Calden does, in fact, puzzle over her dress for a while. He can't find the zipper, if there is one. He tugs a few times at the tie but isn't sure if it's just decorative. That's all right, though. There's something playful about the way he bats at her clothing, anyway, as though he were an animal himself, and she was wearing his toy.
His eyes come back to hers as her hands finish their exploration. Something about the lift of her eyes hits him deep and low, has him leaning down to kiss her slow and full on the mouth. "Mmm," he murmurs, an agreeable sort of sound. "Let's do that."
As they're leaving her kitchen, he picks up that scrap of meat after all. He shares it with her -- tearing half off with his teeth, passing the rest to her. His free hand finds hers, his fingers threading through hers. He remembers where her bedroom is.
Avery ChaseAvery watches Calden's hand batting at the loops of the dress's tie, his motions not unlike a curious housecat's. She lifts an eyebrow at him, amused and patient, and
then he's kissing her, agreeing with her. Yes. Bed. That sounds good. She grins against his mouth and steps back, laughing at his tearing of meat with his teeth. "Barbarian," she chides him, then nips the shred from his fingertips. They leave the open bottle of wine, the resting steak, the half-shredded steak, the untouched beans. They'll keep. Til later, at least, when they wander back, hungry and perhaps naked.
The apartment is quiet, and gives the indication of the outside world being just as quiet. It's a weekend night, and one would think they should be out in it -- dancing, drinking, seeing some ridiculous comedy drag show at the Clocktower, having a fine meal somewhere. But though Calden likes to enjoy the city a bit when he visits every couple of weeks, he is the one who suggested they stay in. Eat his steaks. Fuck.
Avery doesn't mind that they aren't going out. She has two weeks in between visits from this appealing older gentleman and one imagines she finds plenty to occupy her in those times. She walks him down the hardwood floors, past a few thick, artful runners, back to her bedroom where she shoved him down and sucked him off. They don't stop at the chaise this time, though. She walks with him, fingers laced, over to that sapphire-and-cream four-poster of hers, turning her back to it when they reach the foot. The covers touch her calves, and her hands release his and go to her own waist.
That tie is not decorative. It's just well-knotted, but her fingers are deft. She looks at him while she unties it, wordless, til the silk shape of the dress collapses upon its unfolding. Avery unwraps it, slips the straps from her shoulders, and drops it to the floor. Perhaps it says something about her that she knows the impact of heels and lingerie and earrings and bracelet and necklace without anything else, even if she couldn't explain why that impact exists. But she knows. That lingerie is familiar, though not identical, to what she wore under her gold dress the last time he saw her. Her panties are seamless, pearl-white, and transparent. Her bra is strapless, seamless, low-cut in front, and she reaches behind herself with at least one gold-bangled wrist to unfasten its hooks first. The bra drops between their feet, on top of their feet, without ceremony, as she reaches for him and wraps her arms around him and kisses him again.
Calden WhiteWhen she turns, she finds him looking at her bed, something like amusement sketched on his face. Not that he doesn't understand the appeal of an enormous, classical bed -- he sleeps in one himself. But it's something about the luxuriousness of the bedding, the fabrics. The colors. Cream and sapphire blue. He wonders if there's a fleur-de-lis embroidered onto each pillowcase.
His eyes shift to her, though, when she turns at the foot of the bed. And he looks at her, his Silver Fang lover. He realizes she's never told him her tribe. She didn't have to. It was obvious, self-evident; there in every word, every gesture, the way she holds herself. The angle of her chin. He thinks maybe he gets why she likes thinking of him as the filthy, rough, unwashed, cowherding barbarian. Of course he gets it: he likes the idea of being here,
in her fancy boudoir,
trysting with a queen.
The tie is not decorative after all. Some errant humor sparks in his eyes, makes him look up and smile into her eyes. The straps slip from her shoulders -- but he catches them, deftly, each hooked over two fingers. And by then her dress has fallen open, and he breathes in unconsciously to see her like that, but
it doesn't drop to the floor. He lowers it, carefully and delicately, while she unthreads her arms and reaches behind herself. Calden drops the dress at last, letting it pool around her feet. He steps forward, the span of his shoulders swaying closer to shadow her. Her bra comes loose. He fills his hands with her breasts almost at once, something intense and dark in his eyes; he stares at her like he might like to eat her up. And he plays with those breasts of hers, though that's not the right verb: he caresses those breasts of hers, he strokes them, lifts them gently in his palms, steps into her as his arms go around behind her
and hers lift around his shoulders, his neck,
and she can feel him pant softly into that kiss as their bodies come together, her skin so soft and her nudity so intoxicating where he can feel her skin-to-skin. His arms squeeze her close for a moment. He's solid against her, unyielding flesh and bone, warm. Then he reaches up to peel his shirt from his shoulders; lets it fall to the floor where it joins her dress. And then his pants, a moment later, the button undone and the zipper unzipped, the weight of the denim dragging it down. He pushes her ahead of him, backwards onto and then up the mattress, as he climbs onto the bed. She's still wearing her jewelry. He's still wearing his boxers, which is a paltry barrier between them as he settles atop her and between her thighs, his big hands scooping under her back to lift her breasts to his mouth for their due adoration.
And a little later: those hands lifting her hips, instead, pulling her solidly against him as he moves up her body. Presses against her cunt. Kisses her neck, whispers in her ear:
"How do you want it this time, Miss Chase?"
Avery ChaseThere's not a fleur-de-lis to be seen anywhere on or around Avery's bed. Nor on her jewelry. She has never even considered the possibility that he might know anything about the various houses and clans of Silver Fangs, nor given much thought to making sure he knows that he's fucking one. She told him her full name, including the name she's known by to the garou, and that was more than enough to tip his guesses over the edge. He's going to bed with a queen, or at least a highborn lady, who in another life would have been utterly untouchable to him. She wouldn't have even given him a favor at a tournament.
And now she's nearly naked, pressed against him while he fills his hands with her breasts and kisses her mouth, pants into her mouth. She tips her hips closer to him, rubbing fabric as thin and soft as spider-silk against his crotch, purring softly at the roughness of his jeans and the firmness of his torso.
"Lover," she mutters, like a curse, and like a name, and bends her back.
He strips for her. She opens her eyes again to watch him, stare at him, instantly reaching her hand between them to rub her palm against him through his underwear. "Don't stop," she whispers, if he so much as pauses in his undressing. She just strokes him faster through the cotton, panting softly herself. "Don't you d--"
Calden is on top of her. Lifting her, pushing her back, arm under her spine to lift and drag her up the bed, crawling over her. Her heels are slipped off, thumping to the ground behind them, and she thinks briefly of her earrings growing tangled in her hair but decides she'll live. She can feel him, firm and heated between her legs, suckling her breasts.
Her head is tipped back, her eyes closing in bliss. He wants to know how she wants it. And perhaps it means something that instantly, she groans soft in her throat and tells him. No hesitation. No waffling. No worrying that --
"I want you to take off my jewelry," she murmurs, arching her back as he grinds against her. "And --" Avery pauses, licking her lips, sighing out: "I want you to peel my panties down my legs. And when I'm naked, I want you to take those things off --"
she means his boxers, of course,
"and get between my sheets. I want you to fuck me as quietly as you can. Firmly. I want you to make me squirm, and gasp, and need to bite down on something to keep from screaming when I come. I want you to ask permission to come inside of me."
Her eyes are still closed. The mere description of what she wants, so very detailed, so very erotic, has her toes curling. Has her pussy wet, soaking through those already-transparent panties of hers.
Calden WhiteHer jewelry, she says. Take it off. And something flashes in his eyes, something hot and wild; the same sort of inexplicable arousal that she felt when she watched him unclasp his watch last time.
That watch is still on his wrist this time, heavy, glinting mutedly in what light there is. And he's kissing her, moving over her like an animal, like some great beast, nibbling and kissing and biting his way over her jawline, her neck. While she tells him how and when she wants him to take her panties off, he's kissing her over her heart -- her necklace a metallic press against his lips. While she's telling him
exactly when and how she wants him to fuck her,
he's taking her nipple into his mouth, holding it ever so delicately between his teeth as he tongues it. Ask permission, she says, and his eyes flash up to hers; he laughs or he growls or he does both at once, and then
he presses palms to the mattress, pulls himself slidingly over her like some sea-creature cresting on land; some merman or selkie out of Fiann myth. His hand goes to her hair, plunges in, cups the back of her head. And he kisses her. And it's slow and drenching and -- a little ferocious. A little savage.
When it ends he looks at her for a while. His lips are moist; his eyes glimmer in the dark. He kisses her a second time, softer this time. And then he shifts his weight to his elbows, raising up a little, finding her hand and bringing it over her chest, between them. He holds her forearm cradled in one hand as he works her bangles off with the other. One at a time, systematically, but quite gently: careful not to scrape her skin or bruise her joints. One by one they thump onto the sheets. Clink a little against each other. Her rings then, if she's wearing any: collecting them first in his palm, then pouring them into the center of that little stack of bangles.
When her hands are denuded, he kisses her knuckles. There's always something a little like laughter in his eyes when he does such a thing, as though he sees the absurdity in such a chivalrous gesture
-- when they do such things together --
and as though he sees, too, the echo to an earlier time. Earlier ways, earlier centuries, earlier days when such a kiss was not a romantic gesture but one of fealty and devotion; one that would have been his duty and her due as vassal and overlord.
He lets her hand slip from his grasp, then. And now her earrings: a delicate task. He tilts her head to the side with his fingertips, he kisses that flash of muscle in her neck; he unpins the back of the earring and slides the post carefully, carefully out of her flesh. There's a shiver that goes up his back; something about the sight of some part of her impaled on cold metal sits ill with him, makes him think of all the terrible things that could befall her between one of these weekend trysts and the next. And also: the things we do for beauty, he thinks, and leans down to kiss her earlobe, lick it gently as though to heal it.
Her necklace, last. He unclasps it by touch, looking at her face. Those eyes of hers, somehow feral in their largeness and clarity. That soft mouth. He kisses her when the chain comes loose, and then
he dips down, pulls it off her neck with his teeth, lets it pool in his hand along with her collected earrings as he pushes up to kneel on the bed.
They're set aside. All of it: the adornments she wore on her ears, her hands, her neck, her fingers. He sits back on his heels, lifting her legs over his shoulders, and
there's something a little conspiratorial in his smile again, a little playful and a little pleased. That he's the one undressing her like this. That he's the one she's chosen to let into her bed
and into her body.
Her panties come off. They come up and up and up and off, tossed off the end of the bed. And he pushes his boxers down after, rising up on his knees while she's lowering her legs. Perhaps they part. Perhaps she opens her legs around him, and if she does she can see him looking at her, his eyes tracing down the center of her body to fix, and fixate, on that sweet pussy he's about to fuck. He licks his lips; doesn't even seem aware of it. When he gets his underwear off he gives himself a stroke, shifts his weight forward --for a moment she can feel him there, nudging against the opening of her cunt, teasing her or teasing himself or just forgetting that he's supposed to be under the covers with her.
Calden doesn't forget, though. He takes a breath. He settles back again, his hand replacing his cock for a moment, his thumb drawing heavily across her lips. He spreads her gently, rubs that slick around; looks at her face as he does this, wanting her so badly that the next few beats of his heart make him dizzy.
And then he's tugging the covers down from where they're tucked, laying open the sheets, wrapping his arms under her to help her lift off the comforter, get under the covers. The movement comes suddenly, big broad motions, efficient. He comes down over her. Between the sheets, which carry her scent. She can feel his hands on her body, rubbing all over her like he has a right to her waist, her belly, her breasts, her ass. She can feel him turning her, urging her onto her stomach, dragging a pillow down to stuff under her hips; preparing her, frankly, to be mounted. His chest against her back, rough against her smoothness; his teeth at her shoulder, scraping, then kissing her. He presses gently on her lower back to raise her hips, and this time
when she feels him between her legs, against her cunt,
he doesn't draw away. He fits himself to her and enters her, slowly, slowly, stretching her gradually and relentlessly; firmly; moving into her until he fills her completely. He lets out a caught breath. He reaches under her, strokes past those quivering inner lips of hers to find her clit -- bites her gently when he has her, the side of her neck, rubbing her ever so slowly as he
starts
nailing her. These slow, deep, firm thrusts, the motion rolling down his spine and pivoting at his hip. His mouth is by her ear. There's a groan under his words:
"Is this how you wanted it?"Avery Chase
Avery has never been uncertain. When she was a child she declared that her favorite colors were blue and white and gold. She was an only child then, with no hint of a little brother on the horizon, and no one to argue with her that gold isn't a color.
yes it is!
nuh-uh.
Her favorite flowers were pink peonies. Her favorite horse was Whiskey, who used to be named Amber Shot and used to be raced til Father bought him. She had very strong opinions on the books she was read at bedtime: some were insisted upon, others were to be removed from the rotation entirely.
She got older and she knew, when scarcely pubescent, that she was going to be a lawyer, because Father and Mother's lawyer was a very capable -- Avery was fond of the word 'capable' as a compliment at the time -- man named Arthur who explained the practice of law to her as the work of someone who studied a great deal in order to assist fine people such as her parents in protecting themselves, but that it was not something that could merely be done by rote or memorization. The world of law, if not the word of law, was always changing, he told her, and one must always be learning new things and staying up to date on new cases and learning how to interpret things in new ways. He told her she had a keen mind and backbone, and that yes, these were excellent qualities in a lawyer -- any type of lawyer she might want to become.
By then she had a little brother, and she informed him while he drooled on his blocks that since she was going to become a lawyer, he was going to have to pick something else. Her favorite colors were still blue and white and gold. Her favorite flowers were still pink peonies. Whiskey was still her favorite horse, and she rode him as often as she could.
Avery has always had an inner serenity about her own decisions, a certainty of iron. She has faith in herself. When she is asked what she believes and why, she has a response. When she is asked for her opinion, she has one. When she allows a kinsman to invite himself into her apartment, there's no question that the decision is hers. When she tells him what will be expected of him, she isn't teasing. When she is asked how do you want it this time, she has an answer, and she means it.
--
Calden holds her nipple in his teeth, terribly close and terrible gentle with his tongue, making her pant her last few words. Her teeth set into her lower lip, hugging it while he groan-laughs on her breast. She's laid out so beautifully on top of that beautiful bed in this beautiful room, this beautiful condo, this beautiful city. She shines. Her head is turning when she feels him take his hands off of her, his head lifting from her nipple. Avery opens her eyes and watches him as he lifts himself over her, coming onto her like a tide engulfing the shore.
The way he kisses her is rough. She gasps softly at it, eyes closing again as her head lifts toward his mouth. She slips her arms around his neck and rakes her fingernails softly, lightly, up his neck and scalp, through his much shorter and darker hair. That kiss is not like the shore and the tide. It's like a storm held within the sea itself, deep in the trenches, where there is no light, no wind, only currents that would destroy fragile air-breathing creatures less powerful than themselves.
Of course he looks at her after that for a while. Of course his eyes are glimmering, watching her dusky-gold lashes lift to reveal those blue and silver eyes of hers again, staring at him again. He kisses her again, softer, and she knows why. Her eyes stay open this time, her lashes brushing his cheek as her head tilts to accept that kiss. They go on kissing for a while, slow and soft, while he removes the first bangle or two. There aren't many; Avery is never gauche. Avery is balanced, and so is her jewelry. She watches his hand when they finally stop kissing for a moment, smiling as he removes bracelets. No rings this evening.
Calden, nearly naked beside her, kisses her knuckles. Avery flicks an eyebrow up at him, smirking faintly, archly, as though there's nothing at all to find amusing about such a gesture. It is his duty. It is her due. As his mouth leaves, she uncurls a finger and strokes it against his lower lip. She wants to say something, but doesn't know what right now. So she keeps silent, smiling, while he tips her chin. Avery goes willingly, breathing in through her lips. This is delicate work, even more delicate than licking her clit or biting softly on her nipple. If he isn't careful he could hurt, stab, tear. He is very careful. She is panting, silently, her breasts moving with the cadence of her breath.
A shiver runs through her when he follows that careful touch with his tongue. Together they tilt her chin the other way; he repeats the gesture, just as tenderly. Absentmindedly, her leg slides up the outside of his own, stroking smooth against his roughness, his hair. Slides down again. His hands reach behind her neck and she lifts her head eversoslightly to aid in those big fingers of his finding the clasp and managing to undo it. Thankfully her necklace is not so fine, so delicate, that just touching it makes him think he might break it. She is watching him, watching his eyes, accepting yet another kiss when the clasp comes loose an the gold melts against her clavicles.
There's an intake of breath when he takes the necklace in his teeth and draws it off of her. Her breasts lift. Countless times now she's bared her stomach to him, bared her throat, both terribly vulnerable places on her body -- even when she's in her other forms. Countless times, he's done her no harm. He hasn't even left a mark where he's suckled or nibbled at her, except for the fleeting redness she exhibits when his mouth leaves her. But something about his teeth pulling that necklace off makes her pulse race, somewhere between excitement and the limit where that excitement becomes something else. It makes her skin feel like every nerve ending is awakened.
"Fuck," she whispers, trembling slightly as he takes all her jewelry and sets it on the nightstand. He sits up, perhaps smirkng now, and starts to swing her legs up to his chest. Avery laughs. "No," she says, smirking at him instead and lowering her legs. She nods at the foot of the bed. "Drag them down. I want to feel your breath on my thighs."
She almost tells him I want to see you at my feet. She thinks better of it. Truth be told, after only 3 meetings, she's not sure if that would be pushing him too far, playing this game too literally. And yet: the though of him there, kissing her ankles, caressing her calves, worshipping every inch of her, is as arousing as the idea of him in her bed, fucking her, firm and quiet. Avery licks her lips, and maybe he resists and maybe he just smirks and does as she asks, and maybe he finds some other way to obey while simultaneously proving his independence, which, if she's honest,
is part of the appeal he has to her.
Her panties come off. And his boxers, and he's kneeling on her bed staring at her, stroking himself, still wearing his watch. She is refusing him what he wants at the moment, her thighs demurely together, her knees tilted to the side a bit, her arms over her head, til he's crawling over her, his cock rubbing slightly against her thighs where she denies him. She pants for him, softly, but she, at least, hasn't forgotten his marching orders. Even when he reaches for her, his hand going between her legs, Avery laughs and twists her hips away, that laugh a panting, wild thing. Her cunt is aching for him, and for that touch, and she evades him anyway.
So:
the covers come down, and the sheets open, and she is arching her back and lifting herself up on his arm. Her breasts brush his chests when he holds her up like that, and just as he's getting the sheets bared to set her back down, he can feel her thighs parting against his cock, suddenly welcoming, but her ass is touching those smooth sheets again. They're clean. They are, in fact, almost as new as those cast-iron skillets -- what scent they hold of hers is so faint it's unlikely either of them can smell it in this form. But they are terribly soft, barely warmed. And she is lying back, looking up at him as the topsheet falls across his lower body, as he is running his hands all over her and she is finally opening her legs to him.
Calden's hands on her ass, and her hips, urging her to roll over. Avery breathes in. It isn't what she had in mind. She arches her back, whining softly in her throat, as he urges her onto her stomach, dragging a pillow down to hips. She groans softly.
Even in the dim light of the few laps and the city lights out the windows of this room there is her scar, just to the left, where it went through her heart. And killed her. It's easier to see on her back than between her breasts, even though it's smaller. Her body healed so well, so prettily, as though Luna and Falcon united at last to try and save both her life and her beauty. It's unlike any kind of scar that would be found on the body of a human being who was shot, much less by a sniper rifle.
He covers her back with his own body. And feels her smaller, quivering with anticipation and mounting pleasure, pale and perfect and alive. He bites her shoulder, however lightly, and feels her ass stroke against him as she tilts her hips toward him even more, kindly requesting that he fuck her. Now. Please.
And he does. Slowly pushing into her, as though every centimeter must be experienced, and marked down, and remembered. Her hands curl into a pillowcase, fingernails digging. "Don't," she murmurs, shaking, when he starts to slide his hand under her, reaching for her clit. "Just fuck me," she whispers, her eyes closed, her body taut with arousal. His hips roll, pushing him deeper. Avery's hands flex, fingers splayed, then clutch again at the sheets. "Oh god," she murmurs, softer than that whisper, as he does it again.
Is this how y--
"You're supposed to be quiet," Avery reminds him, her cunt clenching around his cock. In a whisper, herself, as she trembles with need: "You're supposed to be quiet and -- god! -- do what you're here for."
Calden WhiteCalden, on the other hand, was never an only child. He had a father and three brothers ahead of him, the eldest nearly ten years older. So it hardly mattered whether he was certain about something or not; for the first decade and a half of his life, things would pretty much happen as they happened, or as others willed them to happen, regardless of what Calden thought. It was never a matter of stating what he wanted and having it happen. He had to find his own way of asserting his independence and his will.
He had a favorite color growing up, though it hardly mattered because he wore what his brothers handed down, rode the bikes that were too small for them, carried the backpacks that they no longer needed. When his youngest brother was born, most of his things passed on as well as they were passed to him.
He didn't have a favorite horse named Whiskey either, who used to be Amber Shot the racing stallion. He had a horse, and that was it: a hobble-kneed old mare that had carried one of his father's ranch hands many a faithful mile in her youth. Her teeth were all worn down by the time she was given to Calden, and though she had a steady snailpaced gait that never posed any danger of toppling Calden out of the saddle, she also had a bad eye and would bite like an alligator if you came up on that side. Calden, eleven years old at the time, still cried like a baby when she grew too old and too blind and too lame and had to be put down. His father wanted him to man up and do it himself, but his mother was still alive and well then and she argued with his father until his father backed down and grumbled that he'd have one of the ranch hands see to it.
A year and a half later his oldest brother finished college and decided he wouldn't be coming back to the ranch. His second-oldest brother was already off at school himself at the time and made much the same decision a couple years later. They went to New York and D.C., big east coast cities with skyscrapers and boulevards. Then it was just Calden, his third brother, and his little brother at home. The one was only two years older and the quiet sort, easygoing, never made much of a fuss, went along with everyone else. The other was six years younger than Calden, and so
slowly but surely Calden's word came to mean more in the house. Slowly but surely his certainties became realities. Slowly but surely -- with the departure of his brothers, the death of their mother, the withdrawal of their father -- the ranch passed wholly into his hands, and with it, some measure of mastery and autonomy that had come on so gradually that Calden was never quite aware of it the way Avery was.
So:
she resists him when he tries to put her legs over his shoulder. Drag them down, she says. And they share a smirk, and then he
bends to her, runs his tongue in a slow, wet, filthy line all down her body. Clavicles to nipples; all down the subtle rungs of her ribs. Across the stretch of her abdomen, around the dip of her navel. All the way down to her panties, where he grips with his teeth, where he starts dragging her lingerie down like an animal with a bone, a kill, pulling it inch by inch down from her hips and her thighs and her knees, her shins, her ankles, the tips of her toes. Off.
He's backed off the bed by then. He stands up, her panties in his teeth, holds them there while he drops his boxers. Stands there with his watch flashing on his wrist, forgotten; his hands on his own body, stroking his cock in thoughtless fluid pulls as he looks at her. Naked; glorious. Shining, even without the glitters of gold and gemstone at neck, at earlobe, at wrist. He pulls her panties down from his teeth, uses that scrap of fabric to wipe the precum off his cock. Drops it on the ground.
When he comes back to bed he wants to touch her. He wants to slick that cock up again, not with his own fluids but with hers, but she resists, laughing, and they have a little war there on her bed -- pushing, pulling, clamping, prying. She doesn't allow him access, and so in the end he scoops her up wholesale and they end up under the covers where,
satisfied by his obedience,
she opens to him. And his hands are there on her thighs, holding them apart as he slides between them, pushes the heavy curve of his cock against her wet cunt, rocks, slides, fucks against her like that. His brow is shadowed with intensity; his eyes are on that intimation of their joining. Her hands run all over him. He finds her eyes again, leans down to bite-kiss her softly, quickly, a skirmish, open-eyed.
Then he turns her over. Which wasn't what she had in mind; but she goes along with her, a pivot as smooth as silk. That pillow under her hips. Her gasps, quiet in the enormous spaces of her bedroom. He covers her, he enters her, neither of them can quite breathe normally for a moment. He wants to know if he's fulfilling his orders appropriately, if he's doing what she wants, if she likes that.
She
tells him
(in not so many words)
to shut up and fuck her. Service her, which is quite obviously his purpose and his place and the only reason she has him here at all, great useless clod of muscle and bone and dirt and sweat and hot, hard cock that he is. She hears him laugh, low and dark; he thinks, absurdly, of her closing his bathroom door in his face, and has to swallow a bolt of hilarity. Don't, she said of his hand, his fingers, her clit, and so that hand of his withdraws -- but slowly -- detours up her belly, all the way up to take a breast in hand. He holds her like that instead, his hand big and rough and warm and
let's admit it: a little bit entitled and a little bit possessive, possessing, taking ahold of her breast like he has a right to it. His free hand covers hers where she grips the sheets. He nuzzles her back, he scrapes teeth over her shoulder, and just for a moment, just for a second she can feel him
kissing that scar of hers, tenderly, a pulse of tenderness going down the descending mainline of his body, forking at groin, transmuting into a hot wave of lust instead. He moves inside that tight, perfect pussy of hers, firmly, solidly; a little rough. Makes a low sound in his chest, his throat, bites it back before it leaves his lips. Quiet. Just like she said. And he doesn't ask, this time, if that's how she wants it. But he watches, his thumb stroking her nipple slowly and consideringly, the way a cat twitches its tail: watches and waits
for some sign, some reaction or response.
Avery ChaseAvery is watching him as he licks his way down her body, as he grips her panties in his teeth -- and they are so fine that this nearly tears them. She watches him when he gets to her ankles, off the bed, holding her panties in his mouth. Her eyebrows flick upward at the sight of him like that, naked and stroking himself, til he drops her panties and uses them like that. Avery breathes in, right on the verge of saying
oh, my
but never quite getting the words out.
They grind together once he's in her bed, and it seems for a moment they're just going to take each other there; he's sliding his cock against her opening, and she's gasping lightly, eagerly the way she does, arching her back and sliding her legs up to wrap around him. She almost says his name.
A moment later he's rolling her over instead, pushing inside of her like that, groaning in her ear until she tells him -- in prettier words -- to shut up and fuck me. This is why he's here. This is what he's good for. This is why she -- paragon of her tribe that she is -- is allowing him entrance into her den at all. He shows up. He shaves his face so it won't scratch the delicate skin of her inner thighs when he worships her cunt. He brings her wine and the finest cuts of meat he has raised and slaughtered. He cooks for her, and he feeds her from his own hand, and if she is pleased,
and she seems very pleased right now,
then he will be found worthy of this. Entering her bedroom and her bed. Undressing her. Mounting her. Coming inside of her, if he satisfies her.
There is a small moment where it's not a game. When he lowers is mouth to kiss her scar. She knows where it is. She's known for some time now. Sometimes she can feel it, even without touch, even without seeing it. And her back arches, drawing her away from that kiss. This time, Avery doesn't tell him no, or don't, or stop that. She just moves away from that kiss. It isn't comforting or tender to her. It's just a reminder.
Calden doesn't stop. Not fucking her, at least. The room around them is dark and their bodies are grinding hard and warm together under the half-drawn sheets. Avery gasps occasionally, and she bites down on the edge of one of her pillows later on, a slow sweat building against her flesh. They stay quiet. As quiet as they can, as though there are guards outside or a husband or a lord down the hall or some horrified Silver Fang genealogist about to run in and despair over Avery's womb.
And then they forget why they're being quiet. No fantasy, no order. Just the restraint of it, the focus. Avery grabs him by the wrist quite suddenly and moves his hand out from where it's sandwiched between the mattress and her breast, muttering to him, half-whispering: "Get on your hands. Fuck me."
Calden WhiteThis time there's no laughter. No witty comeback. No sly smirking remark; not even a warm, smiling one.
Just his hand, resisting hers for a moment. Wanting to stay where it is: doesn't she know how how much he likes those tits? But no; she insists, so he moves, and then she tells him how, and he
growls at her, pushes his palms to the mattress, pushes himself up in a heavy flex of triceps, shoulders; a cantilevering motion that drives him into her. "Fuck," he curses, harsh, low. He gets his knees against the mattress, slides a hand up her back, that sweet sweat up the dip of her spine, those sweet arching shoulderblades. That golden skin, so soft.
He grasps her by the shoulder. Or maybe he steadies her with that hand on her shoulder, heavy, present. His free hand slides over her waist, her hip, and then
sets down onto the mattress. His weight shifts. He starts hammering her, panting through his teeth, starts pounding her until he starts to forget the fantasy, the playacting, his marching orders, being quiet. Until those harsh panting exhales roughen toward grunts, groans; until his hard body is slapping against hers, grinding her into the pillow, nailing her to her bed.
Avery ChaseThey've been struggling with each other ever since they got in this room, resisting each other. Calden keeping her dress from falling right away, as though he wanted to see it framing her before it slipped to the ground. Avery ordering him about -- which, to be fair, started before he even drove down to Denver. She's denied him when he's reached for her time and again, and he's resisted over and over when she's told him to do or not do this or that. Right up until the moment when she's panting, clutching at the sheets, her back bowed and her hips lifted to take him deeper, they're play-fighting.
It all dissolves now. Calden growls and rises up, his shoulders stacking over his elbows over his wrists. It pushes him hard into her, and Avery moves forward with it, gasping even as her pussy clenches back on him, aching for him, like she can't bear to let go, or risk moving away. The rake of her nails across the fitted sheet of her bed is audible, if silken. She doesn't resist anything now. She wants so little, and it is so simple now, though she doesn't ask for it again, gives him no further orders: fuck her. hard.
Which he does, forgetting himself, forgetting to be quiet or to think or his name, and Avery forgets to shush him or do anything but feel this, feel it, feel him. Her brow hits the mattress, her mouth open. She can feel her own breath in gasps rebounding off the sheet back to her. She can feel her body tensing up, tightening around him, as though her entire being is begging for this. Which, in some ways, it is. Simultaneously she wants to come and wants this to go on forever. Rough as it is -- and right now it is is rough, it's hard, it's ferocious. And this is what she wanted. This is what she asked for. This time.
There's no calling out of his name, and no reaching for his hand. She doesn't rear up on her knees and fuck him right back. She takes it, takes everything he gives because everything he gives is what the world owes her. She bites her pillow when she comes, neatly taking the corner of the case and the cushion in her teeth and screaming into it, sweat glistening down the smooth dip of her spine, down, down, all the way down to the cleft of her ass when he can look down and see himself in her, see her pressed against him, even as he feels those pulses coming in waves all around him, rippling up the sides of his cock, holding him tight, holding him inside.
Calden WhiteHe's always liked watching Avery come. Even that first time on the couch, half-undressed at best, the world through the window: even then he watched her, and not her reflection but her, close and complex, all the little flickers of pleasure that skittered over her face.
And then all those other times, too. When he was down on his knees, worshipping with his mouth. When he covered her in one bed or another. When they were in the bathroom, forgetting their shower, forgetting the blasting water, her hands digging into his back or clawing for purchase on the steam-slick wall. Every time, every single time she comes,
he watches her as though the very sight of her incandescence fulfilled some hunger in him.
No different, this time. Even when he's hammering her so hard that the sheer work of it has his muscles bunching, aching; has sweat beading over his shoulders and sliding down his back and his ribs. Even when he's got his head down, his eyes on the slicked shaft of his cock thrusting into her again and again, driving into her and driving her into the bed and giving it to her perhaps harder and rougher and more ferociously than they've ever had each other before -- even like this, even now,
when he feels her back arching in that involuntary way, when he feels her grip him inside her, tight and greedy and needful,
Calden raises his head. His hair is damp. He snaps it out of his eyes, flinging drops of sweat; he looks at her with her nails catching the sheets, her teeth catching the pillow. There's a flush in her cheeks, there's a strand of hair across her face, she looks undone and transcendent and absolutely fucking divine, and as she lets loose that scream,
that orgasm,
he slams into her, he fills her clenching pussy full and he grabs her by the hips and he grinds against her like that, the shaft of his cock working her clit from the inside, riding that wave out with her. It nearly blows his mind. It has him jackknifing over her, the way she squeezes him; it has him bowing his brow to her shoulder and gasping against her back, swearing, cursing aimlessly and mindlessly,
fuck,
oh, fuck, shit,
that's it, come on that cock, come all over me,
yes,
until he's dropped to his forearms over her. Until he's clenching a handful of her sheets to hang on, hold it in, keep ahold of himself somehow. Until he just can't anymore and has to pull out of her, sudden, too soon, it makes him gasp. He has his cock in hand, so fucking wet from her cunt, filthy, pounding with his pulse where he grips it hard around the base. He moans against her back, and it turns into this rough bellow, wordless, frustrated. His chest slides rough against her back. He finds her ear, and he mutters:
"May I?"
Avery ChaseThere is some truth to the idea that she is to be worshipped, that he was made to please her. But they keep it as a game, for they enjoy it that way. And such truths do not always easily come to light without collapsing in on themselves.
Avery collapses in on herself, now, wailing into the sheet covering that luxuriously soft bed of hers, clutching at anything that will give her a grip. She can't see him, and isn't looking for him, isn't reaching for him or holding his hand. She screams into that bitten pillow, agonized by the pleasure wracking through her body, and is utterly oblivious to the fact that Calden is staring at her, or what he might think of her. All she can do is lose her mind. He slams into her, grinds, stays there through that long, ferocious orgasm of hers, and she rides back on him while he's trying to hold on, swearing and gasping and unable to hold himself up any longer.
She only gradually becomes aware of him again. Laughable, that: she has him inside of her, and she's grinding on his cock, working her orgasm off of it, and it's only when she's starting to come down and he's folded over her like he can't bear it anymore,
that she remembers he's there, and who he is. Avery laughs, panting, then shudders when he pulls out of her. She almost immediately, terrifyingly, slips out from under him and rolls onto her back next to him, smirking at him. He's holding his cock in his hand. That thick, lovely, filthy thing. She looks down at him where he grips it, then up at his face, his muttering for permission.
"May you what," she says, and it isn't really a question. It's a prod, stoking the fire that is already burning him up from inside.
Calden White"Fuck!" -- it's this under-his-breath shout, if such a thing is possible: because she's rolling aside, because he remembers how she teased him once, telling him you poor thing, because he thinks
if he doesn't come inside her within the next minute, the next ten seconds, he might actually lose his mind.
She smirks. She wants him to be specific. He follows her, lunges over her, kisses her with his cock in hand, with his other hand rubbing heavily down her body to press between her legs. He touches her there, pushes his fingers into her, gasps into her mouth.
"May I fuck you," he pants against her mouth. "May I come inside your cunt." A beat. A flick of his tongue over her lips, and a nip, and a glint in his eye that's half humor, half madness. "Please."
Avery ChaseShe doesn't fight him. She doesn't swat at him or shove him off or even pull her legs together -- though she does twist away from his prying, probing fingers with a look of arch disdain for his grabby-handing. She smirks at him. She laughs through her panting, still caught in the last moments of her own pleasure, tearing her mouth from his lips and laughing, gasping as he tries to get to her, rubbing against her. That laugh is wicked. She may be a queen but there's villainy there, an almost sadistic enjoyment of his torment.
Avery makes him get to that Please. She looks him in the eye, a dark smirk on her own lips, and opens her legs again for him, finally, one thigh sliding up his side.
Calden WhiteOf course there's villainy there. This is the woman who forbade him to shower, who wanted him to cook for her filthy and half-undone right after she stroked him off onto her tits. While, one might mention, she went and cleaned herself up and made herself shining and perfect and pure again. This is also the woman whose eyes gleamed, who got a little wet, at the thought of chaining her lover to her bed. Figuratively. Or maybe not. This is the woman who slapped him when he kissed her, and then nearly ate his face. This is
the woman who smirks, who laughs, who looks him in the eye and makes him say please.
Her thighs open, then, like the goddamn gates of paradise. He moves over her immediately. She slides one leg up his side as he's coming over her, and it says something about Calden that mad as he is for her, aching and on the verge of orgasm as he is, he doesn't scramble. He doesn't stumble and claw his way between her legs. He's deliberate in the shift of his weight; he settles there sure and purposeful, even as he's panting a harsh breath out. His lip caught between his teeth, his body close to hers, he finds her by touch. She can see it in his eyes when he has her, a flare of discovery, dark wanting.
And there isn't a beat of hesitation. He fills her in one thrust, hard, smooth, fast, roaring wordlessly as she takes him. His orgasm is inevitable, and it's almost instanteous. He bottoms out on the end of that first stroke; he starts to come. And then his hand is behind her head, he's kissing her messily, mindlessly, filling her mouth with his groans; filling her cunt with his cum, pounding it into her, all the considerable strength of his body coiled into these short, hard, throttled strokes that slowly
slowly
begin to unravel. And slow. And fall apart at the edges, dissolve.
He's panting against her, then, has long since forgotten how to kiss, has almost forgotten how to breathe. It's moments on end before he finally and barely has the presence of mind to roll aside a little. Now he's not crushing her: his heaving chest against her side, the mass of his body sprawled out dark and rough beside hers.
And even so, even now, his mind shredded and his body battered, he can't resist the sight of her body. His hand moves up her side, dream-slow. He cups a breast. Rubs the nipple. Thrusts slowly, savoringly into her, as though to remind himself just what she feels like.
"I bet that was more fun than Scrabble," he whispers. And his eyes tick up to hers. His smile is quirky, lopsided. And then a little more seriously -- but only a little -- "I've never had to ask permission before."
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