two, three times a year.

Avery

Take him home. She smiles, her lips reddened from the kissing, her eyes limpid. She simply nods, a faint smirk at the corner of her mouth.

--

So they go. Back to the member's lot and back to the truck. Avery idly fans herself with her hat, holding his hand across the center divide, watching the window as he takes them back to her place. She looks up at the moon, and she drowses against the window, thinking of what she plans to do with him. She doesn't say a word to him. Doesn't spoil the surprise.

This time he parks for the evening, as he has many times since the stock show began. She has her hat off, her hair in those long braids, walking hand in hand as they stroll up to the door and through the lobby, into the elevator that only lets them off at her floor because she has a key. She takes him home with her, feeling as though it is somehow new still, special still, and feeling deeply at home with him coming there at night with her.

She kisses him softly, tenderly, not wantonly, when they come inside. They shed their boots and he may reach for her, only to find her kissing him more deeply, drenchingly, walking with him to the stairs. He can undress on the way, if he likes; she does not take off a thing, even holding her hat at her side. And so it is until they are upstairs, pressed to her bedroom door, and her fingers are deep in his hair, her voice leaving a soft moan beneath his tongue.

Avery breathes in deeply, panting it out, twisting the handle behind her and taking him into her bedroom, shutting the door and turning him around, urging him to the bed, crawling up on him with her knees to either side, her skirt spreading and hitching upward, but still

keeping his hands from undressing her.

Calden

Truth be told, Calden is feeling more tender than lustful on that short, quiet drive back to her penthouse. He holds her hand, and sometimes he steals glances at her as she drowses against the window -- hair in those adorable braids, eyelashes dark against her cheek. In the elevator she stands in front of him, leans back against him. His arms are a heavy, warm shawl across her shoulders; not unlike wearing a bearskin from some primitive, barbaric age.

It isn't until she kisses him that first time, soft and tender, that his want begins to kindle again. It isn't until she kisses him more deeply, so drenchingly, suffusing him to the deepest layers of his being

that he starts to reach for her. Starts to unbutton her shirt, only to be rebuffed. Starts to pull at her swishy skirt, only to be gently discouraged. So, fine: he takes his hat off instead, leaves it over the post at the end of the banister. He takes his coat off and lays it over the railing at the top. He undoes his shirt as she's taking him into her bedroom, and they are still kissing, and they are both panting, and now, and now, she pushes him gently down on the bed and he peels his shirt off and she urges him to lay back and he wrestles his undershirt off in a smooth roll of thick muscles.

He flops down, then. There's something smoky-lazy about his smile; not unlike the way intoxication from a good scotch feels. He is not trying to undress her any more, but he is touching her: tracing fingertips up her thighs under her skirt; rubbing his palms down her arms. "Well, Miss Chase," he murmurs, "it seems you have me quite at your mercy."

Avery

Avery scoffs. She still has her hat in one hand, grinning at him where she has him pinned. He's shirtless now, and she leans over him, smoothing her hands up his abdomen, his chest, breathing in as she does so, the smile faltering, fading into something else. She likes the hair on his chest. It isn't the masculinity of it or even the appearance: it's the way it makes him smell. It's the way the hairs catch his scent as he sweats, as his body warms him from the heart outward, and this is often why when she falls asleep with him, she falls asleep with his arm around her, her arm and leg draped over him, her face pillowed on his chest, her dreams enriched by that scent.

She does like the way he looks. The unwavering, unambiguous maleness of his face and form arouses her. But oh: the way he smells. The warmth and familiarity of it, the tantalizing hint of purity, the intimation of strength and provision and endurance.

Leaning over him, Avery lowers her mouth to his chest, taking his nipple in her mouth and stroking it with her tongue, lapping slowly and softly at him, closing her red lips and suckling at him. She's hungry about it, running her hands over his body, his arms, his sides. She might --

but she doesn't.

She sits up again, languidly, licking her lips as she looks down at him. With a roll of her hips she grinds down against his lap, watching sparks fly in his eyes. "Take off your pants," she tells him, a moment before she withdraws from his body, standing up, her skirt falling around her legs again as she steps back. Her eyes do not leave his. "Lay yourself out for me."

Avery turns, walking towards her en suite. "I'll be right out, darling."

Calden

His arms relax and open as she comes down over him. His elbows to the bedspread, the tips of his fingers just barely grazing her shoulders. He closes his eyes and he lays his head down and he justenjoys it

as she puts her mouth on him. Tastes him, strokes him, sets his heart racing. Mmm, he mutters, low and vibratory in his chest. Her hands trace over him, his brawny arms and his hot sides and, yes, the unfashionably-masculine hair on his chest.

They are practically posterchildren of the Garou Nation. They are beautiful and strong and athletic and surefooted. He is patience and stability and provision, the steadiness of the earth, the warmth of a roaring hearth. She is brilliance and nobility and ferocity and wildness, an intangible undeniable wildness even in the trappings of utmost civilization. She is sunlight and fire; blessed by so many gods of the sky and the earth, and each blessing a double-edged sword.

He looks at her with heat and admiration and adoration when she sits up over him. Her languidness makes him languid, too. He tucks a hand behind his head, as he likes to, and he rubs the palm of the other loosely, lazily over her thigh. She gives him instructions. He sits up, propping himself up on an elbow as he holds her there for just a second longer,

kissing her between her breasts, or as near as he can get with her clothing still untouched.

"Don't keep me waiting," he replies, smiling -- half a joke at most.

--

She leaves him. He lays back and he undoes the button, the zipper; lifts his hips and then kicks his legs to get those jeans off. It must be said that he hesitates a moment with the boxers. He is bold and unapologetic on the matters of sex and sexual attraction; he is a sensual, sensuous creature, deeply attuned with his own animal nature and its near-insatiable hunger for --

well, her,

but he's not so cavalier or so jaded as to truly lay himself out, rampantly erect, on a lady's bed. It seems -- somehow boastful to him, and somehow a touch rude.

So in the end, a compromise. He takes his boxers off. He leaves them over his groin, though, like the proverbial fig leaf. And he waits for her, wondering what she's up to, eventually sinking from his elbows to his back, hands folded behind his head again.

He has one more day here, he thinks. He realizes he wouldn't mind more.

Avery

It does take her some time in there. Time enough for him to undress, and consider his modesty or perhaps simply the temperance to his confidence. He is not feeling cocky tonight; he does not want to lounge on her bed, stroking himself at the thought of her, waiting for her to come out and see him like that. Time enough for him to choose to drape his boxers over his groin as he reclines into her soft, soft pillows that he has slept against most of the last two weeks. Time enough for his mind to wander, but not his blood to cool.

Never time enough for that.

Avery does come back out. And she has her hat back on, atop hair that she has unbound into downy-soft golden waves past her shoulders, unrefined and undone. She still has her jasper earrings, her leather-and-turquoise bracelet, her cascading necklace of turquoise. She is wearing an entirely different pair of cowboy boots than the ones she left downstairs: these ones are also, however, dark leather tooled with blue swirls and vines.

She is wearing lingerie. Sheer, baby-blue stockings hide beneath her boots and hug her thighs. Ribbons tie them to her garter belt, which has a tiny lace skirt to overlay it. Her panties are blue. Her brassiere is blue. And there are three perky bows down her front: between her breasts, below her navel, at the crest of her panties.

Avery comes back over to him, where he lounges on her bed, smirking all the while. Is that a saunter? Perhaps a bit. She comes to kneel on top of the foot of the bed, knees apart, looking him over. She nods at the boxers covering him, flicking her eyebrow.

"I thought I told you," she chastises, teasingly, coyly, "to lay yourself out for me.

Calden

Hearing her footsteps, Calden turns his head. Raises it as she comes into sight, his mouth curving into a smile that becomes a grin as she comes --

-- saunters closer. There's a spark in his eyes that catches fire as she slides onto the bed. He looks her over, inch by inch, contour by curvature; every chip of turquoise, every stitch of lace, every bit of skin so soft that he can barely restrain himself from grabbing her, rolling her under, burying his face somewhere convenient. Probably between her breasts. That seems like a good idea.

But no. He raises himself on an elbow again. She's straddle his shins there at the foot of the bed, or perhaps just to the side. She wants to know, in not so many words,

why he's still covered.

He drags his eyes back up to hers. And returns her smirk. And answers her by pulling the boxers up, bunching it against his chest, tossing it off the side of the bed.

Avery

They smirk at each other. Avery begins crawling up the bed over him, knees spread to either side of his legs, only after he tosses that offending piece of fabric off of his body and off of her bed. Her smirk spreads slowly, lazily, into a smile as she plants her hands to either side of his hips.

If we are vulgar, and it should be noted that there is currently a woman wearing lingerie and a cowboy hat and boots to bed, we will describe Calden's cock at the moment. That he is hard, that he is heated, that the angle of her body and the strength of his erection have them close enough that it would be really no effort at all for Avery to stroke the curves of her breasts above those lines of pretty pale blue lace against the head of his cock. Which she does, moaning softly at the silk-soft skin meeting, well... silk-soft skin. She looks down, watching that cock of his, stroking it tenderly between her breasts, between the satin and lace, pressing her lips together against another, louder sound of appreciation, arousal, pleasure.

"That's much better," she murmurs, bending her arms, resting her forearms on the bedspread, though her ass stays high in the air. This is how she takes him in her mouth, and remember: he never really knows how she's going to do it to him this time. Sometimes she teases him. Licks him, kisses him, tickles the head of his dick with the tip of her tongue until his heart is pounding almost to break through his breastbone. Sometimes she does not. Tonight, she does not. She mutters what she does, lowers herself to him, and engulfs him in her mouth, as much of him as she can, and this time she does not withhold the sound of moaning -- hungry, relieved, enthusiastic moaning.

There's that first deep slide of her mouth over him.

There's the way she groans around him, wets him with her tongue.

There's her hand wrapping around the base of his cock as her mouth withdraws, still slow but just. a little. too fast.

There's that tight, warm suck she gives him, just on the head, making a noise that is almost a squeal of eagerness, of delight.

There's the way she begins bobbing her mouth on him.

The way she fucks him like this in earnest.

Sucks his cock, steady and wet,

in her cowboy boots

and lingerie.

Calden

There's a summer storm in the way their eyes catch each other and hold. There's a slow heat in their smirks, which do not have the edge of competition or mockery in them. It's a sense of conspiracy, rather; of collusion toward naughtiness of the best sort.

She crawls up over him. He sinks a little lower on his elbows, watching her. She bends to him and -- yes, he's hard. Hardened for her as she kissed him in the foyer, and downstairs, and walking up the stairs, and in front of her room. Hardened as she pushed him gently down on her bed and told him to lay himself out for her pleasure. Hardened even as he undressed for her, thinking of her, listening to the distant snap and whisper of expensive lingerie.

And he was laid out for her when she came back. Occupying an ungodly amount of space on that luxurious bed of hers, which when she sleeps alone feels as limitless as a cloud. The truth is these last two weeks, there have been nights when she woke to find half the covers on the ground, replaced by her lover wrapped around her. There have been nights when she woke to find him crowding her nearly to the edge of the bed, likely because he was so warm and she was so warm and their warmth together made her retreat in her sleep,

and then he followed,

and then she had nowhere left to go and he cornered her against the side of the bed and glomped her.

--

That's beside the point, though. The point is: he is laid out for her when she comes back. He is sprawled over the bed, large and warm and naked and -- how does one put it delicately? -- ready for her. A great hairy brute of a man, her son of Stag: all large bones and broad shoulders and wide chest, thick biceps, hard thighs, big feet. Big rough hands that, several times this week in fact, have been known to catch her up and raise her up and hug her so tight and hold her so he can kiss her, bury his face in her bosom, spin her around so her skirt twirls up.

As though to make some argument for intelligent design, the hair on his chest and stomach and upper thighs are patterned in such a way as to converge on -- how does one put this delicately? -- his cock. And we will note this: he does, in addition to shaving his face so as to better eat her pussy, engage in occasional trimming down under. Not shaving, god no, but -- manscaping, so as to make experiences such as the one she's about to embark on

a little more pleasurable for both of them.

--

He's holding his breath now. No great inhale followed by silence; just a simple, quiet arrest. He's watching her, his fingertips pulling at the bedspread without his notice, his cock moving almost imperceptibly with every beat of his heart,

and much more noticeably in irregular, involuntary twitches.

She touches him. She rubs her tits on him, to put it bluntly. His thighs tense; a nerve impulse skittering all the way down to his flaring toes. He laughs under his breath, breathlessly, as she praises his -- what? obedience? willingness to bare his body to her? He's always been willing; surely she knows that. He's always, always been willing to bare himself to her, offer himself to her, give every inch of that large and well-made body up to her fancy, for her use, in the name of her pleasure.

And his. We can't quite pretend it's all altruistic.

Especially when she puts her mouth on him. His head falls back and he groans, deep and quiet. She wraps her hand around him and he sinks down on his back, his hands moving to lace behind his head. She starts fucking him in earnest. He raises his head again, cradled in his hands, watching her down the length of his body, across the span of his chest. There are stars imploding in his eyes every time she slides her lips over him. There are galaxies flying apart in his mind every time she slithers her tongue past those incalculably sensitive few millimeters just beneath the crest.

--

"Hey," he murmurs,

after a while, when there's a light sweat across his chest, when his breathing is audible and unsteady and sometimes his groans seemed pulled from the very center of his gravity,

"hey. Aren't you supposed to have a lasso, Miss Chase? When are you finally going to rope me to your bed?"

Avery

Calden is not always a considerate bedmate. And Avery is hardly the sort to just bite her tongue. She prefers to sleep with her head on his chest, or she may curl behind him, but sometimes he tries to roll her over, 'glomp' her, crowd her to the edge of her own bed, and she wakes him. Their shared warmth is not something she retreats from; she keeps her upper floor cool at night, to make them both crave and value that warmth. But if she rolls over in her sleep, if he keeps following her, grabbing at her, it wakes her. It makes her wake him.

He cannot help what he does in his sleep. She cannot help the way it makes her anxiety spike, the way it makes her skin crawl when she stirs in sleep to find Calden's unconscious hands pulling at her, his body pressing her to the edge. She cannot help the way it makes her rage kindle, brighten, threaten to boil her blood. She cannot even help the frission of irritation in her voice, raspy with sleep, as she tells him he's about to push her off the bed, give me some space.

In the morning it is easier to be gentle about the way she keeps her distance from him, even though tension is wound like a cord around her spine. But still, it's easier after -- waking -- to be delicate about the way she tells him, direct but soft, that she would prefer to be alone the following night. When she goes to her freshly-laundered sheets over her expansive and empty bed that night and feels a rush of relief and appreciation for her solitude, nothing quite makes the flicker of guilt easier.

Perhaps they talk about it. But that was several nights ago, and this is now.

--

Now, she is hearing him say Hey, and her eyes look upward, meeting his. She slowly, slowly slides her mouth up his cock, sucking on him, looking at him, licking him one more time before she withdraws. Her warm hand wrapped around him keeps stroking him as he asks her about a lasso. Roping him to her bed.

Her eyes do not flare with sudden lust. They blink, and she takes a breath, but between the rhythm of her hand and the way she is caught off guard by the question, at first all she can do is give a little shake of her head.

"I don't want to tie you down," she murmurs, very tender but very serious, as though some tiny part of her is recoiling like an animal from a snake. She breathes in deeply, exhaling, her hand -- briefly stopping on him -- beginning to move again.

"I like knowing you're here because you wish to be," Avery tells him quietly, sitting up, her knees to either side of his thighs, her hat still on, her hand still working him.

Calden

Tenderness rushes through Calden. She sits up, and so does he, and suddenly,

suddenly they are so close, and whatever unspoken game they played where she had her way with him and he didn't touch her at all breaks. He wraps his arms around her and he pulls her closer, closer, until their torsos press together. The brim of her hat bumps his hairline. Then it tilts aside, and he kisses her, and it is,

like that kiss on her steps,

long and thorough, drenching and deep.

"Even if you tied me down," he whispers, a frank little confession, "it'd be because I wanted to be tied down by you. And here with you." And another kiss here, like a punctuation: soft and light. "But not tonight. Not if you don't want to.

"And Avery," drawing her just a touch closer, "I always want to be with you. Whether I'm here or not."

Avery

Her hat tilts back as he rushes up to her, wraps her in his arms, kisses her. She breathes in sharply, closing her eyes, her hands resting on his shoulders as their mouths seal together. They are still so close, even when he pauses it to whisper to her that it wouldn't matter, that he wants to be here, with her, and the truth is: she didn't think it was that serious. She wasn't sure if she was being too serious, if he was just joking.

But Calden seems overwhelmed with tenderness and reassurance, and Avery smiles. "Lay down," she whispers to him, her fingertips stroking his biceps. "I'm hardly worried that you don't want to be here, darling."

Avery kisses him again, softly. "I don't want to. We can talk about it another time. Lay down," this soft urging, quiet repetition.

Calden

The truth is he's a little reluctant to lay down. He's a little reluctant to put that space back between them. It is poetic, but no exaggeration, to say that his very skin and flesh sometimes thirsts for her touch. Her closeness.

"Don't make me wait too long," he whispers -- again -- into the remnants of that last kiss. And he sinks away from her, to his elbows, to his shoulderblades, to his back -- his hands trailing down her body, his fingertips skimming over lace.

Avery

"Wait for what?" Avery whispers back, her hands following his body as it leans away from her own, running her fingers over his chest, down his abdomen to her own body.

She touches herself through those panties, softly, with three fingers. She watches him as she does so, looks at him, as her other hand runs up her thigh, and her stomach, brushing idly over her breasts through the lace, circling her unseen but hardening nipple. She teases herself like this, panting softly, until she can't stand it. Until she spreads her hand over her breast and lifts it, squeezing gently, letting out a soft sound of wanting.

Avery slides down the bed again when she finally manages to stop playing with herself. She bends over him again, adjusting her hat, taking him in her mouth again like she just can't help herself. Which, truth be told, she rather can't. She moans around him, stroking him firmly, eagerly into her mouth, once again bobbing her head on his lap, playing with herself as she does so.

Until, far too abruptly, she stops. Until she pants over his cock, needfully, licks him, and rises up over his body.

She leaves him.

--

Avery gets off the bed. She just slides right off the edge, but it's only for a moment. She hooks her fingers in her panties and whisks them down her legs, over her boots, and a moment later she's on top of him again, not going for his cock this time but crawling right over his body, panting, taking hold of him,

taking him inside of her.

She doesn't stay close, all snuggly. That's not what the hat and the boots are for, the jewelry left on, the lingerie. She rises up as she sinks down on him, her legs spread wide to either side of his body, biting her lower lip as she takes him, inch by inch, into her pussy.

She is going to ride him.

Calden

"Wait for you," he answers.

Of course that's what he means. She knows it. She knew it, before she even asked. She has to know, because otherwise she wouldn't tease herself --

tease him

-- like that. She wouldn't watch him as he watches her, his eyes growing smoky-dark, his hands pushing up her body finally to join hers over her breasts, lifting with her, squeezing with her, swallowing that soft sound she makes when he arches up off the bed to kiss her.

He's a breath away from rolling her under him. She has to push him back down, and when she does he hits the bed with a groan, his fingers knock her hat askew when he tries to run them through her hair, which is why she has to adjust it

as she starts sucking him off again.

His head thumps the mattress. His back arches; his hips rise off the bed, he thrusts into her mouth. He's not so good at restraining himself this time, and his hands wander -- he flicks the side of his thumb over his own nipple, rubs his palm aimlessly over his stomach, grasps at the bedsheets. He bucks against her mouth. He grunts and groans and curses and

when she stops,

when she leaves him so abruptly that his cock doesn't so much twitch as move, jumping to the fanning of her breath, jerking to the touch of her tongue.

And when she gets up off the bed --

he outright swears at her, thoroughly ungentlemanly, gasp-snarling a fuck, Avery, where the fuck are you going after her as he pushes up on his hands.

She doesn't go far, though. And her actions are self-explanatory. She sheds her panties. His eyes follow them all the way down. They glitter in the half-dark as she comes back to him. He takes her by the waist and tries to haul her closer and maybe she lets him or maybe she doesn't; maybe she plants a hand in the center of his chest and pushes him back down. She wants to ride him, after all, and though he surges back up to her a few times -- the muscles of his chest and abdomen rolling under her palm, his mouth search for her tits through her bra or her neck or her lips --

he stops when she takes hold of him again. He stops, and he groans, eyes closed, head falling back, as though this is all he ever wanted. As though the touch of her hand, or her mouth, or her body, or any which part of her that he could devote himself to, was the pinnacle of his existence. He looks transported, his hands loose on her thighs, his expression transcendant.

She rises up and his eyes open, he watches her with that lust burning so potent it's almost dark, it's almost too intense. His eyes are fixed on her mouth, the way her teeth catch her lip. She fits him to her cunt and those eyes skate down, his brow furrows, his mouth opens but he doesn't make a sound. She takes him, inch by inch by inch, and his hands tighten, the muscles in his abdomen snake and coil, that cock she has so surely in her lovely hand pulsing still, moving still, so hard and hot that it's a goddamn wonder he hasn't simply passed out from sheer arousal.

Avery

Oh yes: she pushes him back down.

She lets him run his hands over her, to feel her tits. But she shoves him down when he tries to get up. She plants her hands firmly on his shoulders or his chest and looks at him, eyes darkened with lust, gleaming with it, every time.

It's more energetic this time when she sucks him off, both of them a bit boisterious now, unrestrained. She has had this building inside of her all night. The smell of beasts, the near-violence, the energy of it all has her in such a mood that she can't quite stand it. When she gets off the bed that quickly it is in part because she is seconds away from grabbing the meat of his thigh in her teeth and sinking them in, groaning, biting him not so much for his pleasure but because she can't handle the heat coursing through her.

Avery fucks him when she comes back to the bed, her hands on his chest all but pinning him down, grinding down on him once he's firmly inside of her, deep inside of her. She gasps, head tilting back, spine elongating, and simply starts riding him there and then, just like that, working herself on his cock. She doesn't need to tie him down to want to use him like that, fuck him like that. After a while she's not even holding her hands on his chest to keep him from sitting up and embracing her. She's looking at him, looking at her hands spread over his body, looking at his face, keeping his eyes with hers as her eyes flare and as her brow twitches and furrows with pleasure.

Calden

The intensity of it. Primal and electric. Almost too much to handle if they'd jumped right into it, if they'd started like this. She all but pins him, and she takes him in, and she grinds down on him and he shouts a wordless shout as he throws his head back. Beneath her hands his heart is hammering, hammering, there's just a thread,

just a frisson of the ecstatic cadence of the wildest hunt there, and even he wouldn't be able to say if in that moment he felt more the hart or the hunter.

She rides him then. She fucks him. It is not unloving, but it can't be called lovemaking. It is too primitive, it is too animal, it is too primordial. It is the drums around the fire, the moon off the spearhead. It is her hands spreading over his skin, claiming him and harnessing him not with rope, not with law, not with word but with touch,

with her eyes on his and his on hers,

with her cunt so hot and slick, riding down on him, rising up and clenching and coming down again. Her brow furrows but his has cleared. This is not a night when he mounts her, rolls her under, hikes her thighs around his ribs and wraps his arms around her ribs and pounds her enthusiastically into the mattress. This is not a night when she lays back and he takes care of her, spreading her thighs, licking her until she ran so wet and slippery that he rubs his face in it, grinds his tongue in it, all but rolls in it like an animal enamored of her scent.

(Which he is.

But we digress.)

This is not a night like those. This is a night where, quite simply, she rides him like an animal. Like he is the animal here, and she is the --

-- no term for it, except: like she is who she is. A queen or a wolf or a priestess or a goddess or a demon; herself. Like he is for her pleasure, a beast to be hunted, stalked, corraled, pinned, mastered, gentled,

but none of it because he must,

and all of it because he wishes.

There can be no mistaking his part in his. There can be no mistaking his willingness and his want: it is there in his hands grasping at her thighs, not so much directing her as holding on to her, channeling some part of his tension back into her. It is there in his eyes that hold hers, and the look in his eyes which is something like surrender but not quite; something deep and fiery and -- dare we say it? -- sacred, like a vow, like a trust unbroken.

It is there in his body too. It is there in the veins standing out on his biceps, the backs of his hands. It is there in the sweat on his chest and the turmoil of his body beneath her; the flex of his thighs, the clench and shudder in the muscles sheathing his viscerae. It's in the fullthroated, unguarded sounds he makes, the groans, the grunts, the way his head snaps back when she moves a certain way,

and, when he can't take it anymore,

the way he takes her hand, grasps it tight in his and pulls it from his chest to his mouth, sinks his teeth into the swell at the base of her thumb; muffles his snarls against her palm like that until it becomes hard to tell if he roars for pleasure, or bloodthirst, or the simple ecstasy of survival.

Avery

She's a cowgirl.

Maybe a queen. Certainly a wolf. Perhaps in some ways a priestess. Certainly not a demon, though sometimes a monster. But tonight, oh tonight Calden: Avery is a cowgirl. She has the boots and the hat and everything, and he's her animal. He's her beast, rather furry and very warm, and she is going to ride him like a beast.

After a while she begins to wish there was some sort of rein, somewhere to hold onto him while she really rides him, really starts bouncing on his cock. The thought of him tied down flashes into her mind, maybe not rope but leather, maybe loose, but

god, she loves his hands on her. When he strokes her thighs, holds her hips, feels her moving on him like that. She gasps as he's touching her,

"Wait, wait... waitwaitwait," and she's panting, shaking, slowing down on him, rocking on his body but not bouncing anymore, forcing them both to relent a bit. She reaches back behind her body, angling her arms, and unclasps her bra. She slides it down her arms, off her tits, tossing it where she left her panties. Now it's just that turquoise necklace descending toward her breasts. Now just her nipples, a softer red than the jasper in her earrings, and they are perked and hot and she is wearing only one of the three blue bows she started out with.

Avery starts to move on him again a little faster, exhaling heavily. "That's it," she mutters, reaching down to play with herself, to touch him, rubbing the slickness of her pussy over his cock as she rises and falls on him. "You like how I look like this, don't you?" she wants to know, leaning over him, hands sliding up to his chest, breasts not quite touching him but tantalizingly close. She works her hips on him, harder than before, winding in a circle. "You fucking love it."

He does love it. He groans, taking her hand, biting at the base of her thumb, fucking himself up into her as he does.

She shudders. She lets him, caressing his face, closing her eyes, tipping her head back as she starts riding him a new, just as fast, just as needful. Her cries start hitting the ceiling and god, fuck, her breasts are bouncing as she moves, as she works herself up, and the turquoise is bouncing against them in turn. Her skin sheens with sweat now, her cunt is all the more slippery for it. The things she's saying aren't even English anymore, they aren't words, they're just outcries of pleasure, of need.

That's how she comes, when she comes. Her hair downy but clinging to her skin along her hairline with sweat. Her mouth open, her hat tipped back slightly, her body bare but for jewelry, garter belt, stockings, boots. She comes, open-mouthed but soundless, tightening up on him, clinging to his shoulders, trembling slightly, quivering as wave after wave of enjoyment pulses through that sweet, wet pussy of hers. She whimpers a little as she starts to come down, her shoulders rounding, her eyes opening, her head swaying as it lowers, eyes finding his. She moves slower, rocking on him, her skin pink, her pulse thundering,

her hands stroking lovingly, adoringly over him, as though he just gave something to her, as though she's so grateful, as though she wants him to feel like this, too. Which

she does.

"Come in me, darling," she murmurs, stroking him with her body slowly, too slowly, torturously. Reaching up, she takes off her hat with one hand, runs her fingers through her hair with the other. "You can even roll me over and give it to me the way you like, if you want."

Avery smooths her body down over his then, finally letting him feel her against him: their bellies touching, her breasts to his chest, her entire form a slinking warmth up his. "Come in my pussy, Calden." A little whimper enters her voice, a little ache to her eyes, half-teasing, altogether sensual. "I need it."

Calden

Oh she's a sight. Oh, she's a glorious, divine sight when she loses that bra, looses those breasts. The cascade of turqoise draping her still -- like regalia, some symbol of her sovereignty and sensuality both -- shivering when she moves, rolling and draping and bouncing off her skin.

He can't understand how she's still speaking in sentences. He doesn't have the words to answer her; but then he doesn't need to. She's so certain of the answer, and she's right to be: she's right. He does love it. His eyes close as she begins anew,

as she rides him again, slow now, and even though when she told him to wait, wait, waitwaitwait, even though when she slowed to a shaking, rocking stop he'd thrown back his head and bellowed in sheer anticipation and impatience,

even though he didn't think he'd survive waiting he

fucking

loves it. He loves how she looks. He loves how she moves. He loves the way her breasts bounce as she works it up again, and he doesn't have the words for that either but oh, he has eyes, he's watching her, he has hands, he reaches up and cups her breasts and his touch is heavy and imprecise, beastly, pawing at her really, god.

That's what he holds on to when she starts to come. That's what he holds on to, cradling her breasts, holding them in his palms, as she loses her language and then her mind: as she pulls tight as a violin string, as her fingers clutch at his shoulder, as his teeth hold on to her palm, firmly but without brutality.

He murmurs against her hand. He groans against her palm as she whimpers, as her cunt speaks to him in waves and pulses,

as her hands slip from his mouth and his shoulder to caress him, trace him, pet him as though he'd given her something. As though he'd done his part quite, quite well.

Which is how he feels, really. He is still rampantly hard inside her; he is still all but shuddering with restraint and lust. Even so there's something, a strain of satisfaction in his eyes. Perhaps just a touch of -- what is that, something almost like pride? That she came on him. That she rode him and fucked him and liked it, liked him, came on that cock of his, so hard for her. It's an absurd way to think. He recognizes that; doesn't really care.

He shivers as she comes down to him. Oh that body of hers. He murmurs his pleasure as her stomach presses to his; her breasts to his chest. She's so smooth, so warm, so luxurious. He kisses her mouth as she takes off her hat. Her hair falls loose over her shoulders and onto his skin while she tells him

just what he can do.

He wraps his arm around her. He turns her, as she must have known he would. Such a sudden surge, like some invisible tether snapped; some gate ruptured. He bears her under in a great wave of motion, and then --

then he slows. Then he takes a moment, his palm under her shoulderblades lifting her, his back curving upward, his mouth going finally, gratefully to her breasts. He takes her nipple in his mouth with a groan much like relief.

Just a moment, though. Then he's aligning himself over her. He's slipping out, groaning at the loss, sliding back in almost before his next breath. Their faces close together, their mouths nearly touching, he pulls her legs around him.

She's still wearing her boots. The coolness of the leather, the scrape of the heels -- he's inflamed all over again, spurred on rather literally. Pushing up on his hands, his shoulders bunched, his body braced, there's little in the way of technique or finesse to this. He

frankly

gives it to her, hard and steady and driving and determined, his head bowing sometimes to watch himself pound into her, to watch her breasts move with her breathing; his eyes always coming back to hers, finding hers, holding hers so she can see it,

she can see the exact moment his orgasm becomes an inevitability, which is an instant before he sweeps her up with one grab of his arm, his hand; holds her ferociously close as he lets go of himself.

--

Eventually, of course, his bracing arm gives way. He lowers them both down to the mattress and then he rather collapses over her, the raw shouts diminishing to groans, then to pants, then to something approaching calm.

Then something low and warm; a slow laugh, not of humor but of uncomplicated enjoyment. He rubs his face against her neck, her shoulder, her cheek. He thrusts once more, lazily, haphazardly at best, and then --

well, doesn't so much roll aside from her as simply rolls them both on their sides. Her leg is still around his waist. His hand follows her thigh to her knee; her knee to the top of her boots. His mouth quirks against hers.

"For the record," he whispers, "I do fucking love it."

Avery

She's panting next to him, drowsy now, her breasts rising and falling on each breath. She's rolled onto her back, regardless of how Calden has positioned them, because she needs the air on her chest. Her hat sits on a pillow. Her spine is twisted, her leg over his hip.

"Good god," she breathes, sweaty and replete, draping her arms over her head where she lies. He strokes her leg, tells her that he does fucking love it. She grins lazily, rolling her head to look at him, pillowed on feather down and her own soft hair.

"It was the hat, wasn't it?" she teases him, rolling back to him, sliding her arm around his middle and pressing their bodies together once more. "Don't think I haven't noticed the way you look at me when we're out riding at your ranch."

Avery leans in, kissing him with a tiny nip of her teeth on his lips. "Or is it the jewelry?" Her lips spread into a grin as she reaches for his hand, drawing it to her breast, a firm caress even before she lets him own his hand and the way he touches her there. "Or just my tits."

Calden

He is happy to have his hand appropriated and redirected to her breast. He is happy to shape his fingers and palm around that gloriously shaped part of her. Even after she lets go, his hand stays there, caressing her of his own accord, lifting and rubbing and squeezing ever so gently, ever so fondly.

"It may have been your tits," he admits with slow mock-gravity. "It may have also been the jewelry, and the hat. But we really shouldn't discount the boots, Miss Chase. I'm quite positive they had something to do with it all."

He rolls onto his back, then, disentangling from the delicious embrace of those long, athletic legs of hers at last. Though -- a moment later he reaches over to pick her legs up, one at a time, methodically and lazily pulling those aforementioned boots off before dropping them overboard. They thump to the floor beside the bed, the heavy heels thudding.

"Oh, and let's not forget the garter belt. Or the lingerie. Mmph," and he rolls toward her again, rising up on an elbow to -- oh, it's almost inevitable -- put his mouth on her tit. Put his hand on her inner thigh, stealing upward. "I really can't get enough of you."

Avery

Truthfully, they did not spend nearly enough time on her breasts tonight. They were so hinted at, so well-adorned by the shape of her clothes and choice of her jewelry. They were so prettily encased in that blue lace, just thin enough for him to spot the way her nipples hardened with arousal and contact. But they did not give her breasts nearly the attention they deserve.

Calden tries to make it up to her now. She makes it up to herself, drawing him to where she wants to be touched, and touched by him. She smirks as he takes over, admiring them with fondness and flickers of renewing lust. He mentions the boots moments before he decides to take them off of her, tossing them aside, leaving her in garter belt and stockings and all that stony jewelry. She lays on her back, knees bent, elbows bent, forearms flat, propping herself up.

She watches him as he comes back to her, arousing himself just by talking about all the things that aroused her, and putting his mouth on her.

Avery breathes in. She thinks of just letting him languish on her breasts, lick her as long as he likes, but then his hand moves. His hand strokes up her thigh. And she shudders a little, tipping her head back. "Oh," she sighs. "Oh, my."

Calden

This is dangerous. This is a slippery slope. They're just coming down from such an intense bout of lovemaking, and he

is rather decidedly

heading that way again.

She doesn't stop him, though. And he certainly is less than inclined to stop himself. She shudders; he's encouraged. Her head tips back and he shifts a little, crossing his lower leg over hers now, leaning over her body. Sometimes it's almost better like this. He can be more attentive when the first rush of his lust has swept out. He can be devilishly patient, and even playful,

opening his mouth to play with her nipple ever so delicately, with intermittent, careful flicks of his tongue. Pauses, now and then, to lick his lips. Watch her face, and the rise and fall of her breasts, before he returns to her.

--

At some point his mouth closes over her nipple again. At some point -- possibly simultaneous, or close enough not to matter -- his fingertips discover her cunt. The truth is they're both something of a mess, but Calden has never cared about that. His fingertips glide, slide, slip between her lips. His thumb seeks and finds her clit, and then his mouth,

his mouth starts a long meandering journey down her body, moving from one nipple to the other, to the underside of her breast, to her seventh rib and then her eleventh, to her navel,

until he's made his way down her body, his own nearly at right angles to her. His teeth catch a garter belt. He pulls it away from her thigh and lets it snap lightly back. His thumb strokes her clit, rubs it thoughtfully.

"Would you object terribly," he wants to know, "if I tried to make you come again with my mouth?"

Avery

One round of fucking flowing into another is hardly dangerous. All one has to do is look at the night they met. The very. First. Night. He could barely let her go. She had to take his hand out of her shirt because if she let him touch her breasts skin to skin while they kissed in his truck they would have gone again -- round five. Or was it six? Or was it seven. Avery can't even remember. She remembers him all but groaning as he caressed her, not sure how he could stand two weeks without these tits, and how he genuinely sounded a bit agonized at the thought. She certainly remembers him asking her, as he lowered himself between her legs, if it would gross her out

if he ate her out

after coming inside of her not too long before.

Well, perhaps he remembers that she wasn't grossed out. She wasn't even hesitant. She all but pulled his mouth down to her pussy. They had sex until she literally could not stand it anymore. On the couch. In the bed. In the shower. Against the wall. They hardly even slowed down.

So truth be told, having sex not very long since the last time, even a time as intense as that riding, does not deter Avery in the slightest. She has the energy for it. She has the desire for it. And she slinks back into her pillows as he all but crawls over her, licks her, teases her nipple with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. She squirms a little as he touches her, strokes her, makes her whimper. She gasps when his mouth touches the ever so sensitive underside of her breast. She opens her legs a little wider for him, even before she realizes he's making his way down her body to fuck her with his mouth.

Oh, by the time his mouth gets to her lowermost ribs she knows. He's going to kiss her pussy, and the very thought, the words flaring in her mind, make her moan aloud.

She doesn't answer other than that. She just arches a little, her legs open for his hand and perhaps now his tongue, her fingers reaching for his hair. Of course she doesn't object. She's moments from pushing his face against her cunt.

Calden

He doesn't mind, really, when she grabs him by the hair and pulls his mouth where she wants it. He doesn't mind either when she digs her nails into his back, or smacks her palm off his shoulder while she's coming, coming, coming under him

or over him, or on him, or all around him.

He's never minded any of that. He does not find it degrading, or threatening, or suspected for a moment that she would try to demean him somehow. They have an unspoken understanding there, and it is a precious one.

So: her fingers reach for his hair. He intercepts her hand, if only briefly: kissing her fingertips, sucking her thumb, kissing the palm of her hand as though in blessing before he rubs his cheek into her hand. It is a heavy, animalistic gesture of affection, and one that leads ever so naturally to her hand tracing back to his temple, into the thick waves of his hair.

By then her legs are open for him. And his mouth is hungry for her. He isn't shy about this, and never was.

--

It begins with a kiss. A press of his closed lips to her clit, ever so gently. Oh, he is patient this time. He takes his time, and it is slow, and it is lazy, and it is gentle. He kisses her cunt like he kisses her lips sometimes, affectionate and soft in the mornings with the sunlight pouring over them. He kisses her and he rubs his lips on her; rubs the tip of his nose on her. It seems minutes on end before he ever parts his lips,

parts his teeth,

traces her slit ever so exquisitely with his tongue. He is watching her as he tongues her, looking at her across the golden expanse of her skin; across the blue lace and the blue stones, looking for her blue eyes. Looking for the sweet furrow of her brow as the tip of his tongue winds and wanders. Looking for that inhale,

that shiver to her thighs, the lift of her breasts,

when he first closes his lips around her clit and sucks.

--

He takes his time. He doesn't touch himself, though inevitably he grows hard; inevitably he grows so aroused by her taste, her scent, her voice and body that it's hard not to rub himself against the bed. He holds back, though; a sort of tease and a game for himself, to see if he has the will for it, to pare away everything but the awareness of her, and her reactions, and his own pounding pulse.

His face is buried between her legs by the end. Her fingers are tight in his hair, or she's holding her breasts, or she's grasping at the covers. She can do whatever she likes, only he doesn't let her touch herself -- catches her hands and eases them away every time. Murmurs to her, every time:

let me. darling, let me.

Doesn't fuck her with his fingers either. Only his mouth this time, even if it takes longer. Because it takes longer. Because it's so much more intimate, and filthy, and thorough. Only his tongue, and his lips, and realistically: his face, his nose and his jaw, all of it, drenching and drenched and shameless, moaning with her, growling against her, his voice itself -- its vibration, its cadence -- an instrument for her pleasure.

Avery

It would please her so much if he stroked himself while he licked her like this. If he reached down and jerked off. If he rubbed himself against her cloud-soft sheets to get some relief. She loves seeing him pleasured, pleased, especially when it's because of her body. Those breasts he adores, that pussy he worships. The way he looks at her when she gets on top of him, clad in lingerie, hats, boots, precious and colorful stones.

Her hands reach into his hair, so thick and dark and rich. She rubs her fingertips on his scalp, rubs her cunt on his mouth, whimpers when he teases her. But they have both been pleasured already; they take their time now. And yet, all the same, when she gets closer she's begging him: his fingers. Please. His cock, even better. She reaches down to him and he thinks she wants to touch herself but she doesn't usually do that when he's between her legs. He moves her hand away; she pants out a breath and grabs his hand right back, drawing it up her thigh.

let me, he says, and she groans softly back, pleading: give me what I want.

Which is when he knows she isn't playing. That she wants, badly, painfully, for him to come nearer. To give her more. To be closer. Sometimes,

like this time,

that closeness itself is what tips her over the edge.

--

Afterward she tries to draw him up. She kisses his wet mouth, licks his wet fingers, whispers with her hands on his jaw that she wants him inside of her. Kisses his face, the corners of his eyes, murmuring as she reaches down for him:

Please, darling. Be inside me.

Be close to her.

Be with her.

--

Later still, she wraps around him. She has her arms and her legs wrapped around him, her head turned on his chest, her breath panting past his bicep. Her lingerie clings to her with sweat; her hat has since fallen to the floor with everything else. And she murmurs, tenderly, a bit sleepily:

"Will you take my jewelry off for me?"

Calden

Calden would never, ever deny her anything she truly wanted. He would never hurt her if he could help it. He would never turn their lovemaking into some sick power struggle. Though it is true that sometimes his actions don't live up to his intentions, those intentions are always pure.

So: he does not deny her. When he knows she isn't playing. When he knows she wants, and wants very much, for him to give her more,

he gives her more. He gives her himself, his fingers, his closeness, his adoration, his focus. He gives her everything she asks for,

and more.

--

Later,

and later still,

when they are calmed, when they have wound down to quietness. She is wrapped around him, her head on his chest the way she likes to lie in his arms. He is drifting, comforted and comfortable in the last lingering simmer of their loving.

His eyes open at her tender request. He smiles at the ceiling; she hears it as a faint huff of an exhale.

And then his fingers blunt but careful, seeking out the clasp of her necklace. The weight of those stones pools the entirety of it onto his chest as he releases it. He lifts it away, hanging it for a moment in the dimness. Then she hears the stones cascading onto the nightstand, like a rainstorm in miniature.

Her earrings, then. He's done this for her before, but only once, and this time he does it by touch. He is infinitely more careful, and it takes a long time, but eventually he removes one jasper,

and then the other,

and she can hear those stones clicking against one another in his palm as he ferries them over to the nightstand as well.

Then her garter belt; undoing the tiny ribbons that strap her stockings to the belt. Undoing the clasps that fastening to belt to her hips. He tosses it to the floor, and then she peels out of her stockings, and when those drift to the carpet as well she comes back to him, naked at last.

He draws and releases a deep breath. He is happy that she is bare and unadorned, except by her own blessings and beauty. He nuzzles her temple, his arm wrapping her closer.

"I've been thinking," he whispers into the darkness. "It's been... so nice coming home to you these past two weeks. I've said that I can't imagine moving south and leaving the ranch in the hands of a foreman, and that's still true. But I thought ... maybe twice a year. Maybe in the late winter when the calves are older and the cold is starting to break, and in the late summer when the breeding's done and hay-baling hasn't begun yet.

"Maybe I could do this again. Buy or rent a little studio here in Denver. Live down here, near you, for two or three weeks."

A small pause, uncertain. He thinks of the morning she asked him to please leave her. He thinks of the sofa she moved into her room, just in case she couldn't bear to be crowded anymore.

"Only if you want me to," he adds. "Only if you can stand it."

Avery

All she has ever had to do is ask. And oh, how he made and sometimes still makes her wary with his willingness to give, give, give. Whatever she desires. Whatever she might want from him. It makes her nervous more rarely now than it once did, though. They have been seeing each other for something like nine months now. She has grown accustomed to his generosity. At least moreso. And he has understood, for some time now, why that generosity frightens her.

She wants so badly not to abuse it. But that's Avery; she worries far more about her goodness than anyone else does.

--

That couch she bought, right after they discussed it, is on the other side of the room, facing the bed. It's quite soft, the upholstery moderately breathable, custom-fitted linens held in the drawers of an endtable. Whoever might sleep on that couch could fall asleep being able to see whoever is on the bed, but unable to touch them. They have not made use of it since it was bought. But it's there, blending into the decor, reminding both of them that even when she cannot bear to be very close to him, Avery can still permit his nearness. That he is unique in this way. That he is special. That he is all the more dear to her.

The truth is, there may be a time when even that much distance is not enough. When she will end up in a guest bedroom, the door locked, the room dark, her heart rate slowing and calming... despite how awful as she feels about it. But those times are rare. Thankfully, blessedly rare.

--

He holds her afterward -- after taking off her jewelry as requested, after helping her out of the last of her lingerie, after she sighs and curls up beside him, tucking herself under his arm and resting her head on his chest, her hand over his heart. She drowses; he strokes her, nuzzles her, and quietly tells her that he's been thinking.

Avery doesn't tense up in his arms or flinch away. She strokes his chest idly, thoughtlessly. Once or twice a year. Maybe late winter, late summer, perhaps this time of year when the stock show is in town. Just a few weeks at a time, and he would even have his own place to go to instead of a hotel,

to live near her.

She closes her eyes. Her hand slows, and then smooths around him, her arm following, wrapping around his chest, squeezing him tightly to her. She doesn't relent. She buries her face in his skin, exhaling heavily.

"I think I would like that," Avery whispers. "Very much."

Calden

When he came home

-- and strange, isn't it, how he's started to think of it as such. Coming home to her. Coming here to her penthouse, which is neither his house up on the ranch nor her house that she shares with her family but a home that is distinctly, unmistakably hers. Theirs? --

that day and found the couch in her bedroom, he ached. Not because it was a reminder of how sometimes she could not bear his touch, but because it was a reminder that he was unique in the nearness he is permitted. He is permitted to be in her presence, even when she couldn't bear touch. He is permitted a key to her most private residence, where even her brother and her father don't live.

He is permitted. He is allowed. He is privileged, and it is an extraordinary act of courage that allows her to privilege him so.

--

He aches now, too, as she wraps her arm tightly around him. As she rubs her face against his chest the way she does sometimes, as though she wanted, and perhaps even needed, the very closeness that she sometimes cannot stand. His nearness, his warmth and his scent: his body sharing her bed, his presence close to hers.

His arm tightens around her too. He reaches out with his other hand, finds the edge of the comforter or the bedspread or -- something, something soft and meant to cover and protect. He flicks it over the two of them, that lazy cocooning they sometimes indulge in when neither wants to move enough to shower, to brush their teeth, to get under the covers properly.

They might still do all those things. But right now, and for now, he covers them like this. He holds her tightly as she holds him.

"Me too," he whispers.