see, not arrested.

Avery Chase

Calden's weekend in Denver for the holiday was broken up by a violent attack, by Avery nearly descending into a fit of madness, by lovemaking so sudden and intense that it shocked them both and left them ragged. About a week after that, in between his trips to the city, she contacts him by phone call, which -- after pleasantries and a bit of flirtation -- gets down to business:

I just sent a piece of correspondence to Ms. Black. Given the messengers she sent to us, I imagine you may be under as much threat as I am as a result. Please take care of yourself... my communication to her was rather unequivocal.

If he asks what she did, what she said to Ms. Black, there is a moment of quiet, and then: I kept my word.

--

Some time goes by after that. He is coming to the city again, and Avery would like to show him her new place. Can he come a bit earlier? While it's still light out?

Calden White

She kept her word.

And Calden does remember what that word was. He knows what she means when she said she kept it. Few tribes, after all, have such a love of dramatic flair as do the Fianna. If he were a Garou, he'd probably tell the damn story himself, Galliard or not -- and add in a few exaggerations to boot.

"Of course you did," he replies; quiet. Then: "I can't wait to see you again."

--

A week later, he calls to let her know he's coming to the city again. These visits, and these calls, don't quite come like clockwork, but it's close. She might be getting used to the time of day and the day of week they fall on; she might even be growing familiar with the sound of men and cattle and machinery and diesel engines in the background when he tells her

he's bringing stock to the city. He'll be done by so and so time. Would she like to meet?

Her place, she says. Her new place. Before dusk. He thinks a moment, and then he takes the phone from his ear and yells over the noise at someone else and there's a bit of shouting back and forth -- just to be heard, nothing angry about it -- before he's back.

"Six?"

--

Six, then:

he parks where he can, and he rings the doorbell or buzzes the intercom or checks in with the doorman at her new place. His boots are dusty, his jeans are dusty, his shirt is dusty. He left his hat in his car, and that's the only reason his hair isn't dusty. His shirt is also red-checked flannel. And his jaw is well-shaved.

He comes prepared, you see.

Avery Chase

Avery's smile is soft, in answer to Calden's voicing of what she knows is always true: he cannot wait to see her again. She remembers the way he kissed her, held her, when he left last time. She smiles, though he can't see it, and she closes her eyes. "Nor can I," she murmurs back, which is the first time she's said anything quite like that.

A week later, and he's already on his way. She wonders, as she speaks with him, if the sound of engines and cattle are going to start having a Pavlovian effect on her. If she'll start salivating and envisioning naked flesh. She is lying down when he calls her, wearing whatever it is she's wearing, and she closes her eyes again as she listens to his voice, thinking of him coming over, coming earlier, touching her, and so she touches herself, running her palm flat down her midline, breathing out softly into the receiver, though he likely can't hear it above the noise. Just a sigh. Just a breath.

Maybe it's already having a Pavlovian effect. Who knows. Maybe it's just him.

--

Calden is given Avery's new address, but she tells him she'll meet him downstairs. She wants to show him the whole tour, she says, before she rips his clothes off. And that is why, when he drives just past downtown proper, when he comes to the edge of the South Platte River where the highest buildings aren't as high as downtown but still reaching that way, when most of them are old factories-turned-condos, when the entire bank is taken up by a number of parks, he finds Avery waiting for him.

The building is red brick, though if he tips his head back he can see a paler exterior up top. He can see trees up there, or at least tall hedges. She's at the front doors waiting for him, and her hair is curled in such a way that she almost looks like she stepped off a movie screen when movie screens were silver -- a little more relaxed, though, a little more modern. Her lips are a deep red, only faintly glossed. Her floral dress has the thinnest straps one can imagine, the bodice is heart-shaped, the waist is narrow, and the skirt, which falls just below her knees, is made for twirling. Her heels are the color of coral, and she looks like she was born in summer, made of summer, has never seen a winter in her life.

Wait til winter. Then he'll see.

And there he is, parking his truck and out here there's more parking by a bit and she's looking at his dusty shoes and dusty jeans and dusty shirt and half-running in little steps over to him, bounding into his arms. Her arms go around his neck, her heels lift off the ground, her knees bend, her body weight against his chest as he lifts her, because of course he will lift her. She kisses him, full and firm and longing on his mouth, and that lipstick must cost thirty dollars a stick because not a trace of it comes off on his lips. She beams at him, the sun shining down on them, her breasts pressed against him through her dress, and only sets her feet down on the ground again when he starts to lower her.

"Mr. White," she murmurs, by way of hello.

Calden White

Well; he doesn't even make it to the door. He parks his car, and surely he sees her waiting in the shade of the doorway. Who could possibly miss her? She's vibrant, she's golden, she's summer made flesh: warm, wonderful, fierce.

So there's a grin breaking across his face, white against his tan, even as his hands are pulling the steering wheel this way, panning it that. The Chevy has a big engine, a choppy idle. When it shuts off a bass note goes out of the air. He steps out -- it would be appropriate for spurs to jangle, but his boots are naked because seriously, you try driving in spurs -- and he comes around and he opens the passenger's side door to sweep his Stetson off his head, frisbee it into the car.

This is when she comes over to him, that athletic lightstepped jog that has her bouncing in all sorts of interesting ways. He shuts the door with a firm push, the heel of his hand to the side, and

she bounds into his arms

and he lifts her up

and that dress is made for twirling so of course he twirls her a little, steps with her onto the sidewalk. They kiss. He is smiling into the kiss, closing his eyes into it; he decides he loves that deep velvety red of her lipstick, and wouldn't mind at all if it smeared all over his skin.

But it doesn't. And she's smiling at him now, and his arms are still snug around her waist; her body is still snug against his. He loves that, too: the litheness of her waist, the lushness of her --

bosom. That's a gentlemanly word for it.

"Miss Chase," he replies, and his smile widens. That's what he always calls her: not Ms., but Miss. Old-fashioned. He kisses her again, as full as the first, as firm, as hot. His mouth opens to hers. There's tongue involved. And when he finally starts to lower her, his back bends with her; he sets her heels down, but his arms are still wrapped around her.

"Well," he remarks, "the whole tour, then?"

Avery Chase

"Must we?" Avery says, a bit plaintively, her arms still around his neck, her body still as close to his as seems possible with any clothing at all between them. She isn't above adopting a small pout to her lower lip, back arched as her feet set down to keep her bosom pressed lushly against his chest. One hand slides down, resting on his upper arm. Avery looks at him, feeling him through his shirt, then looks up at his eyes again.

"Are you quite sure you don't just want to have me in the truck, right away?"

Calden White

Calden looks scandalized. And tantalized. "It's broad daylight," he equivocates; looks over his shoulder, back at her. He still hasn't let her go. "We'd get arrested."

Avery Chase

So he hasn't let her go, scandalized as he might look. And he hasn't said no. Avery smiles, a slow and spreading and wicked thing, especially from a wolf like her. "Oh darling, I'd talk them out of it," she says, very nearly a purr, her hand running down his arm, her eyes tracking down his body. "It's just... all that way, up all those floors,"

though it isn't even as high as her older place in the Ritz,

"before I can get that thick, hard thing inside me again."

Avery shivers. It would fit well here, as an affectation. It isn't one.

Calden White

She can see him thinking. She can see the way his teeth catch his lower lip and scrape; the tiny rough spot of stubble under his lip where his razor missed. His eyes squint up that brick building, up to that lighter-colored penthouse where he's quite sure she has a home.

Then he's decided. His head turns, he smirks at her, but it trends toward a smile as he lowers his head to kiss her mouth. "Okay," he whispers, his lips moving against hers. "I'm trusting you with my permanent record, Miss Chase."

He doesn't let her go now, either. He has an arm around her waist; he has her pulled close against his side, matched step for step, the traction of his arm almost lifting her from the sidewalk until her feet barely brush the concrete. The truck that he just locked up toots as it unlocks again, lights flashing. He opens the door to the backseat, hands her in, crowds in after her and slams the door behind them as his hand is already sliding up under her skirt

even as he's twisting between the front seats to shove the key in the ignition, turn the engine over, turn the air conditioning on. It's a hot day, after all.

Avery Chase

If he thinks she's going to back out now that he's agreed, that it was all a cute ploy that she expected him to turn down, Calden is going to be disappointed. She pouts at him, hiding a smile at the corners of her mouth and in the twinkling of her eyes, while he thinks. While he considers. He looks at her building, atop which she lives now, or sometimes lives, because the truth of the matter is that when he isn't in town, she spends most of her days and nights in her house, and then back to her.

Avery moans softly into that kiss, when he tells her: Okay. Her hands slide around him and hold him there a moment, pulling him into that kiss for a little longer.

Til he pulls her with him. She breaks her mouth from his, gasping already, laughing becaus he is nearly dragging her over to the truck. Oh and yes: broad daylight. In a neighborhood where parks sprawl right at the feet of the buildings. They are not far from people playing Frisbee with dogs, people laughing and splashing in the river, any of that. But she looks at him like she's in heat, the color in her eyes liquid with lust, as he hands her neatly into the back 'seat' -- it's scarcely big enough for him to fit in, much less with another person.

He's turning on the car so he can get air conditioning going again. The interior is still cool from his drive over. His hand is up her skirt, running up her thigh, and she's wearing this fluffy slip that makes her dress keep its shape and it's like fucking a girl from the 1950s. Which is, of course, the look she was going for. And reached. Avery doesn't bother with her bodice or zipper or any of that -- they can do all that later, upstairs. She is reaching for his belt, yanking it open, scrambling at the fastenings to his jeans, biting that deep red lip of hers. "Oh, fuck," she whispers, and she hasn't even touched him yet. "Oh, fuck, I need to fuck you."

His zipper comes down. Her legs tangle with his, neither under him nor over him yet but beside him, reaching her hand in to rub her palm against him through his underwear. Avery is kissing him again by then, full and hot on the mouth but a little loose, a little wild, because when she touches him she groans, deep and loud as though she's the one being stroked.

Calden White

Avery is a throwback today. She's dressed like she's stepped out of some dream of the '50s, when men were brave and women were virtuous, or some such thing. There's a fluffy slip under her dress that baffles his hand, makes it impossible for him to multitask. He gives up, opts to turn the car and the air on first; then comes back, leveraging against one of the front seats to push himself up and back.

Then he's in the backseat with her. Crowded, cramped. They call it a king cab, but that's a bit of wishful naming. There's about enough room back here for a large dog, or a medium adult. Neither of them are either of those things. She's long-limbed and athletic. He's --

well. Apparently, he has the smile and the biceps to make panties drop.

Or: to fumble them down, anyway. And there is fumbling, and laughing, breathless panting laughter against her mouth as he tugs finally finds her lingerie beneath that fluffy slip of hers. His fingers are rough against her thighs, rough against her hips -- then rough all the way down again, past her shins. He flings her panties over his shoulder while she's yanking open his belt in a few efficient pulls. While she's unbuttoning his jeans and pulling down the zipper and

she reaches in and his mouth opens against hers; he lets out this low groan as she touches him. It threads through hers. She makes the same sort of sound, and meanwhile he's wrestling around the cramped backseat with her.

For a while it seems he might try to lay her lengthwise across the bench seat -- but no, there's just not enough length for them. So then he's scooping her up, lifting her, turning; his knee bangs against the driver's seat. They both laugh. He half-tumbles down, sitting now, his pants twisting and rumpling. He pulls her in, tight against him; he unzips the zipper or unbuttons the buttons and he reaches into the back of the bodice to spread his hand over some vast stretch of her skin. Another kiss, then, while he's tugging at her skirt and spreading it over his lap and finding her under it, finding her legs and her thighs and her ass, her pussy.

He moans against her mouth, feeling her. Breathes something incoherent and filthy, his hand brushing over hers if hers is still on his cock; his hand coming to her hip, guiding her down. "Hurry," he mutters. And he laughs again, turning his head, a wild glance out the windows that are only faintly factory-tinted. "Oh, my god, that guy's walking his dog this way."

Avery Chase

Poor Calden. Trying to turn the air on, get the doors locked, while Avery is yanking his belt open, pulling his pants away from his underwear. She ignores all the logistical wrestling but this: when Calden shoves both hands up her skirt, fighting with her slip, she lifts her hips as soon as his fingers hook around her panties, some wispy scrap of fabric he probably could have just pulled aside but they come down her legs anyway, and he tosses them back, and they fall behind the back seat to the floor of the cab. Neither Calden nor Avery notice.

As soon as they're off, she's climbing onto him. He needs to get himself out of those boxers, those boxer-briefs, whatever they are. She's not laughing, even when he bangs his knee. She's too hot to laugh right now, too focused, too hungry. He unzips her and she allows this, letting him run his hands over her back and sides, even if there's a strapless bra more felt than seen in his way. They struggle with her skirt with Calden searching for her pussy with his hands, but Avery nearly swats him, panting to him: "Get your cock out," before she's kissing him again, pressing the back of his head to the rear window of the cab. She makes it terribly difficult: for one thing, she's kissing him. For another, she's got that skirt, volumes of skirt and slip and skin above him. He can't see what his hands are doing under there. But he can, she imagines, find his way to his cock blindly if necessary. And it's necessary.

In the meantime, she rubs herself against him, even against the backs of his hands, til he gives her what she wants. He doesn't need to guide her, encourage her, hurry her. But he says hurry, laughing, because there's a guy walking his dog. Avery kisses him again, hard again, and really: all he needs to do is hold his cock for her while she sinks down on him. She's scarcely taken him inside but that she's riding him, panting, one hand on the back of his neck, the other on his chest, the back of her dress open to the cool air, what she's doing to him hidden beneath that pretty floral dress.

Calden White

Boxers.

He's wearing boxers, because of course he is. She's only seen him wear boxer-briefs once, and it was that night he was also wearing a tuxedo, which sort of says it all. Calden isn't a tuxedo sort of guy. Not even after 6pm. He is not a farmer, but he's damned close. He wears flannel shirts even in the heat of summer, he wears blue jeans, he wears cowboy boots that are all muddy and dirty and still on his feet. He wears

cotton boxers, white ones, that he reaches into. That he gets his cock out of. She rubs on his knuckles, rubs against his forearms, rubs until he gives her the head of his cock, and she sinks down into his lap while he tilts his head back against the vertical rear window of the truck. He groans hard. Or he starts to. But she has a hand on the back of his neck, and he lifts his head again, compulsively. The sound muffles against her mouth. He kisses her when she starts to ride him.

There's nothing slow about that kiss. It is deep, and it is luscious, but it is ferocious. His mouth all but tears at hers. He has his hands up her skirt, inside her bodice; he's wrapped his arm around her wholesale, his forearm bare and his bicep flanneled; he's holding her hard against his chest, two or three maddening layers of fabric between. He's holding her by the hip, too, running his hand down the back of her leg. He doesn't guide her. He doesn't have to. She rides him so fiercely, holding onto him with that hand behind his neck; holding him fast, right where she wants him.

"That's it," he whispers, hushed, rushed, when the kiss breaks. His eyes hold hers, and already, already there's a scattered wild light in his pupils. This was never going to be a long, luxurious fuck. He kisses her again: "Oh, god, yes."

Avery Chase

It's a very, very heavy truck. Your average German Shepherd can bound into the back, or a border collie, or a number of other large dogs, without a bounce. Together, Calden and Avery weigh a big more than a dog, and they are being a big more active, but the truck is not exactly rocking on its shocks. But the man walking his dog outside does notice that it's running, and he glances inside briefly, and he sees a woman's bare back and the folds of a floral skirt and a cascade of blonde curls across her shoulderblades when she tips her head back. He hears a gasp, an Oh --! followed by a heavy baritone groan, a groan that matches the man's large hands open over that woman's bare back.

He does what the vast majority of people might do: averts his eyes and keeps walking, quickly.

And Avery goes on fucking Calden. She doesn't always kiss him. She tips her head back, panting for air, rolling her hips again, and again, and again, whimpering. Her hand curls and she clutches at his flannel and she slides her hand up into his hair, and she wants his mouth on her tits but they're covered, covered by layer after layer. He can suck on them later. She'd like that. He can undress her and get on top of her and --

thinking about makes it quiver. It makes her squirm on him, clenching, pulsing around him. Calden pants words she can't comprehend right now. She sweats lightly, but it slicks her inner thighs and the valley of her spine. She is riding him faster now, her painted nails -- they're some color between her lips and her shoes -- digging into his shirt. She cries his name, not a whimper or a gasp or a groan but some of all of these, and something of a plea.

When she comes, it's like a wave breaking. She shudders, whole and collapsing, leaning onto him, bowing her head to him, those cries turning to sharp, high whimpers hidden in his collar. Not that she stops. Not that she stops fucking him like that, hard and grinding and relentless, holding him inside as tight as that orgasm crests over her.

Calden White

Oh, that sets him off. The way she comes, the way she bears down, the way those shudders quake through her and the way she bows to him: it touches something off in him like a match to gasoline. Like a match to dynamite. She doesn't stop: well, neither does he. He grabs at her back and his other hand tries to go up her back

but her dress is in the way so he ends up shoving it awry, pushing it halfway up her back. He ends up folding his arms around her and holding onto her, muttering the same two urgent words past her ear over and over again while her body grinds on his, writhes on his, moves on his:

don't stop. don't stop. don't stop --

and then his climax hits. It's like a thunderclap. There's scarcely time to see it, recognize it before it hits: mows him down, drags him under. He grabs onto her when his feet plant, when his body locks, when he bucks up against her, lifts her off the seat, moves into her swift and sure and deep. She's not even coherent yet, and then he loses all semblance of coherence himself: groans against her neck, roars against her shoulder, holds her so tight against his chest as he comes in her,

mindbendingly, pleasure hammering at him until he disintegrates into raw nerves and shuddering muscle.

The engine is still running, after. The air conditioning is still circulating an icy breeze through the cabin, which they're doubtlessly glad for. It's so hot in their clothes now. It's so hot in their skins, so hot under that skirt of hers; so hot where her cunt still grips him, holds him, clenches on him.

His head falls back. Hits the back of the seat, hits the window with a dull thump. He's panting now. It's like running a sprint: the exertion only hits when it's over. His chest is rising in great pulls; his ribs moving like a bellows. He works one hand free of her dress and paws it through her hair, heavily and messily, drops it to the side along the back of the seat.

He'd say something clever now if he could. Some nice banter-y thing: I like how you say hello, or something. He can't. His eyes are closed, his lips are parted. After a while, his breath still lost to him, he starts to smile.

Avery Chase

In a handful of minutes, he realizes that she's been working herself up since this morning. Since twenty minutes before he got here. For hours. God knows, but she was wet as soon as she saw him, she was ready to go, and as soon as he gave it to her it was moments, only, before she was coming on his lap, and it's hot outside and cool inside with the air conditioning so the windows don't steam but oh, they would if it were winter. If it were night.

Calden has thoroughly displaced her skirt, and her dress and bodice slip down a bit as he removes one hand. He reaches for her hair where she's laying her head on his shoulder, panting, still clutching his shirt, and his fingertips have barely touched her when she says, gaspingly: "Don't you dare.

So surely he won't dare. Not her hair. Not her pretty curls.

There is lipstick on his shirt, finally smeared. A bit on his neck. Some on his mouth. The heat, the sweat, all of it: only a little has smeared over her lip. But her head is resting on him and she's rolling her hips slowly in a circle, so slow, just to feel him brush against her clit occasionally, just to feel him inside of her. He's quite delicious, she thinks. So ready, so available, so willing, so amenable to being told to drop trou, get that cock out, come here, lick that, roll over, be ridden hard and put away wet. She snuggles against his chest, all but purring.

"See," she murmurs, slurring a bit, working her pussy down a little harder on him and feeling a spark of eroticism go up through her like a firework, "not arrested."

Calden White

He doesn't muss her pretty curls. Well; not much. He laughs when she warns him off, pantingly, and his palm sort of smooths over her hair -- sort of smushes her hair too, if we're honest -- before dropping along the tops of the seats like that. And she settles against him, melting like a cat, moving

like some sort of sexual sadist, she must be, doesn't she know he's too sensitive to handle that right now.

It

makes him

just about die, every single time, when she moves on him like that. It makes the muscles in his chest and abdomen jump, bunch, release. Makes his toes curl. Makes his thighs clench. Makes him groan. It makes his cock twitch inside her, too; sharp little pulses of reflex. He thumps his head against the glass again. She's almost purring.

Told you so, she says, without quite saying it. And he laughs, a little shakily, a little blurrily, a long low roll of humor. He's a molten continent beneath her, the heavy musculature of his body supple with relaxation, his legs sprawled the best they can in the close confines of the backseat. He still has an arm around her, but it's loosened now, his forearm riding the crest of her hip and all that bunched and rumpled skirt there.

"Not yet," he murmurs. His eyes are still closed. "Let's sit out here half-dressed and fornicating a little longer. See what happens then."

Avery Chase

"Mmm," she says, at the word fornicating, then murmurs: "Fornicating," like it's lovely, what a sweet thing to say just now.

But she stretches upward, arching her back and deciding to wiggle on him in a way that is pleasant to her and torturous to him. She stays right where she is as she folds her arms back, zipping herself up and adjusting the strap that fell, smirking at him. Catching a glimpse of herself in the window behind his head she leans over and gasps at the smear of lipstick, "Oh dear", but she fixes that handily by demanding a tissue from a box in the back door, daubing it on her tongue and then tidying up carefully.

All the fucking while, she's sitting on his cock. While she uses his truck window as a mirror to un-smear her lipstick. She does not clean it off of his neck, though. She flounces her curls with her hands using that same 'mirror', then slides right off of him, the inside of her slip brushing against him even as her thighs leave him, and she still has her shoes on but she adjusts one of them on her heel. Avery doesn't even look for her panties; at the moment she doesn't quite remember them.

She looks at his cock as she's climbing off of him, smirking: "You'd better put that away before I start sucking you off." Followed, naturally, by a cheeky little grin and toss of her hair.

Calden White

Of course it makes him groan again, that arch, that wiggle, that ever so delicious shift of her weight. Of course it makes his head fall back again, but

truth be told the worst of the sensory overload is passing. It's turning into something else now; the downslope trending back into an upslope. There's a lazy interest in his eyes as he watches her zip herself up. There's a languid heat in his smile, which shears into a smirk when he catches sight of her smirk, as he watches her adjust that fallen strap.

His hand follows hers. He strokes his palm up her arm. He doesn't even pretend he's helping with with her strap, because a moment later his palm grazes down the center of her body, takes a detour around the arch of her ribcage, moves inexorably and predictably up to cup her breast. To lift that lovely weight in his hand, pass his thumb over the nipple. He toys with the idea of pulling her bodice down. Her bra. Getting her breast out, somehow, and accessible. Mouthable. Lickable, suckable, god, she's so enjoyable.

She spots the flaw in her lipstick. He keeps his hand right there while she leans forward,

while he groans yet again -- it sounds a little like a sigh this time, equal parts pleasure and ohgodican'ttakethis,

while she touches up her makeup. She's quite close to him, then. She's looking at herself, her dim reflection in the glass. He's looking at her, her breast pressed to his palm, her heartbeat against the heel of his hand; enjoying the close-up view, enjoying the fine texture of her skin, the luminosity of her complexion. His smile is a little quirky, a little lopsided, when she sits back. She can watch his eyes close again with that movement.

And then she gets up off of him. And oh, he was recovering quite nicely, he was getting rather fond of the idea of fornicating a little longer, so when she just leaves him like that he

groans

yet again, his hips lifting half-involuntarily as though to follow her; settling again a moment later. His hand drops thoughtlessly, shamelessly. Wraps around his cock. He's half-hard, and he can't seem to decide if he's coming down or going back up. His eyes open; his head rolls toward her without lifting. His smile is a smirk, and his smirk is lazy.

"Don't tease me." There goes that hair-toss again. There go those sparks in his eyes, those stars in his eyes. "You know I can't get enough of you."

Avery Chase

She crawls back over, hands on the seat, then on his chest, knees on the cushion, mouth close to his, all but tumbling onto him. "I'll tease you if I like," she murmurs, and kisses him, while the hand that was holding her breast for the longest time while she fixed her makeup goes to hold his cock.

"Are you going to start stroking that?" Avery whispers, her lips still close enough to his to brush against them on every word. "You shouldn't. You'll be out here in your truck with your pants around your ankles, jerking off like a filthy animal, thinking of how nice it would be to come all over my tits, and what on earth are you going to do with yourself with me upstairs?"

Her hand reaches for him, but not his cock. It runs up his thigh, delicate and quick. "You know I'm just going to strip all my clothes off and fuck you upstairs if you put that away and wait for it. I'll even let you do the undressing if you want."

Calden White

Her lips scarcely touch his before he's leaning into her, trying to kiss her. It's a loose kiss, if she allows it -- loose and lazy and slow and inexact, interrupting what she says for seconds on end. Or maybe she doesn't allow it. Maybe she turns her cheek or draws smoothly back; maybe he leans toward her and manages nothing more than his lips against her neck, feeling the vibration of her voice through the delicate skin and flesh there.

She has questions for him. Inquiring minds want to know: is he going to start stroking that? And so of course he does -- licking his lower lip, catching it in his teeth, sucking a swift breath in as he passes his hand up the shaft, over and around, down the other way. His lips press together. He makes a soft sound, a quiet little close-mouthed grunt. Filthy animal. Come all over my tits. Upstairs, she says, she goes on, strip all my clothes off, fuck you upstairs.

Wait for it.

His hand stops. Fingers wrapped around, gripping. His chest is moving with his breathing. He leans into her, he kisses her neck and her shoulder, he grips a mouthful of her bodice in his teeth.

"Are you telling me," oh look, he's still capable of language -- even if there's an unsteadiness to his voice, a rough edge that wants to turn to grunt, snarling, panting, fornicating, "you're not going to fuck me upstairs if I don't cease and desist, Miss Chase?"

Avery Chase

Avery is quite put together again. Her hair is a teensy bit mussed but with a hairstyle that relaxed it's not easy to notice unless you already suspect that she was just fucking a cowboy in the cab of a truck. Calden, however, still has his pants down and his cock wet and he's stroking it, biting his lip in a way that makes him look young. Avery gives a soft smirking smile as he tries to kiss her, sliding out of his reach, her back arching with the movement.

So of course, he leans over harder, biting the cup of her bodice, his nose on her upper breast, his mouth aching to tear it out of the way and suck on her skin. Avery breathes in, and he asks her a question. She laughs. "Oh, that's silly." Her cheeks are still pink. From all that fornicating a moment ago. "Of course not. Just: I would imagine you'd want to undress me before you come again. And you won't be allowed that in here."

She puts her hand on his neck, stroking her fingers along its back, tracing into his hair. "I thought you'd quite enjoy taking my clothes off ," she murmurs, almost a whisper.

Calden White

"I love taking your clothes off," he whispers. And Calden kisses her atop her breasts; he kisses her on the angle of her sternum. "I quite enjoy the hell out of it."

He raises his head, then. He kisses her mouth -- or tries to again -- and then he leans back with a great courage-bolstering sigh, as though it takes all the strength he can muster to say,

"Okay. Let's go upstairs. I hope you know I intend to hold you to your offer, Miss Chase."

He lifts his hips and rearranges his boxers, his jeans, put himself away. He's a mess. There's sweat at his hairline and sweat under his shirt. That cock of his is filthy, wet from her cunt, wet from his cum. His palm is filthy, for that matter, and he doesn't seem to care at all: he sucks his fingers clean, wipes it on his shirt, and then reaches into the front seat to snap the key out of the ignition; reaches past her to open the curbside door.

And Avery steps out with her rich red lipstick and her flashy red heels and her deep red nails. She's pink-cheeked and delightfully-slightly mussed, but no more so than anyone might be after walking outdoors on a brilliant summer's day as this. She looks lively. Fresh. Beautiful. Calden follows: clambering out onto the sidewalk, flushed, rumpled, all awry; wincing through a surreptitious little adjustment before he nudges the door shut. Subtlety is clearly not his forte.

He holds his hand out for hers, though. The clean(er) one.