"Hey -- "
-- that, quick and low as she rises so swiftly. His hand catches at hers, misses, she's out of bed and out of reach and then out of sight entirely as he passes through the door, enters the bedroom.
He scrambles after her. That is the unflattering way to put it. Or, alternatively: he gets up, he grabs at his clothes out of some kneejerk streak of modesty or good-manners, he steps into his boxers and follows her into the bedroom at a jog.
"Avery, wait."
Avery ChaseThere's no Avery in her bedroom. No sign of her. She moved quickly but not that fast. If he checks, there's no sign of her in her bathroom. There is, however, and just before he gets to her bedroom door to the hallway, a sound from under her bed.
A chuff. A whuff, actually.
Calden White"Avery?" This time it's a question. He does check the bathroom. It takes him a minute to find it. He isn't quite sure where everything is. His first pass through this room was spent kissing her, eyes closed. Regardless - she's not in the bathroom. He comes out again, calls her name a third time, starts to head out the door, but:
a whuff from under the bed. And then he knows.
--
She can see his feet from where she hides. They are bare, and if we are honest they are a bit dirty from walking around outside. They pad over to her bathroom, and then they pad over to her door, and maybe she squeezes her eyes shut and hopes he'll just leave, go looking for her high and low, never find her. Except: then his feet stop, and they turn, and they come toward the bed and then they become knees and hands.
His head comes into view. He's down on all fours, peering under the bed like he's looking for a coin or a marble he kicked under the bed. He finds her, instead, and of course: he was looking for her.
"Avery," a fourth time, this time gentle, coaxing, "please come out."
Avery ChaseHis feet pad across the carpet, which is new, over to the bed, which is new. Avery is torn between the desire to lean out and sniff at his feet and the desire to retreat. His feet stop wandering around the room and come close to the bed. She closes her eyes and in homid she would just be silent, be still, but this body is physical and instinctive and it
gives a soft whine.
Calden drops down, and there are her eyes in the half-light beneath the bed, bright and blue and as perfect as her coat, summer-sleek and pristine white. She scoots backwards, whining again, nevermind that this has her tail sticking out the other side of the bed now.
Calden WhiteHe can't help it. There's a quirk, just a flicker of a twitch at the corner of his mouth. He knows, he knows: she's miserable, she's hiding, she didn't hide from monsters in the park or a charismatic monster on stage, but she's hiding now because he's made her miserable. Or she's made herself miserable. Or the situation, all of it, has made her miserable. It hardly matters: this is the outcome.
Still. He cajoles. She scoots backwards, but a wolf is not a dog, and a wolf is rather large, and now her tail is sticking out the other side of the bed. And so: his mouth twitches. He represses a smile.
And he stretches out on the ground, too. He flattens himself out on his stomach, getting comfortable, looking across the murky distance at his lover. Who is now in the form he first met her in. Well; not quite -- he first met her in her hunting-form, her killing-form. Still. Close enough.
"I'm not going to chase you under the bed," he informs her, "but I think both my dignity and yours will thank you later if you'd kindly take a form capable of human communication."
Avery ChaseShe whuffs at him, almost a growl. He's hiding a smile, but she can see it. From whom the stars shall not be hidden by sunlight. Even in the dark, even in another form, she can tell. Avery makes a rr-rrr-rrrrr noise at him, nowhere near words, and watches him carefully as he flattens himself out, chin on hands or forearms. He won't chase her under the bed, and she relaxes a touch; her hackles, which were up, soothe somewhat.
Avery does not change. She doesn't show him the face he first kissed, or the body he's so infatuated with. It's the same body. It's a different form. She stares at him, not resentful but refusing all the same, and her tail thumps. Where it sticks out. On the other side of the bed.
Silence, then, at least for a while. She stares at him, comforted by the fact that he is not going to crawl in after her. Comforted, despite herself, that he did not actually sigh, pull on his jeans, go looking for her, give up, leave the penthouse to her solitude and silence, even if at first that's exactly what she was hoping for. The distance between them comforts her. The closeness, too, as though right now he is under a very specific restraining order: not to come within X feet, not to move more than X feet away. Like she dwells on Saturn, and he on the rings. There, but not touching. Visible, but not too close.
Her tail sweeps across the carpet. And after a while, holding his gaze, she scoots forward, and her tail goes in under the bed, but now her muzzle sticks out. She rests it against his forearm, turning her head a bit, closing her eyes. The contact is spare, and light, but her muzzle is soft and her nose is cold and her eyes look strangely happy when they're closed like that. She makes that sound again, that rrr-rrrr-rr sound. It isn't quite human communication. But it is communication.
Calden WhiteHe laughs aloud, more startled by the coldness of her nose than anything else, when she comes to touch her muzzle to his arm. This is far from the first time he's seen her in some other form than the homid, but he realizes, with a bit of surprise, that this is the first time he's touched her. Or: she's touched him. He shifts his arm a little, away from her cold wet nose, more toward the side of her muzzle. There are whiskers there, neat little rows of them, stiff and sensitive. He's smiling again; he looks charmed even by this.
And after a while he reaches out to her in return. He doesn't pat her head. He doesn't even stroke her the way you might a pet dog. His hand rests on her withers, his fingers sinking into her fur. He discovers that wolf's fur, even the fur of a white Silver Fang, is not as soft as it looks. It is dense, and thick -- though sleek with summer -- and there is a certain coarseness to the texture. And warm, down at the roots, close to her skin and muscle and bone.
He's not smiling anymore. He just looks ... content, maybe. Comfortable, stretched out alongside the bed, one hand in the fur of a wolf
who is also a woman
who is really neither of the above at all.
Avery ChaseHer ears twitch away from the sound of his laughter, a flick of white. She nuzzles her muzzle under his palm when he touches her, sniffing by instinct and habit both. Til his arm comes to rest over her, and she still feels hidden like this, still under the bed, as though she can pretend for now that she's not really doing this, she's still by herself, she's still protected, she can just retreat into the silence enforced by not sharing a language and just
be.
Calden can feel her breathing, heavy and steady and deep, and the vitality and strength she carries with her in this form. It's so different from the way she feels when she's lying out beside him in bed after they've had sex. And it is not different at all, in a way.
She licks her chops. She has her eyes closed, her breathing rhythmic. Perhaps she's just going to sleep. But no:
when she shifts again, he can feel it. It's been minutes, not hours, but those minutes have dragged on for a long time now. Fur turns to flesh. Withers to shoulders, shoulderblades, a smooth long back. She looks new. Her hair is straight, for it is naturally straigt. Her face is somehow miraculously clean, but only because every cell of skin, every eyelash, has been reformed anew from the energy of nature and earth together. Her eyes have opened, though, and are the same glittering blue they were when he peered under the bed and found her there.
"Can we just stay here?" she whispers to him, after a few seconds of silent staring. "I'm not ready to come back out," Avery admits, and normally that would shame her deeply, but now she only feels tremors of that shame, quiet if not distant. With him lying out beside her on the floor, her body hidden under the bed from everything but him, she feels like it's okay. Or could be.
Calden WhiteCalden's eyes are open, full of wonder, as the change comes over her. All his life with the Nation and this is still a rare sight for him; something poorly understood, impossible within a rational frame of existence, and all too often barely-glimpsed in darkness, in battle, in instants.
It is daylight. It is calm. And her change comes over her slowly, without the assistance of rage. It is smoother than he has ever seen it before; not the gruesome instantaneous popping of joints and stretching of skin, the changes that come so quick outrushing air presses in on his ears. This is almost a subtle thing, miraculous to feel: fur receding to smooth skin, his arm drawn along with the sea change of her body.
Now his palm rests on her shoulderblades. She is lovely again, was lovely before; it is different, and it is the same. Her eyes are a blue that could be compared to sapphires, skies, the hearts of glaciers; in the end, it is a blue comparable only to itself. For a moment he thinks
maybe he's lied to her after all. Maybe he is falling for her.
--
"We can stay here," he replies, hardly more than a whisper himself. "We'll stay here as long as you need to."
Avery ChaseAvery was born in this body. She lived for more than twenty years like this, never expecting it to change beyond the ordinary: to grow hair and breasts, for hips to widen and curve, to later wrinkle and ache. She took care of it, and she liked it, and though she was a studious and creative child and adolescent and an effervescent young woman, she always paid attention to herself. The body is not less than or more than the mind or soul, and being what she is, she cultivated perfection in all of them. This body, this form of her body, is the one she is most familiar with and the one that she finds most easily no matter her state.
The change can be quick, and when she reverts to homid it often is, simply because her bones and tissue adapt most rapidly back to this arrangement. But in the silence and stillness between them right now, it feels slower. There's no carnage around them. She is not calling her staff to come clean up corpses with her to dispose of evidence. She is not leading the battle, and the after-battle. She is hiding from the world because her own shame and confusion is too overwhelming for her to bear. Under the bed.
Letting him hold her, as best he can, even though if anyone else came into this penthouse right now she would go so silent that they'd never ever ever ever find her.
Avery breathes in, and exhales, and closes her eyes. The carpet is brand new and still smells of newness; it is perfectly clean and not dusty at all. It is about as comfortable to lie on as it will ever be. So she lies on it, under her bed, on her stomach, bare as birth, with the one person who -- despite herself, despite tribal lines, despite all her fears about what she can feel and what she can't and what she might put him through or what she is afraid of losing all over again -- she can stand to stay anywhere near her right now.
She sighs, but she is not going to sleep. She is just going to stay there, in the dim under-bed half-light, with Calden's hand on her back, until she feels okay enough with herself to emerge.
It takes a long time.
--
Should Calden reach for one of the throw pillows on her bed or yank down the covers to make himself a bit more comfortable, Avery does not startle or protest to feel his departure. She opens her eyes, watching him in an almost eerie silence, but she does not stop him or whimper for him. Should he get up to go find his way to the bathroom or the kitchen to get a glass of water she just nods, closing her eyes again, staying where she is to wait for him. Should he go to the bathroom, go get their clothes -- essentially, if he gets up at all, even for brief periods, it does not seem to disturb Avery.
But she notices when he comes back. She opens her eyes to him and once, she even smiles a little before closing them again. Something about the silence is comforting to her, but that makes sense: her isolation is based in silence, in stillness, in retreat from things like human communication or even the intrusion of a pack's thoughts. No wonder she's wary of joining other wolves who would, by virtue of spirit bonds, need to be granted clemency for those intrusions into her space, her silence, her solitude.
Perhaps an hour or more passes this way.
She sniffs, and rolls her neck a bit, and twists under the bed to look at the cracks of light coming in from outside of her hiding place. Avery does not apologize for the childishness of the hiding place; better this than crossing through a mirror and utterly escaping. She did that once. She almost didn't find her way back. It was the only time that loneliness held terror for her, but the terror was great enough that she hasn't risked that again.
Breathing in deeply, nostrils flaring, Avery scoots over closer to Calden, til she's halfway out from under the bed. She nuzzles his chest and presses her face there and stays for another few minutes, perhaps five, perhaps ten, perhaps fifteen.
With a great long stretch after that, however, she moves entirely over him, her body atop his, her arms wrapping around his middle, her head tucked on his chest as though he's just her body pillow now, thank you, that's quite nice and he's quite warm. Never once does she speak to him, or answer him if he speaks in anything but a twisting of her head to hide her face again. But that closeness, that physicality, she seeks out and intensifies. Her arms around him are actually quite firm, quite strong, not just draping around him but holding him. Her feet twine between his legs, around his calf.
And she feels such gratitude, such comfort, even such reliance and trust, that she thinks: maybe she's lying to him, and maybe she is lying to herself.
She does not confess it. She nuzzles him, breathing him in, until she finally,
finally,
lifts her head and kisses him. The underside of his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the curve of his lips. Three soft kisses, though the third one deepens if he permits her, and if he has not pulled the bedspread down to the floor, well, now Avery does, reaching out one arm to grasp it and drag it, slowly but with demand, until its outer side cascades down over them, covers them, shadows them and shields them. And she is whispering to him, in between kisses that soften and then grow with hunger like waves advancing and retreating:
"Calden,"
his name, first, of course, because she knows him, and repeated because the first time is a sigh and the second time is an entreaty:
"Calden, may I make love to you now?"
Calden WhiteWhat a long, strange, bittersweet dance it is:
the daughter of falcon under the bed; the son of stag, her lover, waiting patient and aching for her return. One could make an allegory of this. A modern Orpheus-tale with the roles blurred: Eurydice lost in the darkness, finding her own way back; Orpheus at the mouth of daylight, waiting harpless, wordless, silent.
And she does come back to him. Little by little, inch by inch. He does not leave her. She's not under the bed so long that he grows thirsty or hungry. He does, after a while, pull a pillow off the bed. Two. He pushes one under the bed, if she wants it, but
what she wants instead is closeness. A little bit of it, anyway. Close enough that he can see the flecks of deeper blue in her eyes. The hints of silver. Close enough that she can reach out to him, nuzzle against his chest. He is on his side, and he folds his arm over her, accepting her without a word. Without hesitation. She wraps her limbs around him, then. They hold each other on the threshold, she half under the bed still, he -- not so much pulling her out as waiting.
After some time,
he feels her urging him to roll onto his back. He feels her coming out of the darkness in whole, laying herself over him, resting atop him like he is solid ground, like he is the rich dark living earth firm beneath her feet once more.
He can feel her trust. He can feel her comfort, and her gratitude, which breaks his heart a little. She shouldn't have to be grateful for such a thing, he thinks, though perhaps he's one of the few creatures in this world who would think that. But then: he is who he is; Calden of the Whites, Calden of the Stags, who threw open his home and hearth and heart to her,
liege-lady, lover,
precious, enchanting sylph that she is.
--
He tips his head up to allow her access when that first kiss comes to the underside of his jaw. The corner of his mouth, then, missing that spot under his lip where his razor didn't reach by a breath. And his mouth: opening to hers without reservation, deepening the kiss slowly and inexorably. She snakes an arm up to the bed and his hand follows it, caressing the slender bicep and the tender inner-elbow, inner-wrist. She pulls the covers down. They cascade over them, white as snow, lightweight because -- it's summer, after all.
The light mutes. He looks at her. She fits this world so well. Gold and white, clarity, filtered brilliance. He feels dark and rough and base, sometimes, when he is with her: elevated by her presence, by her glory and her rage and her passion, like clay fired into something finer than itself. His eyes close as she kisses him again; open when she speaks his name.
May I, she says,
and he interrupts: kisses her to shush her, keep the rest of that entreaty in her mouth.
"Like I told you," he whispers, "you can do whatever you want with me. I'm always yours and willing."
Avery ChaseCalden kisses her to shush her, and she thinks he's saying yes, that he knows what she was about to say, but he cuts off the crux of it: those words that she can't remember if they've dared use or not. She melts into the kiss, moving against him beneath that blanket, but Calden has words for her. He starts to whisper and they spar with their interruptions, because as soon as he begins to say you can do whatever you w--
a look of panic comes into her eyes and she covers his mouth with her hand, sudden and thoughtless, but her eyes don't hide their pleading behind a mask of wit or amusement. "Please don't keep saying that," she tells him, her hand smoothing off of his lips, her words aching despite their quietude. It's a moment of honesty she hasn't dared since the first time he said and the first time it simultaneously aroused her and intrigued her and terrified her. After the way she broke outside, molten with sorrow at her own freely offered, ultimately rejected self, perhaps it's easier to understand why the words cause her pain, uncertainty, fear. "I can't bear it when you say such things me, darling."
Avery curls closer to him, the inside of her knee sliding up his outer leg, but she's not trying to seduce him with the motion, only get nearer to him. Her eyes hold his. "I like to ask," she whispers. "I like to hear you tell me yes. I like hearing you tell me you want this. Every time."
Calden WhiteHer hand covering his mouth calls to mind, suddenly, the way she shushed him the last time -- mid-fuck -- her hand stemming those filthy things he was saying, his teeth scraping her palm. Fresh want breaks over him, flickers in his eyes even as he wraps his arms around her, tighter, keeping her closer.
Her hand slides away. He lifts his head to kiss her. She never did say the words they may or may not be avoiding now, half-consciously: making love. make love. love.
"I want you," he says. His mouth covers hers again, and then his body covers hers too: he turns with her, the blankets and pillows and carpet a cloud of heterogenous softness around them. They find each other within it, though: the solidity of their bodies together, his weight settling onto her. "I want this, every time."
Avery ChaseThere's no answer to that. Avery sees the flare of desire go off in his eyes even before her fingertips pass over his lips, releasing his voice again. She breathes in as he holds her, closer now, and lowers her mouth to his, kissing him more fully, even as her body molds to his.
Calden lays his palms on her lower back, mid-back, to keep her against him when he turns, kissing her, rolling her under him. She could tell out on the terrace that this is what he wanted, how he wanted it: oh, how he wanted to cover her, come over her, sink into her. She can't help but remember what he said when she was kissing his chest, stroking him off, as Avery turns into the new nest, hair spread out over the covers, gold on silver. She has her hands on his sides, smoothing around from his back, coming to his chest. Her eyes close a moment, then open again as her lips part, breathing.
So.
She breathes out: "Put your mouth on me."
Calden WhiteHis back is broad and smooth and powerful; all broad muscle and sloping lines. The skin of his sides shivers, animal-like, as her touch grazes past -- leaves a wake on his skin, a scintillating trail of phantom sensation. Then her hands are on his chest, her fingertips sifting through the hair, her palms flattening against his pectorals.
Put your mouth on me, she says. And he doesn't know where or how she means, and so he has the liberty of choice: and so he kisses her on the mouth, on that lush wanting mouth of hers, parting lips and moist breath. That kiss goes on endlessly, luxuriously. He nibbles at her lower lip -- with lips, and with the faintest scrape of teeth. His tongue touches hers, grazes hers, circles hers and moves on. He raises himself ever so slightly on his palms, braced over her taut and powerful. His mouth never leaves her: mouth to chin, chin to throat, throat to sternum, and there
he sinks back onto his elbows. Wraps his arms around her the way he always does when he does this to her, and for her: wraps his forearms under her back to arch her spine, raise her up, offer those exquisite breasts to his mouth.
She thinks he's the only one giving, giving, giving. She's wrong. She gives herself to him, too, when she lets him caress her like this. When she lets him suck at her breasts, lick at her nipples. Kiss her over each areola, gently, light as feathers before
his mouth opens to her again. He utters a low sound against her chest, vibrant and vibrating from his ribcage through hers; a connection forged by sound. It's some time, a long erotic eternity, before he moves on.
Moves down, his torso widening between her legs, opening her thighs as he descends. His kisses fall heavy now: her breasts, her belly, the tender flesh beneath her navel. He shifts his arms under her legs, then, and slides her knees over his shoulders. She knows where his mouth is going next before he ever gets there. Of course he's going there: kissing her over her clit, softly, adoringly, nuzzling against her cunt. He is like an animal in this: drawn to where her scent is sweetest, most concentrated -- drawn to her, rubbing against her, utterly without shame or disdain. He nudges her folds open with the tip of his nose, with his searching lips; when he finds her he pauses, draws the moment out to savor it.
The first touch of his tongue is as delicate as it's ever been; very light, very slow, stroking a spiral around her clit; parting her inner lips, stroking just within her opening. Then he withdraws, shifts his weight. Licks his fingers, watching her eyes. Parts her. Puts his mouth to her again, eyes closing.
Avery ChaseShe knows exactly where she wants his mouth. She does not mind that it takes him a while to get there. Given license to find his own way, to choose his own adventure, Calden kisses her mouth, her neck, her chest. When he puts his hands under her she knows what's coming and arches her back towards him, reaches back wordlessly and lifts one of the throw pillows to support her neck and head while Calden kisses her breasts, mouth trailing around their inner and under curve, lips brushing her nipples until they harden sweetly in answer to him. Avery exhales, shivering, as those feather-soft kisses fall on her.
The tension in him is vibratory and resonant; Avery feels it right before he opens his mouth and engulfs one breast, one nipple, all hot mouth and wet tongue, licking her as he suckles. She closes her eyes and they roll backward, a harsh breath leaving her mouth. She does not stop him, or rush him onward; he moves between her breasts, trying to solve the eternal problem of one mouth and two nipples to adore, and perhaps he cups her in his hand and if she does she shudders, moving under him, sliding against him. Her cunt brushes the ridges of his torso. She makes a small sound, half whimper, half breath.
Calden sinks downward, and he starts kissing her where he always kisses her, eventually, sometimes before she can get her clothes off. He showed up cleanshaven today; she noticed. She doesn't even ask him to anymore; he shows her every time he arrives without stubble how much he wants to lick her. His tongue circles her clit and a shiver runs up her body from knees to shoulders, making her breasts quiver. Avery puts her hands on his shoulders, runs her fingers through his hair, aching for closeness, for contact, even as he is burying himself in her, breathing her, suffusing every sense he has in her.
Her breath hitches. When he licks her so carefully, so delicately, she makes a sharp sound, jerking gently. She barely fathoms anything else he does, though she feels his fingers come to her and open her so he can... eat her. That's as simply put as it gets. That's when she groans, when his mouth leaves her and then returns. That's when the sweat begins to build on her skin.
--
When Avery comes, it's surprisingly quick. Maybe not too surprising, given the lust she woke up with, the lust she greeted him with, the lust she felt even at her most awkward, her most uncertain. She keeps thinking of his cock, and then she keeps thinking of him between her legs, worshipping her the way he does, giving himself over to her, giving it to her the way he always does. That turns her on. That willingness, that readiness. There are times when it feels like her due. There are times when it simply strokes her ego as much as he strokes her breasts, her pussy, and her orgasm comes as much from that as from the physical sensation.
This time it comes from somewhere else. It isn't just lust, hormones, longing. It isn't just that she hasn't been seeing or sleeping with anyone but Calden, and truth be told she sees him a bit rarely. She comes with her hand tightening in his hair, a groan bitten behind her lips, wetness slicking his chin, her body bucking beneath his mouth, trying to ride herself out on his mouth. Truthfully, she grinds against him as though she's trying to pull him inside of her, whimpering, her breath catching too much to beg him to slide his fingers into her, give her something to clench on, but perhaps he does anyway and if he does she moans, working herself on his tongue and hand
but honestly, if he doesn't, she comes just as hard, the lack of penetration only making her claw at the bedspread beneath her with one hand, groaning behind her teeth, fucking her orgasm out on his mouth like it's something she's owed.
--
She's flushed pink afterward, her breasts and thighs and belly and cheeks and lips reddened by sex. She smells like sex now, like lust, and he smells like her, and she smells him like that and pants softly as she comes down, still gripping covers in her hand, trembling every few moments with aftershocks, reminders of what was just done to her.
Calden WhiteHe worships her, he pleasures her, he attends to her desires; she accepts it as her due. That's how they often think about this. Couch it in their thoughts and their minds; inflame themselves with the connotations and the implications. The truth is more complex than that, though. The truth is, the exchange goes both ways. He gets as much out of this as she does. She is,
in fact,
giving him a gift every time she opens her legs and lets him bring her off like this. She drives him a little mad with her responsiveness, her sensitivity, the way her entire body seems drawn into what he's doing for her.
He does not, at the end, slide his fingers into her. He doesn't do this because his hands are reaching up her body, gliding over the arch of her torso to cup her breasts. He has her breasts in hand when she comes; he has her nipples hard against his palms, her breasts a delicious weight against his fingers, and he's holding her like that, feeling those shivers run through her like electricity, as she comes on his mouth.
That makes him moan against her. He makes more noise than she does, rough and hungry and -- god, he sounds so satisfied by her satisfaction. He makes more noise than she perhaps can, with her breath catching so hard, so fast, that some part of him worries that she won't get enough air. It doesn't stop him from taking her through that orgasm, though. It doesn't stop him from eating her out as intensely, as uncompromisingly as he ever does,
eyes on her face, mouth on her cunt. She's so wet now. She spills over his tongue, slicks down his chin; she pulses against his lips and his tongue and his nose, riding his face to rub herself off against him even as he receives her.
--
When she's through,
worn out,
flushed and tremulous and unspooling slowly atop that nest of pillows and blankets: he's still nuzzling her. He's so very gentle now, nuzzling against her, avoiding the hypersensitive nerves in her clit; licking up the last of her wetness, sweeping it from her cunt, teasing it from her folds. His hands release her breasts. Caress all the way down, down, down her body, her sides, her hips, her thighs. When his mouth leaves her his hand comes to her; parts her lips. His breath washes against her cunt, and then,
now,
his fingers are slipping into her, easing into her tightness, the index, then the middle. He kisses her over his knuckles. Kisses her clit, slow and warm, pressing his tongue against it as his fingers withdraw. Filthy beast: he licks that up too, languidly, sucking the last of her taste off his fingertips before he turns his head to kiss her thigh.
His free hand finds hers. And he coaxes her clenched fingers loose. Holds her hand as he covers her cunt now with his cupped palm, as though to protect her.
Avery ChaseNeither of them have come right out and said that they get off on these thoughts, this pretense of liege lady and vassal, mistress and servant, nymph and brute, but by god, they do. They've alluded to it thinly at times, but how could they put that into words without feeling embarrassment, without worrying that they need to assure the other that isn't how they really see things, it's just erotic, it's just a fantasy, it's just... hot.
Just as it's a little hot, even now, that her panties are in his truck, their clothes are on her terrace, they're fucking on the floor right beside her bed.
Avery takes her moments, her minutes, as she comes down. She lifts his hand from her breast and kisses his palm, kisses his fingers, licks between his digits, sucks one slow and long in her mouth. Her cunt clenches as she sucks, and all the while Calden is nuzzling, licking, kissing her softly as she comes down. Licking her clean, let's be honest. She moans against his finger caught between her lips, running her other hand down her body, just to feel herself, to be enthralled by her own softness.
That hand runs into his hair again. Calden is given back his hand, wet-fingered, and she tasted herself on him there, too. He dips his fingers into her and she clutches again, sudden, arching her back as he fingers her, and instead of whimpering or withdrawing, Avery rolls her hips, all but fucking his hand.
--
Not long then. He goes to cover her, protect her, but she's working herself on his fingers, panting as he withdraws and licks them clean, clenching air instead. Avery, glistening faintly with sweat and pink with arousal, sits up. Blankets fall around her. She has her hands on his shoulders, is pushing him over, rolling him onto his back in an entirely new arrangement of bodies and floor and pillows and coverlets. He's scarcely touched ground before she's climbing over him, lowering her mouth to his, kissing him like she might devour him from his breath.
"Take them off," she mutters, her breasts on his chest, belly to his belly, legs parted over his hips. She means his boxers. There's nothing left. "Fuck me," she breathes, but she's kissing him again, panting with it, rubbing herself against his abdomen.
Calden WhiteHe knows what she means. He knew what she wanted, too, when she sat up, when she put his hands on his shoulders. He doesn't dream of refusing; it's what he wants too. He pushes up on his hands and she pushes him back. He rolls over and she pushes him down, climbs over him, climbs atop him and comes down to meet his mouth, rising to hers.
They kiss ferociously. The force of it pushes them back and forth a moment, and then she wins or he surrenders or something of both -- she pushes him back down. His hands circle her waist, grasp her hips. Take them off, she mutters, but he's already lifting his hips and pushing his boxers down, reaching in to take his cock in hand, hold it out of the way and he pushes, tugs, kicks the last of his clothing off his body.
It's lost somewhere in the tangle of sheets and comforters. She's rubbing against him already by then, grinding against the flex of his abdomen. He grabs her hips to make her stop, to shift her down -- she leaves wetness on his skin, and he leaves a bite on her mouth as his goes to her neck, the underside of her jaw.
Her cunt slides over his cock. His head thumps back and he swears, loud and low. She grinds on him like that for a while, telling him to fuck her, and he arches up off the ground to kiss her mouth again. Her hands are in his hair. His hands lift her up, he aligns her, he holds his cock by the base and guides her down. She goes faster than he does this time, and she can feel him holding her back, slowing her as she rides down on him -- can feel his mouth moving against hers, muttering:
careful, careful,
as though he's afraid he'll hurt her. As though he thinks she's more fragile than she is. Than he knows she is. She takes him in: the broad head, the thick shaft, inch after inch, all the way down until their hips meet. He's been holding his breath. Realizes it when it rushes out of him on a groan -- groaning because she's clenched on him, involuntarily or otherwise. Maybe she wants to sit up, to bounce on that cock, to really fuck him, but
he can't bear to have her far from him right now. His arms wrap around her, fold behind that long lovely back of hers; he holds her against his chest, close, and their lovemaking is a thing of slow slides and hard grinds, short flexes, shared breaths.
Enough distance opens between them that he can find her eyes, see her eyes, hold her eyes. He watches her as they -- what did he say earlier? -- fornicate, watches her like he might find some universal truth in her eyes, or like he might fall away from reality altogether if he looks away. Sometimes the way she moves makes stars burst and die in his eyes. Sometimes the way she moves makes his eyes flicker shut, but always, always they open again. Find hers again.
"I don't think I can last very long," he tells hers, a ragged whisper, vulnerable -- a confession mere moments after he's inside her. She rides down; he gasps. Muscles jump across his chest, his hands grab at her hips. He grinds her on him, a tight circle that flashes a furrow across his brow, makes him groan. "God, I want you so much."
AveryEven if Calden never offered himself to her, telling her that she can do whatever she wants with him, he's hers to do with as she pleases, he's hers, even if he'd never said it at all -- and now may never say it again for the terror it lit in her eyes -- Avery would know. She would know, at least, that he isn't going to tell her to wait, that he isn't going to suggest they pause and breathe, he isn't going to tell her no, he just wanted to lick her until she came and then go on his way.
Not for the first time, certainly not for the last, she thinks of him mentioning just lifting her up on his cock and fucking her right there, standing upright on the terrace. Oh, she'd like that. To start, at least.
He gets his boxers off, touches her hip, but she's already moving downward, breasts stroking his chest, pressing herself hotly to the length of his cock. It makes her groan, and almost instantly she's stroking herself off on him, his head is thumping against the floor. Fuck me, she says, and Calden does. He guides her onto him and oh, yes, she's trying to fuck him, really fuck him, ride him, take him, until his hands run up the backs of her thighs and slow her, stop her, muttering into their kiss to be careful.
She does not for a moment think she's being warned against harming herself. Avery assumes he can't stand it and exhales against his lips, nipping him once, returning to kiss that bitten spot of his lip, suckling it softly. Her hips ease on his, her rolls gentling. Poor mortal Calden. Poor older man. She takes him more slowly after that, panting with it, and yes: she starts to sit up, looking at him, wanting him to look at her, wanting to ride him, but he reaches for her, drawing her back down with hands on her arms and then her back. Avery acquiesces, descending to him again, kissing his mouth again, breathing him in as she sinks completely onto him, as she holds him inside, tightly, without even meaning to.
Avery puts her hands beside his shoulders and arches her back, moving on top of him. She slides up his body, his cock sliding out of her, but not completely. When she works herself back down, all the slower, a rush of air leaves her mouth. She swears softly, a gasp of sound, and she realizes the way he's looking at her, the way he longs for her eyes, and
so she gives him her gaze. Meets his. Accepts his admission with a firm, warm curl of her hips against him. When he grabs her then, working her just the way he wants, groans like that, Avery shudders. She does it again, this time without his guidance. She doesn't tell him it's all right. She doesn't tell him that if he can bear it, if he can stand it just a little longer, she thinks she'll come again, too. She just kisses his jaw, breathes against him: "Let me fuck you, darling."
And what she means is this: she wants him to look at her. She doesn't want to ride him now, bounce on him, drive him out of his mind in seconds. She slows them down, but she makes him watch her as she rises, hands on his chest, moving in slow, close grinds on his cock. Her palms are warm, and run over him like sunlight, smoothing his skin. Her eyes hold his. She murmurs:
"I'm not going anywhere," and the words are almost panted, as she works herself on him. Her hand runs down his torso, moves between her legs. For a moment her lower lip is caught between her teeth as she touches herself, delicately, achingly, and for that moment she loses his eyes but when they open again she finds him, watches him. "I'm right here." There's a tightness, a raggedness in her voice. "I'm going to come with you."
CaldenCalden can hardly handle it when she sinks down on him like that. When she takes him inside and arches her back, when the entirety of her body rubs against his as she lifts off.
He loses her eyes. His fall shut, roll back; he'd hit his head on the floor if it weren't for the rumpled nest of bedding. And his hands are gripping her hips and her hands are sliding off his shoulders, and he moves her -- she shudders -- he groans -- she does it again.
He almost loses his mind.
--
Let me, she says then. Let me fuck you. His hands rush up her body like a wave, sweep up beneath her jaw, cup her head. He kisses her, the muscles in his arms bunching, the muscles in his torso flexing. It's a ferocious kiss, and a nearly mindless one, and when it's over he falls back and drops his hands to the blankets.
She rises up. He grasps handfuls of comforters, sheets. She rides him: so. fucking. slowly, and the truth is he can't keep his hands off her. He puts his hands on her, stroking over her sleek hips, spanning that trim waist; sweeping up to cup those incomparable breasts. When she rises his eyes fall shut, his brow furrows, his lips part. When she sinks down his flanks tighten, his back arches; his hips lift to meet her and his eyes open to watch her, watch her sink down, watch her take that cock,
and that
is how
he sees her hand trailing down his body. Her fingertips skim through sweat, over churning muscle and hard bone; they lift off somewhere south of his navel. He watches her touching herself so exquisitely. It drives a groan out of him, an animal sound utterly devoid of human language, and it drives a reflexive thrust into her. He makes her gasp. She makes him moan. That's when he lifts a hand over his head to grasp a handful of -- whatever -- for purchase; that's when his other hand slides down to body to tangle, slide, intersect with hers. It's his thumb seeking out her clit, then, and finding it: as though even now he wants so badly to please her, as though even now his pleasure comes as much from watching her lose it as it does from --
well. This.
So he touches her, strokes her, rubs her in slow tight circles that match the way she rides him. So he fucks her, meeting her stroke for stroke, and he watches her all the while: watches her body rise and fall, watches her cunt taking him in, watches her breasts rise and her eyes flash, watches the way her teeth catch her lip, watches the way her tongue sweeps her mouth
until he can't watch anymore. Until his head falls back, until his eyes fall shut, until he becomes a creature of sensation and impulse only: action and reaction, pleasure and response.
--
There's no rhyme or reason to it, when he comes. It's not because of something she does or something she says; it's not because she tosses back her hair and rides down on his cock, and it's not because -- this time, at least -- she bites him, or claws him, or commands him to come. It doesn't even hit him the way his climaxes so often do; it doesn't roar over him out of nowhere, and it doesn't strike him down from the blue.
This time,
this orgasm steals over him. It's drenching as a storm, inexorable as the tide. It comes over him in waves, each more overwhelming than the last, each building on the last, until by the time his hand is moving to grasp her hip -- to grind her down, to hold her right there as he flexes up into her -- he's already beyond words. He's already beyond coherence -- beyond anything but base noises, grunts behind clenched teeth, harsh sussurant gasps, open-throated groans.
That last thrust is firm, swift, deep. It's like he can't help it, doesn't know any other way to come but this: buried in her, lost in her, wracked by it, laid out and destroyed by it. When it crests he's completely overcome -- just gone. When it passes, when it finally lets him go,
he collapses back onto the floor, a languid, liquid sprawl, joints loose as water. His chest can't seem to hold all the breaths he wants to take. His eyes can't seem to hold her, but he opens them anyway, watches her anyway, dazed, bewitched, enchanted, beguiled.
His hands release what they grip. Her hip; the covers. They drift down her thighs, and up again: rub slowly, mindlessly over her body. He's a son of Stag after all: lost in the aftermath, he thinks to himself that she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Not merely the most beautiful woman or the hottest fuck, but
the most perfect, breathtaking, unforgettable sight he's ever seen. He wants to tell her so. All he manages is this, a ragged breath of a word:
" ... beautiful."
AveryAfterward, Avery comes back to him. Didn't she say she wasn't going anywhere? Didn't she say she was right there? She folds to him, panting, breathing with her entire body, it seems, trying to catch it as it outruns her. Her heart is thudding in her chest like a rabbit; her lower body is trembling. She feels sore and delicious and exhausted and glorious. Calden is saying something that she barely hears. She imagines it isn't important. Some stricken muttering, some piece of flattery or overcome exaltation, she doesn't know what. She doesn't ask him to repeat it.
It takes time, and quite a lot of it, for Avery to end up breathing normally again. She's drowsing on his chest, tipped over some edge from aroused to worn through, and there's no desire in her to move, or rise up, or speak. He strokes her; she lets him. He holds her; she lets him do that, too.
--
After a very long time, Avery breathes steadily. The beats in match the beats out. She sighs, and lifts her head, and kisses his chest right over his heart, and then puts her palms on the ground and pushes herself up. The ends of her hair graze his chest. She slides off of him, one leg crossing his body, and at first is on her knees and then is on her feet, rising in gradual but smooth motions.
Standing, quite naked, she looks down at him and tilts her head to the side. He's a mess. He's sprawled in covers and pillows all tangled around him, a man spent. The corner of Avery's mouth quirks. She's barely spoken to him at all since she fled the terrace. A few words here or there: I like asking. fuck me. I'm going to come with you. She says very little now, and she wants to, but none of them are about what a good fuck he is or how he looks to her or --
any of that.
Her feet pad closer to his shoulder. She has her hand at her side. "Give me your hand," she murmurs, and if he raises his arm and lets his fingers brush hers, she takes them, and holds them, and smooths her thumb over the backs of his calloused fingers. Her eyes stay on his.
"I will endeavor," she murmurs, amusingly archaic words if they were not so infused with sincerity, with promise, "to worry less. And I will allow you to go through this with me, and try not to feel ashamed for it."
With a gentle squeeze, she releases his hand, and that is when it may be evident that she was giving him a pledge, and pledges take a handclasp, a favor, some sort of tangible contact to prove their meaning. Her steps move away, because she does not want to be held or pulled back or worshipped right now. She does not want to be held still. At the moment, even after or especially after that promise, she feels her heart like a fluttering dove in her chest, wings beating the air and the bars, striving to escape. So Avery releases his hand, softly, and moves away. She walks to the still-open door instead, looking out of it, and whether he sees her there or not, with the bed in the way, he can hear her.
"We should go out to dinner," she says, thoughtful.
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