mindful.

Avery Chase

Calden brings her cocoa when they're at the gas station. Avery, it turns out, knows how to pump her own gas. She's standing outside of that bouncy white mini-SUV, her shoulders now wrapped in a light pink pashmina, her hair down and windswept, when he brings her that little paper cup with its little paper wrap and its little plastic lid. She smiles at him, tendrils on her cheek, and kisses him when she takes it from his hand. It never occurs to her to feel awkward that he's of another tribe, that he's older than she is, that she's so very far from where she lives and really, things like this are hard to work out when you only see each other a couple of times a month or when something horrible happens.

She doesn't drink the cocoa, but she takes it. It sits, sipped once or twice and then forgotten, in the cup holder of her car. It's ungracious to refuse a gift, especially a gift of food or drink. Especially from a Fianna. She leaves it there when they get to his house, which she's only been to once. It was colder then. It's cool now, though. Nightfall brings a chill to the desertlands and foothills, even when the days are unbearably hot and sap all moisture right out of your skin.

Avery has a little overnight bag in dusky blue and red-gold jacquard, that she carries at her side but yields gracefully if Calden wants to carry it. It isn't heavy. They go in quietly once they meet at the door, and Avery is as careful to be quiet when they walk through this time as when she met him here two months ago. She remembers the kitchen, smiles wryly as he quickly gets food together. Always wanting to feed people. Or her. And he carries that in one hand, and she switches her overnight bag to her other so she can link their fingers, and she is quiet as a lamb when they take the stairs. He gives her a quiet version of the upstairs tour that, she knows, he wanted to give her the other time. Surely he did. There's rarely been a time between them that Avery hasn't noticed the subtle threads of Calden's behavior with her. It's iconic. It's primordial. It's quite... male.

here, I will give you meat.I will show you my den; isn't it large? isn't it comfortable? isn't it safe?let me build you a fire. I know how to make fire.

Inside what Avery might call his innermost retreat, she breathes in deeply, holds the air, then exhales slowly. She turns, tracking her eyes along the walls, the windows, the terrace, the four-poster that reminds her of her own bed in its size and luxury. He's far from a cowboy sleeping on a straw mattress in the barn with his stock. She bends her knees gently as he's setting the food down, laying her bag on the carpet by her feet. The pashmina slips from her shoulders to her elbows, then she lays it softly over the back of one of the sofas. He doesn't remember her washing her feet and changing into those little flats, but she did, and she steps out of them when he tells her to make herself comfortable.

Avery is quiet behind him. But he hears the zipper of her dress when it goes down, and he hears the rustle as it slips down her body to fall in a white puddle at her feet. Perhaps he looks. Sees her stepping out of that puddle like the Lady leaving the Lake. Her bra is, to accomodate the strapless style of the sundress, a simple but elegant white bustier. Her underwear is satin and lace. More of the latter than the former, but enough of the former to conceal her, to hide her, to hint at her.

She shakes her hair out, lifting her hands and ruffling her fingers through it.

Avery Chase

[UGH JOVE. I put LINE BREAKS IN.]

Calden White

Calden does look. But not for a second. There's a second when he's on one knee before the fireplace, his back to the room and to the lady, his hands occupied. There's that one second when he hears the zipper come down, and a secret little smile flickers across his mouth.

Then he sets a third split-log onto the grate. And he turns, still crouching, elbow over knee now; a long-nosed lighter in hand. Her dress has turned into a puddle. She's still out of it. He's smiling at her, faint and wry, and she can tell he's on the verge of some quietly teasing little comment --

How am I supposed to concentrate on building a fire?

-- something of the sort. He doesn't get there, though. She shakes her hair out. She doesn't just shake it out; she lifts her hands, bends her elbows; something about the movement of her fingers and the slender tone of her biceps, something about her bare shoulders and her elegant bustier

strips the moisture from his mouth, sends his heart hammering. He isn't smiling anymore. He's looking at her hungrily, starvedly, his throat moving as he swallows.

The task of lighting a fire is accomplished, though barely, and halfassedly. He twists the gas knob, he lights the burner. Let the wood catch or not as it pleases. Calden folds the lighter and sets it aside, dusts his hands off the best he can. He doesn't want to leave smudges on her lovely white lingerie, after all. As he comes across the room to her he pulls that shirt off like it burns him to leave it on; drops his pants when he's still a good armsreach from her. Stands on one foot, then the other, to peel his socks off. His eyes are on her, and now he's found his humor again, found it somewhere and transduced it to that quirking, lopsided little smirk on his face. His watch comes off next. And last, his boxers, the elastic pulled away from his body and pushed down, dropping.

Bare as the day he was born, though so much larger and huskier now, Calden reaches Avery at last. He scoops her up, he walks backwards with her, he all but throws himself down on his bed and on his back, smiling up at her as his hands smooth up her body, over her bustier. There's almost a hesitation -- as though to make anticipation build -- before his hands reach her breasts. Even through her lingerie he sighs at the feel of her. His palms cup her tits, lift them.

"You did that on purpose," he accuses softly, smiling. "That thing with your hair."

Avery Chase

Avery drops her dress, and steps out of it, and after a beat, Calden turns, that smirk at the corner of his mouth ready to blossom fully. She shakes out her hair, ruffles it, and that expression vanishes like the fey to the forest. It's her turn: she smiles, slow, and it grows to a conquering smirk of her own. So he rises, and strips himself down as he comes to her, doesn't step into her presence until he's naked, and she laughs as he picks her up, turns, flops them both onto her bed quite unceremoniously.

He is on his back. She kneels over him, sits on him, while he immediately starts to paw at her. She wonders if he notices the stitch in his brow when he fills his hands with her breasts, even though he mostly feels the padded silk in between his palms and her flesh.

She did that on purpose. That thing with her hair.

Avery only smirks. "I had to do something," she says, her voice lazy and her body growing heavy on his lap. Her hips roll once, thoughtlessly, stroking that strip of satin between her legs over his flesh, which has no such decadent covering. "You were right on the verge of forgetting your promise, and I wouldn't want you to be an oathbreaker, darling."

Calden White

"Well," Calden says, smirking up at her, "I thank you for saving my virtue at the expense of my virtue."

She rubs against him. He loses his train of thought. He loses every thought in his head, his eyes darkening, his lips parting, that stitch returning to his brow. He groans: so softly that she'd almost miss it if it weren't so quiet in his room. The only sound are the ones they make, and the crackling of the fire.

She rests a little more heavily against him. Just a scrap of satin between. Calden's teeth catch his lip. He looks up at her, his hands rubbing across the bare skin between her panties and her bustier. "Come here," he whispers. "I'll take that off for you."

Avery Chase

She scoffs at that, "Your honesty is one of the only virtues you have, sweetheart: that and industry," as she's lifting her arms up over her head to push her hair back again. Mercifully, she doesn't shake it out, but she runs her fingers through it, sighing as he careses her. They aren't rushing. Nevermind that she told him to fuck her right when they arrived. Nevermind that she dropped her dress and he pulled off all of his clothes within two minutes of getting into his bedroom. They're loose, they're lazy, they're even quietly playful right now. It's a far cry from the way they were the only other time she's been here; no one is joking about thick walls.

Avery strokes herself against him. Her eyes, briefly turned toward the ceiling as she touched her hair, swivel downward to look at him again as the light in his eyes grows keen and sharp. A log snaps; the fire is taking to it. She wonders how hot it's going to get in here. Calden offers, ever so virtuously, to take something off for her.

Her eyebrows lift. "What? This?" she asks, reaching behind her back and carefully undoing several clasps, hookandeye, hookandeye, hookandeye over and over again as the bustier loosens, opens, slips. Her hand takes it, loses it to the side. It slips off the bed and onto the floor; Avery smirks at him. "I've got it."

Calden White

Calden's laugh sounds like a pant. "You're a devilish woman," he says, but that doesn't stop him from running his hands up her body. "You're out to drive me mad."

Her skin is maddeningly smooth. He groans aloud when he gets his hands on her breasts, the muscles in his thighs and his abdomen clenching as he sits up abruptly. His hands are caught between them for a moment. He leans into her, kisses her, fairly eats at her mouth for a long, mmphing moment.

Then his mouth leaves hers. His hands wrap around her, he pulls her close, he pulls her body against his. He's so very hard now: his cock jumping against her cunt as he rubs his hands up her back. Presses her closer.

"God, those tits," he mutters, and then

he's urging her up, up on her knees, even though her weight leaving her lap -- her pussy leaving his cock -- makes him groan against her skin again. He's kissing her as she rises, kissing her neck and then her shoulder, kissing her upper chest. Pausing, looking up at her, watching her, the corner of his mouth just starting to tilt in a smile

as he starts to tongue her breast. Lays these soft, sucking kisses against her nipple, escalating, his arms folding behind her waist; holding her there as his eyes close to his utter, mindless, devotional enjoyment. He makes this sound, this long, drawn-out mmm, his hand reaching down into her panties to push them down, push them aside, push them away so he can rub his fingertips between her lips.

Avery Chase

At the first, she pouts. "Devilish," she starts to say, mortally wounded, but his hands running up her sides makes her shiver. He kisses her and anything else she might have said is stolen from her, plucked from this reality and given to another. Her arms start to come around him, hands smoothing over his shoulders, dragging fingertips down his back. She sucks on his tongue; she sucks softer on his lower lip when he draws back.

Calden wants to suck on her breasts. He wants her up, up, and that pout comes back, harsher now, as she grinds herself down on his lap, refusing. "No," she says, a bit of a whine to it, though not much. She presses herself right against that firm cock, that throbbing cock, squirming on it. Surely he might groan at the loss of her, but Avery is wiser than he is. She isn't about to deprive herself of that. He urges her. She swats his side, gasping as her hips give a slow grind onto him. "No," she repeats, firmer, losing her breath a bit at the end of the syllable.

Calden White

Oh, Calden doesn't complain -- much. He doesn't have much room for complaining. His mouth opens on hers. It's not a kiss but a rush of breath, a pant, a gasp, a soft and nearly unvoiced ah! Her nails run over his back. She swats him. He laughs shakily, and she grinds, and he

almost

loses his mind.

"You complain when I don't give those tits proper attention," he breathes, "and then you won't let me pay attention to them. Don't you want me to lick your tits, Miss Chase?" He stops trying to urge her up. He pushes his hands down into her panties instead. Crudely put: he grabs her ass, he squeezes her cheeks, he smirks at her with his mouth a breath from hers. "Or maybe that lovely pussy."

Avery Chase

"I wasn't complaining," she pants, rolling against him again, holding to him. That one scrap of satin and lace is all that's stopping them from already fucking, they both know that, but she's not moving off of him to get them off. In the meantime, they move as though they already are. They move together like they know each other. In a way, they do. "I just thought --" a gasp, there, interruptive, "-- you'd --"

Avery gives up. He's massaging her ass, her tits pressed up against his chest, her back arched. It's lovely. It's all quite lovely. She kisses him, full and deep and wet on his rich mouth, sighing into it, one hand sliding up his spine to bury her fingers in his back.

She was going to tell him all she wants is him. She doesn't. She just groans into his mouth, holding him by the hair, while the fire crackles.

Calden White

She just thought he'd --

the thought goes unfinished. She kisses him. Sighs into it. He presses her to him, pulls her right against him as he takes that kiss, drinks it in, gives it back. Her hands in his hair, then. And his body turning, falling back, rolling. The bedframe creaks quietly. He lays her out on it, his body covering hers. Firelight is warm on his flank, on his side, on the stretch of his arm over her, his hand cupping the top of her head, and then the back of it as he lifts her to kiss her.

His other hand is at her hip. The fingers curl under the waistband of her panties. "Lift up," he whispers, in one of those rare moments they're not kissing one another. "Let me get these off."

And if she does: he peels them down, those artful little shreds of white satin and lace, the former so smooth the callouses on his fingers catch in the material; the latter delicate, brushing his knuckles as he pulls her lingerie down, down past her thighs, down past her knees, kicks them all the way down off her feet and off the edge of the bed.

He settles over her, then. Settles between her thighs in a few heavy, solid shifts of his weight. She holds him by the hair, and he tucks his hands under her head: a gentle, sweet sort of mirroring. They take their time with each other, even if she made him promise as soon as, even if he stripped himself naked so fast one might've thought there was a prize for it. They take their time now, and he kisses her like he loves the taste of her,

which he does,

and he moves against her in these slow, long slides, pressing to her, sliding over her, grinding against her until he's hot and hard and slick and wet, until he's panting quietly, his lips falling to her neck.

"Ready?" he whispers: careful with her now; not reckless.

Avery Chase

They kiss like breathing. Avery seems to half-expect to find herself falling, a descent like drowning. She goes so easily to his bed that she seems molten. He finds her moving in a single beautiful arc, fluid, and white fabric of varying types slides from her hips, down her thighs and past her calves, off her ankles. Avery only watches him, laid back on his comforter, waiting for him to cover her again, which

she knows he will. She knows he won't stay away very long. And he doesn't. His hair seems darker in this light, the traces of red only visible when caught by the firelight. Avery lifts her hands, her arms, smooths her fingers into his hair again, her eyes dark with drowsiness, with desire, her thighs parting to give him a place to be, giving him a place he finds and fits himself into.

For a moment, her hair in his hands, Calden can see her eyes close. Avery luxuriates in the sensation of him pressed to her, captured by her thighs, held firm and heated against her. Her thighs open by degrees; he whispers in her ear and she shivers, her hands running down from his neck and down his sides. She luxuriates, too, in the fineness of the body he's presenting to her: the tuck and fold of muscle, the rough warmth of his skin, the intimation of hard bone holding him all together from within.

And her fingers curl under, and her fingernails stroke lightly, lightly up his flank. She kisses him, as slick strokes against him with every flex of his hips. She doesn't say yes. She says: I want you.

Calden White

So he takes her. Or he gives himself to her. Or perhaps there's really no difference. Her nails over his skin brings a shiver to him, every time. Makes the hairs on his arms stand pleasantly on end. Makes his nipples tighten, makes his eyes darken.

She kisses him. It's so luxurious. He enters her in the midst of it, his mouth open to hers; their tongues touching and parting and twining again. Her back arches. His mouth falls to her neck, to her chest, and for a moment there he has his wish: his hands palm-flat to the bed, fingers curling against the sheet; his mouth on her breasts, inhaling her nipple into his mouth. He sucks at her for a moment, moaning muffled into that ravenous caress until

she tightens her fingers in his hair. Pulls him back up to her.

He takes his time. It takes a few strokes, slow and dragging and deliriously good, before he fills her as thoroughly as he can. And then he rests a while, just like that, their bodies locked together and conjoined, his pulse a tangible thing in his chest, in his biceps flanking her body; inside her. He kisses her again. They can't stop kissing each other. They kiss

like breathing.

Then she urges him on. Her fingernails on his back, or her hands gripping his ass; her legs loosening and rewrapping and tightening again around him. He moves into her, and this time it's a little more solid, a little more powerful; enough to make a short exhale grunt out of him. This kiss is a little more ferocious, too. She reaches back to grasp the edge of the mattress. His hand follows her arm, traces her wrist, finds her fingers; covers them.

He levers up a little higher, and now there's enough room between that they can see each other. They watch each other: their faces, their eyes, the strength and strain in his body, the resilience in hers. Their mouths opening to breathe, to pant, to cry out. Their eyes closing, or opening, or meeting, or locking. There's sweat on the side of his face now. It's warm in here from the fire. From what they're doing. Behind him, the vaulted ceiling; the large windows out to the blue-black night. Beneath her: the spread of his bed, those sheets that smell like him, that lighter summer comforter in its dark, earth-toned cover.

Calden comes back to her near the finish. He comes back down, and he wraps her in those heavy arms. He holds her close, almost closer than either of them can bear, and where every other time he's accelerated, he's hit her harder and faster, rougher,

this time is different. He slows. There's something so deliberate about it. Deep and slow and sure and firm, gasping on every entry, groaning past her ear as he slides into her. His hands grasp at her back; one fits beneath the curve of her spine, pulls her up against him, seals their bodies that much more perfectly. He kisses her neck at the end of his stroke. He grinds into her. He pulls her mouth to his shoulder as he feels her starting to shudder, and he moves into her again. Just like that. Again and again, adoring, patient, primordial.

Avery Chase

There's something different this time. And not just different from 'usual', where they're sordid and nigh unto pornographic with each other. It's even different from that night at her place, after she was torn apart inside trying to starve her desire to be alone so she could feed her desire to be near him, when she slipped over him and whispered in his ear that she was wet for him, she wanted him, and made love to him.

That's what it was. That's what this is. Her legs to either side of him hold him but not tightly; she wants to feel him move. She wants him to keep kissing her and no, she doesn't let him linger long at her breasts. She pulls him up and hooks her arms under his arms, holding him close, but yes, yes, still free to move, over her, in her, til she forgets her name and her tribe and his name and everything beyond the simple and vital thing that they are doing with their bodies.

It's everything to her then. Even the firelight, and the smell of that fire, are a part of it. She moans and he does not shush her; she arches and holds him tighter between her thighs, holds him tighter inside, and he gasps, arching his own back to fit himself a little deeper in her, to answer that pull with surrender, with seeking, with something. Sooner or later her mouth opens, panting softly, unuttered words drowning in that breathlessness, lost in that ever-increasing rhythm between them.

Avery feels too hot to the touch. She lets him hold her but she sprawls her arms upward, outward, her legs open to either side of him. Her fingers grasp at the covers, rucking them up into her palms, creating piles to hold onto, to transmute some of her energy from heart to shoulders to arms to hands. When he slows, she groans, loud as she has this entire night, loud enough to carry, but just that once. She didn't think this was what she wanted, just then, but he draws it out. He drags himself from her and then slides into her again, making her clutch at him right at the very edge of her orgasm, making her buck under him, making her sweat. When Calden's hand slides to her lower back she's coming already, slow and long and torturous, and when he gives himself over, staying where he is and grinding that way into her, hard into her, she lets out a gasping, blasphemous,

oh,god,fuck!

as her legs close around him, wrap around him, hold onto him even if her arms can't bear to. She links her ankles over his flank, moaning low and soft and honey-sweet, grinding back against him, working her orgasm out onto him, under him, biting her lower lip between her teeth when she remembers shh, shh, she's in someone else's house.

Calden White

She's in someone else's house. And not just a random someone, but Calden White: gentleman, cowboy, barbarian. And not just in his house, but upstairs, on that floor only he ever goes to. In his room. In his bed, with her limbs wrapped all around him, breathing in moans and blasphemies.

She crests. Like that. And there's a moment where he wants to hold back. Where he wants to make this about her, only her; focus on her, give her that pleasure, that climax, that orgasm. It doesn't last, that moment. It's something about the way she clutches at him. Something about the invocation she looses past his ear, god and fuck elevated to the same level; something about the way her legs

close around him. Pull him in, and pull him close, and pull him deep until his hand flattens against the mattress -- as though he could, like this, brace against the havoc in his body.

This time he bites her. This time it's his teeth, his flat human teeth that cannot become dagger-sharp, that press into her skin at the crest of his orgasm. He seizes her gently but firmly; he holds her like that, moaning against her shoulder, moving into her as she works her own pleasure out on him. It seems to go on forever, a sustained shockwave that keeps echoing through him, coming through again every time she squeezes him inside, every time she rolls her hips, every time he pushes into her.

And then she's biting her lip. Hushing herself. And he's laughing, laughing soft and low and breathless even as those last sweet clenches of her cunt threaten to drive him entirely out of his mind. Laughing not at her but out of some simple and pure joy as she quiets; as he relaxes.

She goes boneless. He collapses over her. His chest heaves against hers; his sides move, a trickle of sweat traces down the dip of his spine. He rolls his brow against hers, panting. Kisses her, then. Kisses her softly and tenderly; very gently indeed, even though every slide, every squeeze, every shift makes him gasp. Makes him moan. It goes on a long time. His tongue traces the seam of her lips; he sucks at that so-recently bitten lower lip of hers. He kisses her beneath her lips, too, and in the subtle indent of her philtrum. He kisses her until

gradually

her breathing evens out. Her heart stops pounding inside her chest, in the bracket of his arms, against his hands pressed against her back and his chest pressed against hers. His heart slows from its gallop. Becomes a deep rhythm in his arteries, a drumbeat all its own.

Avery Chase

He drew her mouth to his shoulder when she started to come. It was as though he was urging her, please, use her teeth, bite him, mark him somehow. And she wanted to. The instinct to bite him, nip at him, subtly dominant and subtly claiming and not-at-all-subtly erotic, is as strong in her as the instinct to lead, to stand, to speak truth. But right now, something else overcomes that instinct, that desire. She wants to see him. He's watching her, right when she crests, and she looks back at him, opens her eyes and holds his there as long as she can, until a new wave hits her, tips her head back, drags her under. She moans again, her thighs tightening to either side of him, her breath coming in ragged, needful pants of air.

So Calden uses his teeth, instead. He clutches at the bed beneath them and grasps her in his jaw, tattooing a groan in her flesh along with the mark of his bite. Avery sees stars, sees the heavens open, and for a moment, she thinks that her heart will give out. Then she remembers that she has felt that before; it was not like this.

Nothing is like this.

--

Avery whimpers. Calden laughs.

They are melted together, solidifying again only slowly, when the push of their breath outlines their ribs, delineates the space between them. Avery releases her lips, licks them. Her eyes are closed but she feels Calden's face next to hers, his brow to hers, his mouth seeking hers. She kisses him loosely at first, then softly. Then slowly, deeply, pausing to gasp for air every so often. Then her arms slowly unfurl from where they were grasping at the sheets. She tucks them in close, working herself more fully into the embrace of his chest and his framing arms, despite the heat, turning into his neck to rest her face there, panting against him.

For a long time her chest moves, taking deeper and steadier pulls of air. They hold each other: Calden with her in his arms, Avery with him in her legs. There is a crackling, hearty fire burning now in his hearth. There is water and meat and bread if they want it. But neither of them say a word. Not yet. Neither of them so much as move; not away from each other, at least.

Calden White

An age goes by like that. Their bodies together. Their faces close. Their breath mingling, their limbs wrapped around each other. An eon could go by like this, and Calden would be thoroughly content.

Still; at some point they have to move. Calden has to move -- has to roll off of her before he squishes her entirely. And he does: glacial, continent-slow, sliding, weighing into the bed, rolling her with him until the mattress carries his weight more than she does.

Doesn't mean they're far apart. Or even apart at all. They're still together, still close and all tangled up, face to face. His hand comes gently to her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin, tracing to the corner of her mouth. Then falls: strokes past her shoulder, down her arm. Lays his forearm, finally, over her waist -- heavy and warm, a gentle weight keeping her near to him.

"Don't go back tomorrow," he whispers. "Stay the weekend with me."

Avery Chase

Every so often, Calden's cock throbs inside of her. At first it makes her gasp and squirm faintly, which makes him pant raggedly and push into her a little more, even though it kills him to do so. Then she clenches and he gasps and it goes on like that, unbearable and irresistible. And then later, it only makes her drowsily sigh, happily, shifting gently beneath him. They gradually still entirely, even their breathing growing softer, softer, even and steady and light. Avery can feel his contentment wrapped around her like a blanket. She can feel him wrapped around her like a blanket. So she makes a soft noise, protesting, when he moves away, even though the first waft of new air fills her lungs more deeply, makes her feel more awake. Still: she sleepily, contentedly turns with him, lying on her side, her eyes looking at him for a moment then drifting closed.

Avery's eyes are blinded thus as he touches her, cupping her cheek and touching her with that rough, calloused thumb. Ropes, gloves, barn doors, meat -- these are things he touches, and often. He seldom feels anything under his hand as soft as she is. Even the velvety coat of one of his animals isn't like this. It isn't smooth like she is.

Her eyes slowly open again, and capture him looking at her.

What he says makes her laugh. Her eyes crinkle at the corners and she laughs, breathy and terribly amused. "There's a moot, you fool," she murmurs fondly. To punctuate her tone, rather than the words themselves, she leans over, arms tucked between their chests, kissing him tenderly. Her eyes sparkle where, just moments before, they were limpid with relaxation.

"And I really shouldn't come back after that, either," she whispers, tenderness morphing into gentleness. "It's... confusing."

Calden White

Moot. Oh yes. He'd forgotten entirely. She can see he's forgotten: the flash of amused chagrin that crosses his eyes. "I f--" he begins, but then: her mouth on his, and his relaxing into the kiss. "Mmm."

They come apart again, just enough to see each other. He smiles, though then -- she tells him she shouldn't come back after, either. Which he was just about to suggest. His smile falters just a little. His crest falls just a little. His arm still rests over her, though, and thoughtlessly he strokes the inside of his wrist over her waist, again and again, slowly, mesmerized by the very feel of her. Very few things in his life feel as soft, as fine, as she feels. Then again; very few things in his life are as potentially dangerous as she can be -- though sometimes, he suspects the danger is more to his heart than anything else. She's never, not for a moment, made him feel unsafe. Or lessened. Or forgotten. He's never for a moment thought she might.

"Confusing?" he whispers back. "I don't understand."

Avery Chase

Sometimes it seems that he can't keep his hands off of her for very long at all. He touches her with his hands but when those prove too insensitive to her softness, he switches to his inner wrist, his eyes flickering with the hypnotized fascination he seems to feel.

It makes her feel inexplicably tender toward him.

For a moment, Avery thinks he's playing dumb, trying to pretend for some reason or another that there's no reason at all why she might not want to stay, or come back, or spend too much time with him all at once. He has seen how much stock she puts into her own living space, at least the living space she's invited him to -- she didn't decorate it, she's going to move out of it in an eyeblink. But this is his home. This is his land, his home, his floor, his room, his bed, his arms, and she knows the primality of what he is doing here, sees it with an almost cool analysis even as it tugs at her: he is showing her how safe and warm his den is. He wants to show her how strong he is. He wants to feed her, and show her that he can feed her, and take care of her, and he's quite intent that she know how well he can please her with his mouth and his hands and his body. It is intriguingly erotic to her, touching some dark and animal place in her that responds almost involuntarily: yes, she thinks sometimes, lazily and sleepily, you would be a very fine mate, I can see that.

If Calden wanted to pretend he doesn't know why she might be confused by spending the weekend in his house, she would understand why. But though her brows stitch together for a second there, she doesn't think he's playing dumb or pretending. Maybe he just...

well. She doesn't know.

"Because," Avery says quietly, "of... what this is. And what it isn't. And what I am and am not prepared for." There's a beat of a pause, a small shake of her head. "And because I don't want to be careless with you, and cause you inadvertent harm."

Calden White

A faint little smile flickers across his mouth. There's not much mirth in it, really. "I thought it might have been something like that," he says. "I just wasn't sure what you meant by 'confusing' -- to me or to you, or... to both of us."

Calden draws a breath, then. It's slow, and it's steady, and it expands his chest against hers. It's his hand on her side again, the callouses on his palm scratching gently over her skin. He watches his hand's progress. He watches the shadows on her body change as she breathes, and after some time

he looks at her eyes again. Leans in; kisses that lovely, generous mouth of hers.

"I'm not confused about what we are," he whispers. "I'm not confused about where you are, either. But Avery, I'd be lying if I said this was just ... casual fun for me." His hand pauses a second. His brow furrows. "Please don't be frightened by that."

Avery Chase

Both of them. That's what she meant. And Avery nods a little at that. She's still so close to him, and that alone is saying something, when she is so quick to draw away from anything that makes her wary. She senses him leaning in; she welcomes that kiss that was presaged by his hand's touch on her naked side.

They part. Her eyes find his, hold them, the way they always do, commanding without even trying.

"I get confused about what we are," she answers, softly. "And where I am. And it does frighten me."

Her hand reaches out, gently touching his lower lip. She smiles at the way it feels against the pad of her thumb, flexible and pliant. It's an odd little smile for an odd little gesture. Then her eyes stop watching his mouth, her hand on his mouth, and move back to his gaze. Her smile dies a natural death, slow but sad.

"Spending one night with you doesn't make me want to run away," she tells him. "But a night and a day, another night... it starts to cause me unease. I do so enjoy your company, Calden," Avery adds, with that earnest assurance that seems to come from the depths of her heart, the words almost physical in the air with the gravity she gives them, "and you mustn't think otherwise. But I need to go quite slow. Slower even than that."

Calden White

Calden's mouth moves beneath her fingertips. He kisses the pads of her fingers, and then -- with a breath as deep as a sigh -- he wraps his arm around her, pulls her closer. Pulls her to rest on his chest as he rolls onto his back, exhaling.

And then he's quiet a while, thinking. He tucks his free hand behind his head, looking up at the exposed rafters that support the ceiling. It's too hot in this room for covers. He should get up, he should turn the gas off, at least. Let the wood burn down by itself. Maybe crack a window open... pour some water. He doesn't move, though.

"When this started," he says quietly, "you didn't want to push me too fast, so you let me call you when I wanted, and never the other way around. Should we turn that around now? Would it be easier if I wait for you to call me, or at least wait for you to tell me if and when you want to come home with me, and how long you want to stay if you do?"

Avery Chase

As he rolls onto his back, they slide apart. Avery sighs quietly at the departure as she lays on her side and rests her head on his chest. One arm unfolds and drapes over his ribs, splayed loose in deference to the heat that surrounds them, and builds between them. Calden doesn't answer for a bit, and she is grateful for it, closing her eyes and curling against him as her body slowly remembers itself as a separate entity. It feels comforting, strengthening, solidifying. She strokes his side, just at the edge of ticklish.

Avery smiles, and huffs a soft laugh. He isn't teasing, and she knows it, but she nuzzles his side and shakes her head a bit. "That wasn't because I didn't want to push you too fast. That was because I didn't want to be rejected." Aha. An admission. She opens her eyes again and props herself up on her elbow, hand in her hair, more serious. "And because I didn't want you to be afraid to say no. Even for a moment. I didn't want you to feel hunted."

Her leg lies over his leg, their thighs together. She breathes in, deep, and exhales slowly, moving her hand against him again, stroking his side, reveling in the skin, the muscle, the way he is fitted together. "I don't want to change anything, Calden," she murmurs, and lowers her face closer to his, breathing in his smell, resting her nose and her lips against the line of his jaw. "I just don't want to dishearten you when I tell you that I don't want to stay for a whole weekend." Those lips, brushing his skin as she talks, press a small kiss there instead. She lays back down, resettling herself against his shoulder, his chest, his arm. "And I don't want to rush myself. Even if I'm tempted to."

Calden White

An admission. He registers it, and his lips mouth silently and fleetingly -- a smile that skates across and is gone. Her hand strokes his side. He smiles again a second later, but this time it's because it tickles. His hand traps hers. "Tickles," he whispers.

He lets her go after a moment. And she moves again, but this time her hand strokes more slowly, more heavily. She feels out the muscle and bone, the logic of how he is put together. She tells him what she doesn't want, and what she sort-of-wants but shouldn't be tempted by. His hand follows her arm up to her bicep; strokes her there, thoughtfully, his eyes closing as she kisses the yet-again unshaven angle of his jaw.

"I want you to know," he murmurs, "I've never felt hunted or frightened or pushed by you. Not even when I met you. It was just gut instinct then, but everything I've seen of you tells me I can trust you.

"That's not ... really related to anything we're talking about," he adds, a touch sheepish. "But I wanted you to know."

They resettle. She resettles, and he resettles around her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and thinking of the night at Ziggie's; the drink he got her; the way she laughed and held onto his wrist and told him no, no, don't be silly. Sit next to me. Put your arms around my shoulders.

"You don't make me feel disheartened or rejected, either," he adds. "You explained, and I understand. It's all right, Avery." A small pause. "Does it make you feel rushed when I ask you things like that, though? Like staying the weekend?"

Avery Chase

She smiles because she's tickling him, whispers a soft sorry, and her hand gently stills under his. Yes, when she moves her hand again, it's slower, heavier, more deeply explorative. They are still wrapped around each other even if they are not entwined together, joined together. They go on touching each other, as though neither is yet entirely sure the other is real. He tells her what he knows about her, or thinks he knows, or at least believes. That she would not hunt him, frighten him, push him, hurt him. He can trust her.

Avery is watching his eyes when he says that. She only smiles when he looks sheepish.

"Okay," she says, at the end. When he says it's all right. He understands, and she doesn't make him feel disheartened, rejected -- what she means is pushed away. Then he asks her another question, a new one. Avery thinks for a moment, then shrugs, and then shakes her head. "I'm not sure. It does, but I don't think it should."

Calden White

"I don't know if you've noticed, but our emotions don't really seem listen to 'shoulds' and 'shouldn'ts'," Calden notes wryly. "For one, I don't think a humble hardworking Son of Stag should be quite so enchanted by a high-flying Daughter of Falcon."

The humor abates. He kisses her where he can reach her: her temple, her hair, her mouth if she gives it to him. "If it made you feel rushed, I'll be mindful of that."

Avery Chase

Mindful. That's the right word for it. Aware, though not ruled by. To bear things in mind as choices are made. She sighs, and smiles, and gives a little nod to him, then simply nuzzles closer. And he lays those kisses soft on her hair and her face and she listens to the fire crackling, that unnecessary, ridiculous fire in the heat of summer.

For a long time, that's all she wants: to lay there, drowsy and draped alongside him, until the desire for water and the urge to snack start rising up in both of them. That's when Avery takes that pastel-orange short silk robe out of her overnight back and wraps it around her body, tying it off at the waist, shaking her hair off her shoulders. They can open the windows, turn off the gas, let the dark night air flow through the room while they eat by the fire. She sits with her bare legs draped over his lap, neatly eating from the platter of meats and cheeses, sipping cool water poured into her glass from a carafe.

They talk about the party they just came from. She tells him a bit about her house and its history, that it used to be stables, laughs when he doesn't remember much of being in there, tells him that he was a surprisingly good guest, for being that ridiculously drunk. She does, however, ask him eventually:

"Is there... some chance that I'll be introduced to your father tomorrow?"

Calden White

Calden does, in fact, bank the fire while Avery gets her robe out of her overnight bag. And of course she'd have a robe: a short silk one at that, and a shade of orange that reminds him of the Sunshine. The non-beer sort.

He's smiling at her from where he kneels by the fire. If she asks him why, he'll tell her: because the robe reminds him of the drink. And because he loves the way she looks. He loves her body, he loves her hair, he loves the effortless way she shakes her hair back, he loves -- a little ridiculously -- the shape of her shoulders and the strength in her thighs. He loves, he loves, he loves.

They have meat and cheese and bread and water. They have a fire that now has the gas off; nothing but the pop and crackle of logs that he's shifted around a little so they burn a little lower, a little slower. The windows are open, and the night outside is cool now. The breeze is a welcome thing. He leans against the wall, and she drapes her legs over his lap. He rubs her shins gently, drinking more than he eats, listening about the history of her house. It used to house horses. She wants to know if she'll meet his father,

and his smile fades a little. That relationship is strained.

"Do you want to?" he asks her quietly.

Avery Chase

It's a common assumption of those who have pleasant relationships with their parents or siblings that everyone has that sort of relationship, or that strain in those relationships is easily fixed by everyone remembering that they're family, and family matters and love and so on. It's common for them to be a little bewildered by those who might not want to introduce someone they are rapidly having Deep Feelings for to their parents, who might not even want their parents to talk to those people.

Avery has no earthly idea that Calden has any struggles at all with his father. She looks a little confused when he asks her if she wants to, her lips parting a bit, her lashes giving a slow blink.

"I only want to be prepared in case I do," she answers delicately. "For example, I don't even recall if your mother and he are divorced or if she's passed." Her tone is gentle; her eyebrows tug together. "Would you rather I not?"

Calden White

Calden's smile looks a little pained. He takes a sip of water, and then he sets the glass carefully aside -- off the rug, on the hardwood.

"My mother died a little over a decade ago." Perhaps it says something that this seems to be the easiest thing to start in on. "My dad ... can't seem to find anything but fault in anything he sees. The neighbors repaired the fence? He's mad that they shifted into our side this time to go around a rock. My cousin Paul makes dinner? He complains that it's too salty. Or not salty enough. Or he hates lettuce or he likes cabbage or ... there's just always something. It's usually small, but it adds up. And since he sees me more than just about anything else, I hear it more than anyone else."

Calden shrugs. For his part, he hasn't put anything on. Not a robe, not a towel, not even a sheet from the bed. Then again, this is his room, in his house, and well out of the view of anyone who wouldn't be expected to see him like this. If he wants to prowl around naked, there really isn't a lot stopping him.

"I don't mind if you meet my dad. I'm a little worried he'll take a shot at you, and then I'll defend your honor and then ... well, god knows what'll come out of his mouth then. You might just have a front row seat to a good old fashioned White Family Shouting Match.

"He probably won't though." Calden's looking across the room, his eyes flickering, his brow knit; thinking. "I don't know. You might run into him in the morning. He usually just putters around in his room these days, but he's nosy as all hell too. So who knows. If you see him, just ... just charm him or something. Pretend you didn't hear from me what a jerk he can be. And if he does start being a jerk, just... just walk away and let us have a shouting match. That's how it usually goes."

Avery Chase

Her brows tug together, as they often do -- that is the way she frowns, brief and beautiful as it is -- when he says his mother died a little over a decade ago. She wants to tell him that this winter her family will be remembering the ten-year anniversary of her mother's death. She wants to tell him that if nothing else, she understands this about him, they share this, but

Avery does not want to interrupt. Or intrude.

Her mouth twists a bit as he describes his father's habit of biting into everything around him, little nips. Shallow cuts still sting. Enough of them still wound. But she scoffs lightly when he talks of his father taking a shot at her and Calden defending her honor. Even Calden admits that his father probably won't. He's not looking at her; he's looking at something else, thinking of someone else, the maybes and what-ifs. She quirks her lips at the he's nosy as hell.

Just charm him. Pretend she hasn't heard he can be a jerk. Avery outright laughs at Calden's advice. "Oh, darling," she murmurs, leaning over, folding forward and touching his face. "Would you think I'd do anything else?" She kisses his cheek. "I would never think of treating him disrespectfully due to hearsay. Or intruding upon a family argument. Though it may please you to know that if he were to 'take a shot' at me, he would not be the first. I can handle myself."

Calden White

Calden's eyes come to Avery, then. There's no green in firelight, and so there's no green in his eyes either. There's still a furrow in his forehead, though. She leans into him, and his arm comes easily, naturally around her waist, around her back. He leans into her, too: leans into that touch, that kiss, like it comforts him.

Still. When she draws back, that frown.

"I know you can handle yourself," he says quietly. "The truth is part of me is more worried that you'll hurt him. Not that I expect you to throw a seventy-five-year-old man across the room," a faint huff, "but -- I don't doubt that if you wanted to, if he really got out of line, you could cut him down to size with a handful of words.

"And maybe he needs just that. But I'd still rather it didn't come from you the very first time you meet him. So if he decides to be an ass, I'd rather draw his fire and keep the peace in the larger sense."

Avery Chase

Avery gives a soft shake of her head. "No, Calden," she murmurs. "I think you misunderstood me. I would never treat him with disrespect at our first meeting, whatever he said to me. Or argue with him in your place. When I said I could handle myself, I only meant that he can do very little damage to my mood with his words, and no damage at all to my honor."

Her hand on his face turns, the backs of her fingers resting on his cheek. "Whatever else, he is your father, and he is not my kin. It is neither my duty nor my right to put him in his place, and he has no power to put me in mine, whatever he says. You mustn't worry about me."

She smiles.

Calden White

The frown eases, then. Calden returns that smile; turns his head to kiss the backs of her fingers.

"I did misunderstand," he says quietly, "and I think I owe you an apology for thinking you more petty than you are. Not that I thought you were petty, but ... well; you understand what I'm trying to say, I think.

"Thank you," he adds. "I'll feel a lot better if and when the two of you meet."

Avery Chase

She laughs softly at his apology. At times, they can both be so polite, so careful with their etiquette. She's amused by it, and by him. She nods when he says she understands him, and kisses him softly but lingeringly, tasting the saltiness of the meat and cheese on his tongue for a brief moment before she draws back. Her eyes sparkle. Even in the firelight, which has no silver, no blue, they gleam with an inner light granted to her by the sky and the moon, as though she carries daylight and starlight both with her, even in the dark.

He thanks her, and she shakes her head. No need, her lips say, though little sound carries through it. She kisses him again, and again, going nowhere in particular. Until he folds his arm a little tighter behind her lower back, until he moves her onto his lap with a whispered utterance of encouragement, Here or the like. Her kisses grow more heated, and his hands slide up under the hem of her robe; she groans quietly when he squeezes her ass in his palms.

Avery draws back from his mouth and watches him as she reaches down between them, wrapping her hand around him. She watches his eyes as they flicker and dance and furrow and close with each stroke, her other hand braced on the wall beside his head. She goes achingly, torturously slow at first. Her cadence matches his breathing soon, quickening, til his mouth reaches for hers, loose and unfocused but wanting, wanting. Calden rolls her onto her back with a soft groan, rolls atop her, pawing at the tie of her robe til it opens to either side of her, baring her. He takes her breast in his mouth, as much of her as he can, suckling and licking hungrily, eagerly. His cock slides against her inner thigh with steady, mindless flexes of his hips; the sensation makes her shiver.

Her nipple is wet and the air in the room cools it when Calden drags his mouth to her other breast, moaning around her where she fills his mouth. Avery squirms, her hands on his back, keeping him near. He works his way down. She tips her head back the first time he licks her, heavy and wet and ravenous, pressing his tongue to her clit until she starts gasping, letting out whimpering moans and rubbing herself thoughtlessly on his tongue. He makes her come like that, panting on the floor, a throw pillow grabbed and put under her hips halfway through, his hands on her thighs, his tongue fluttering at her until she makes a noise that is very, very nearly a squeak, a stifled shriek as she bites her knuckle and grabs his hair and bucks against his mouth over, and over, and over

until she can't anymore. Until she lowers back down, her back losing its arch, settling back down. He kisses his way back up her torso, soft and soothing, muttering something about her tits, god, those tits. When his cock brushes against her, liquid electricity ripples through Avery's body from that point of contact. She moans, arching again, rubbing softly against him though it tortures her to do so. He nips at her lip, her earlobe, whispers with a heated playfulness in her ear:

may I come in you? may I come in that sweet pussy, Ms. Chase?

and the words alone make her clench against him, groaning aloud, loud as she ever has in his home, panting. She's unable to say a goddamn word; she starts whimpering as she slides herself against him, over and over, animalistically eager.

All the same, he's careful when he enters her. He watches her as he fits himself into her, though every scrap of his control is being eroded by that sweet, long clench of her body as he lets himself sink into her. He doesn't want to be reckless or careless with her. He wants to show her it can be like this. They can still play. They can tease. Even if it drives him out of her mind and even if she is rather out of control herself at the moment.

She doesn't expect to come again. She does, so hot on the heels of her first orgasm that it makes her grab at his back, clutching at his skin with her nails, drowning a moan in his mouth when he kisses her. He's coming pantingly, raggedly with her in seconds after that, grabbing uselessly at the floor, held in her legs, losing himself in her, being found there moments later, still intact. Avery is shuddering, sweat shining on her skin, her cheeks pink from remaining arousal.

Later, they manage to slip that robe off her shoulders. Later, they kiss and touch each other like animals grooming one another, touching for the sole sake of touch. He eases the orange silk to the ground and leaves it in a puddle there as the fire burns itself out, lifting her up onto his body to carry her to his bathroom. They wash lazily, in the end, without much care for thoroughness, and by the time they return to his room the fire is out and the open windows have let in a great deal of cool night air. It feels perfect. This time they get under the covers. She snuggles to his side -- yes, snuggles, no sense in hiding behind some other word for it -- and smiles in the dark, laying herself out as she did earlier, her arm over his chest, her head on his shoulder, her leg over his leg.