties. She doesn't say a word, rising up off of him and extending her hand to help him up from his knees if he'll take it.
"The foyer," she says, gesturing to the triangular alcove they just fucked in. Taking him left, she then shows him the trapezoidal den, complete with a gleaming, modern gas fireplace beneath the television and a long couch backed up to the tall windows. Standing there naked does not seem to bother her; the glass is quite tinted, and seems pitch black from outside.... at least while the lights are off indoors. Which, in the den, they are.
From there they cross a small hallway to a set of double doors and the formal dining room, then the more open-plan living room which lacks a television but has more seating and some low tables. She shows him the door to the second master suite, but does not go into its little, separate foyer or office area. "This is where my steward stays when she accompanies me here. I do try to give her her privacy, as well as my trust."
They turn away, back past the kitchen, which really does have a fantastic oven and range. The kitchen has never been used. She assures him there is butter and salt and pepper, though, and she was told that the cast-iron skillets she bought are some of the best. "I got two," Avery tells him, holding his hand and leading him around the condo, her wrap fluttering around her ass and curving to either side of her breasts as they walk.
"There are two guest rooms," she explains as they curve back around the hallway, past the foyer where the steak and wine and string beans still wait. "They're really more servants' quarters, though, when I require maids or the like. I suppose I will seldom entertain guests here unless I invite more people to stay with me than can reasonably fit in the guest quarters at the house." They pass those rooms and drift inside. They're well-decorated, well-appointed rooms, elegant but understated, each with a television and full bathroom to itself. The larger one even has a little hallway of its own.
Eventually they walk around to the opposite end of the residence, to a single door. Avery smiles at him over her shoulder and twists the handle. The bedroom is palatial. She's moved the furniture around so the bed rests against the opposite wall. There's a television and sitting area with a chaise lounge and armchairs, though it's hard to imagine Avery ever having a little party up here in her retreat. Her room is all milk-white and sapphire-blue, accented with burnished golds and rich mahogany. From the look of things, peeking past a doorway, the master bath takes up as much room as the bedroom itself. Large closets, vanities like altars, a shower that three people could fit in, an enormous whirlpool tub. It's made for two, really.
Avery is still holding his hand, showing him this, her lesser residence. She strokes her thumb over the back of his hand, gesturing idly at the chaise lounge. "I thought of you fucking me there. Earlier today. While I was putting on that lingerie."
Calden WhiteCalden's arms loosen as Avery stands. The angle of his gaze changes, tracking her up. He smiles when she gives him her hand, and he takes it, pressing a playful little kiss to her knuckles as he rises.
He thinks she might be leading him to her bedroom, then. And in a way, she is. But first she leads him through the foyer, the kitchen, the living room, the dining room -- both the guest rooms, her steward's quarters. All of it. And all the while she's wearing hardly anything at all. Just that light, translucent wrap of hers, fluttering gently in the slightest current of air.
There are moments when he's behind her, and she can feel him looking at her body. There are moments when they pause to see something-or-other -- and truth be told, her condominium is lovely, is sleek and modern and very nice, but he won't be able to recall later on if the windows faced south or east or west or what; he won't be able to recall if her fireplace burned wood or gas -- moments when she explains something, or gestures to something, and his hand is lazily, idly trailing over her skin. His knuckles over the dip of her waist. His palm over her ass. Stop that, she might have to tell him again,
whereupon his eyes flick up to hers, greenish and full of laughter.
Eventually they make it to the bedroom. And his hand is still in hers, their fingers loosely linked. She tells him what she thought about, putting on that lingerie that quite drove him out of his mind on sight. He looks at the chaise for a moment; then he turns toward her, tugging her into him with a gentle flex of his arm.
"What else did you think about?" he murmurs. His free arm slides around her, beneath her wrap. Now there's just one layer between those glorious breasts of hers and his chest, and it's still one too many.
While she answers -- or doesn't -- he releases her hand. He reaches up and starts to undo his buttons, one after another. No undershirt this time. The weather's warming, after all, and it's starting to feel like summer. His opening shirt reveals sunbronzed skin; dark hair; the impressive masses of muscle slung from shoulder to sternum. At some point the buttons run between their bodies, and his knuckles brush her skin. He stops descending, then, and tugs his shirt up instead -- undoes the buttons as they rise.
Avery ChaseCalden does not start undoing his buttons. Avery does.
He's pulled her against him, has his arm around her, has her taste still on his tongue, and before the question is even out of his mouth, her hands have lifted as gracefully and slowly as if moving through water to start unfastening the buttons on that denim shirt. She sees his chest begin to bare in a V and forgets to answer his question, tipping her head forward to kiss him over his sternum as she tugs that shirt up from his jeans, keeps on unbuttoning.
When it hangs off of him as loosely as her wrap she leaves it there, and puts her hands on his belt. "Leave it," Avery tells him, if he tries to shrug out of his shirt. Her eyes go up to his, watching his face as she yanks the tongue from its buckle. She doesn't pull it out of the loops but tugs open his button, slides down his zipper
very slowly, very carefully. Even now she doesn't try to get his jeans -- any of his clothes -- all the way off. She just touches him through whatever underwear he's wearing this time, stroking him, watching his face, her own lips parted as she looks at him.
"This," she whispers, proving she hasn't forgotten that question, after all.
Avery puts her hands on his sides, stroking down to his hips, working her fingers under the elastic of his drawers. Everything is pulled and pushed downward then, at least part of the way down his thighs. "Sit," she murmurs, walking him back toward the chaise til he obeys and sits and leans back on the cushions.
This time it's Avery on her knees, in front of her own lounge in her own sanctuary. She's wrapped in white and he's still half-clothed in denim and boots and this is just how she wants him: disheveled, rough, denim-clad. As she takes him in hand and then into her mouth she thinks of being discovered, of him hastily pulling his pants up and getting out of here, running his fingers through his hair, mind blown. She thinks of how badly she wants him utterly naked and under her sheets, holding himself up over her so she can see him, see all of him, watch him as he moves in her
slow, and firm, and filthy.
Avery moans around his cock as her lips stroke downward onto it, as her tongue laps at his head. She thinks: filthy fucking bastard, but does not say it aloud. For obvious reasons.
Calden WhiteSo their hands part, and his hand -- raised to start on his buttons -- falls again, dreamily slow, as she starts to undo the buttons of his shirt. The fabric is coarse-textured, soft only because of how many washes it's been through. The buttonholes are stretched from wear and slip loose easily.
She kisses his chest as her hands move down those buttons. And so she doesn't see him, doesn't see that wash of tenderness that rushes through him then, making his pulse skip. The last button comes undone and instinctively he moves to shed his shirt, but --
leave it, she says. So he leaves it, his hands coming back to rest at her waist, under her wrap.
They're both looking down, then. And then she's looking up, seeing his face, seeing the humor fade into intensity. He holds his breath without realizing it while she works the belt open, and the button, and the zipper. And as his jeans start to slide down of their own weight,
she touches him through his underwear -- still boxers, still unremarkable and rumpled and unsensual -- and he
makes this low sound, caught in his throat, an oh that doesn't quite make it past his lips. This, she whispers. His eyes come back to hers. He kisses her, suddenly and spontaneously, and she tugs his underwear down, and he reaches reflexively to hold his erection out of the way, to keep it from snagging, and then just to give himself some sort of contact, some sort of tactile feedback.
His calves hit the chaise. He doesn't so much sit as he thumps down: heavy bones, heavy musculature, tanned skin, callouses. A smooth-shaved jaw that'll start to show a shadow again by midnight. A sharper contrast can hardly be imagined to her sleek condominium, her upscale furnishings in their white and gold, sapphire and mahogany; to her, really: golden, sunblessed, moonloved daughter of falcon that she is. As she goes to her knees he strokes himself; he can't help it. Her hand covers his, though, and for a moment he's still stroking that solid cock of his that she likes so much, his hand moving under hers, bearing hers on its rhythm. Then he relents. Lets go. Her hand replaces his, which makes him gasp. He leans back because she urges him back. He spreads his arms along the top of her chaise, looking at her with hooded eyes, a fire deep in every pupil.
When her mouth touches him, his fingers flex. His toes flex too, gripping at the soles of his boots. His thighs tauten; his cock jumps against her tongue. He doesn't make a sound. Not yet. He holds on, his head falling back, tension bunching through his biceps, his pectorals; releasing when she takes him in, rushing out, then, on a low groan. That's how he survives those first slow drags of her lips -- head back, eyes closed, heart thumping in his chest as he
just
lets what she's doing to him wash through him.
A little later, as she starts to work up her rhythm, he lifts his head again. He looks down to see her, watch her, and if she meets his eyes his mouth quirks, almost of its own accord: a loose, lopsided, lazy smile that passes wordless between them like a secret. His hand comes to her hair, then. He doesn't grab; he certainly doesn't pull. He strokes, though, combing those golden strands back, reaching down to find her hand. Draws her palm draggingly halfway up his body; holds her hand like that, pressed to the midline of his body where she can feel the beginnings of every sigh, every soft groan, every long moan she draws out of him.
This time, Calden doesn't stop her. He doesn't tell her to go on, either, or to go faster or slower or -- any of that. She does what she wants. He just enjoys the ride.
Avery ChaseIt matters, to Avery if not to Calden, that he instigate these things between them. It isn't because she is tradition-minded, old-fashioned, or even simply gender-normative: the big strong man makes all the first moves on the fluttering, submissive girl. The very thought of calling Avery girl is difficult to swallow, despite their age difference. No: the reason is one she's intimated with him, though it has not been completely, explicitly spelled out letter by letter.
There is always a power imbalance in the relationships between Garou and Kin. It is lamented and praised at turns, but it is always there. There are tribal lines and traditions that are, to be honest, frequently crossed and frequently ignored -- as Avery and Calden are ignoring them now. One might think that trespassing like this with him would make her honor flinch, but they haven't discussed it in detail. They haven't shared with each other why they think this is okay, allowable, permissable in any fashion, or how her honor can stand it.
Maybe because he sees some honor in the way she handles him, already: the way she's so careful not to impose, not to overstep, not to make him feel hunted down or backed into a corner. He never has to be with her. She knows he wants to be. She knows he kissed her, calls her, comes to her and comes inside of her, because he craves it. But she doesn't take that for granted. She won't.
--
It also matters, perhaps to both of them, how she seems to take some sort of lead once he has called her, come to her, given himself over to whatever this is between them. Telling him right away what she plans to do with him. Opening the door the way she did. Leading him on that torturous tour of her second home while he was aching for her, reaching for her only to be gently and teasingly rebuffed until he'd seen the whole residence. Undressing him like this, staying his hands and telling him no when he is about to strip himself down to skin. Going so far as to tell him: Leave it. Like this. Sit.
And despite the imbalance that nature and Gaia gave them, there's no game or struggle for power in this. She tells him no or stop that on the tour not to put him in his place or show him who is in charge here, but to tease him. To play with him, behind closed doors where it is fine to be playful with one's lover, laughing and filthy and sweet. To drive him out of his mind. To take that imbalance, that unfairness of life, and ball it up tight, and throw it over one's shoulder and out the window.
To show him, if there really is some underlying goal to her behavior, that now he is inside, and they are on equal footing. As equal as they can be. And though they haven't spelled any of this out, Calden seems to understand it intrinsically: he does not glare or resist for the sake of resisting. He does not worry that she's going to rip his throat out if he tells her no. It's as though it never entered his mind that she might not treat him with care... or with respect.
She loves that about him, too. And does not say it. Not this time.
--
The contrast between the gloss and sumptuousness of her surroundings and the roughness of his clothing and his skin and his breeding is, at least to Avery, unbearably erotic. The way he strokes himself, mindless and rhythmic is, to Avery, unbearably erotic. Is it any wonder she puts her mouth on him again, groaning as though relieved of some deep pain, her eyes closing as her tongue slides down his skin? He can't possibly wonder about her want for him.
Her wrap slips off her shoulders as she bends over his lap, his fingers stroking and slipping through her hair. She holds him where he is, keeps him where she wants him. She barely even realizes he's touching her hand until he lets it go, resting against his chest. Avery's fingers are like silk on his nipple, slowly caressing as though drugged, even while her mouth is focused, even while her stroking is so tight, so rhythmic, so... hungry.
This time, he doesn't stop her. And she doesn't stop. Not when the muscles in his abdomen are bunching up, not when his boot-heel slides against the floor while he tries in vain to find purchase with his curling toes. Not until his breathing is turning ragged and his mind is dissolving. Not until his eyes are limpid and green and there's sweat on his brow. Not until she can feel him throbbing, pulsing. Not until she looks up at him and sees that he's lost his mind, he's forgotten his name, he is
worshipping her.
Her lips and tongue slide slowly, mercifully, agonizingly away. "I want you to come on my breasts, Calden," she whispers, and strokes the flat of her tongue over that oh-so-tender head. A softer whisper, lower, closer, as she kisses the tiny, sensitive triangle on the underside: "I want you to make me filthy."
Calden WhiteFor all that they've exalted one another's bodies, one another's wit, the truth is neither of them have really spoken of some of the most critical things between them. It's like it goes nearly completely unspoken out of mutual and silent agreement: that between them, there are no unpleasantries of who should be dominate and who should submit. There is no obligation implied or demanded. There's no fear, and no reason to fear. They are neither of them cruel, nor careless with the other.
They don't speak of these things. But it's there. It matters. It might matter more than anything - anything but what is so obvious that it truly needs no explanation: how much they want each other. Want
this.
Calden is lost in moments. He's transported, fixated, losing himself in sensation. It takes only moments before he's tensed, before his hand is trying not to grip hers too hard, before he's spreading his arms along the back of the chaise again to hold on. There's a light sweat breaking across his skin. There are shudders and shivers snaking through him, and sometimes the touch of her mouth, the slide and suck of her lips
makes him see stars. Makes his eyes fall closed, makes him groan like he has no choice.
She can tell what she's doing to him. He doesn't even try to hide it; wouldn't, has no reason to. She can tell when he's getting close, can hear it in his breathing, in the way he groans, can feel the tension in his thighs and his abdomen, in the very way his cock jerks in her hand, in her mouth. It's a matter of seconds, it's very much already an inevitability, his hands are grasping at the chaise and his hips are lifting, thrusting gently and restrainedly against her mouth, and this is when she
stops. Draws away -- gently, taperingly, maddeningly.
Calden makes this noise -- this groan, almost pained. His eyes open. He looks at her. He's disheveled now, all right: cheeks flushed under his tan, lips dry from panting, chest and sides moving with his breath. He licks those lips; he starts to reach for his cock, mindlessly, even as he's gasping, "Why'd you -- ?"
She tells him why. It sets his eyes afire. God, he mutters, or at least it seems like it might be that word, that deity. He slides his weight to the edge of the chaise and he's wrapping one hand behind her head, pulling her to him, kissing her mouth like he might eat her alive,
stroking himself all the while, furiously, groaning against her mouth -- telling her or warning her or trying to, anyway, that
"I'm gonna come. I'm gonna -- "
The word dissolves. He kisses her mouth, kisses her brow, loses her altogether as he presses back to the back of the chaise. She can finish him off on those last few strokes, if she wants. He'd let her. Or she can simply lean into him, between his legs and against his body, press those remarkable tits of hers against his cock. It hardly matters: Calden comes either way, groaning so loudly it's a good thing her walls are thick; giving himself over to her; making quite the mess of them both.
Avery ChaseOh, it's glorious. She is; Calden is. The last time she did this to him he ended it so quickly, he had no idea what she could do to him, he was so eager to get his cock inside of her, his mouth back on her. He had no idea, perhaps, that she could even enjoy this, that she would ask for that the way she does.
He kisses her: hard. She licks his tongue and touches his face with one hand, her free hand jerking him off, slow and steady and smooth, leaning into him until his cock does, in fact,
stroke against her tits. Avery swallows a groan from him, watches him as he falls back again, lost. If he watches she watches him, looks at his face while he's coming between her breasts, against her chest, yes, making quite a mess. She's murmuring to him,
that's it,
that's it, darling.
so fucking filthy,
this last punctuated near the end, when he can't move, when he's twitching and panting, when there's nothing more to do but lick the last drops from his cock.
Avery stays with Calden for a while after that. She strokes him softly, gently down from his orgasm until she can sense he can't bear it any longer. She only leaves him when he seems a moment away from begging her to please, please stop, he can't take it. And then she's rising to her feet, that wrap down around her elbows, and too be blunt -- to be perfectly crass -- there is cum on her breasts, and on her sternum, and a droplet on her clavicle, and a little on her stomach. She is, as requested, filthy.
"I'm going to wash," she tells him, her tone so soft it belies what she actually says. "I want you to start cooking for me. And I want you to still smell like sweat and sex while you do it."
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