He can feel her protectiveness. It is there, underlying the warmth, the welcome, the sometime wanton way she kisses and touches him. It is always there, and he understands it. Of course he understands; he feels the same for her, especially when she is tense and retreating. Especially when she speak, achingly, of all that she had once wanted and lost.
Especially when he remembers that she is at war. That she has always been, and will always be, at war. An incandescent, unforgettable presence in his life, the span and measure of which he cannot possibly predict.
Quietly, he is glad she has never dissuaded his protectiveness. She has never -- god forbid -- mocked it, dismissed it, made little of it. Quietly, too, he is -- in a way that perhaps he never quite expected to be -- touched by her protectiveness, and grateful for it.
They are lovers. They are in love. It is what they do. It makes sense; it is a beautiful thing.
He laughs, softly, when she suggests what she does. And he kisses her shoulder again, right where the collar of her dress falls aside to reveal her skin. And yes: she is so, so very fine; her skin unbelievably exquisite, even though he knows, and knows for a fact, that her softness sheaths a truly awe-inspiring strength.
"I love dancing with you," he replies. There he goes again: love, love, love. "When springtime comes, we should go dancing somewhere open-air."
And on that note, he lifts her lightly, gracefully from the ground -- as though they were already dancing, mid-step. He kisses her yet again, and each one different: this one light, playful-almost, lip to lip. A few strides to her bedroom door, and his palm pushing it open. Then her feet to the floor again, his arms unwinding until it's just his hand finding hers, holding hers.
"I think I'll bring a prime rib roast this Friday," he adds, "if your chef doesn't mind preparing it."
Avery ChasePerhaps it's strange, given what she is, that the tenor of her protectiveness is what it is. It is not a ferocious stance between him and the world. It is not an enveloping, quivering thing, shielding him from harm. That thread of protectiveness indicates, above all else, his preciousness to her. Her desire, fierce and aching, to keep him near, to not see him come to harm, to not see him lost. It is a delicate sort of protectiveness, non-invasive, non-stifling. He is just so dear to her, you see. And despite the war, and yet perhaps because of her strength, he makes her heart flutter.
Which it does, when he puts his mouth softly against her skin like that. When his broad hands cover her waist, lift her an inch or two from the ground and against his body. When he kisses her again, brushing his mouth against hers so lightly. When he carries her to her bedroom door, when the door whispers open across the carpet. He sends a thrill through her body, an animal reaction that forgets entirely what she said only a moment ago -- her own suggestion, to put on music and dance, in socks and stockings. That is not what her den is for, not when he is there, not when he is lifting her, touching her, kissing her shoulder and her mouth, holding her to his body.
Avery breathes in, reaching for him to draw his mouth to hers and kiss him again. And that she does, drinking him in, panting softly as her fingers bury themselves in his hair. She may be set down and he may be saying something about prime rib roast but right then, right there, in this moment and in this room, she cannot think about her chef or about Friday; all she hears is that the male wants to bring meat, heavy and red and satisfying, to her and her blood-kin. And her heart is not fluttering but thudding slightly as she kisses him, intently, intensely.
Calden WhiteSo maybe he doesn't set her down. Maybe he carries her in and he starts to talk about prime rib; he starts to set her down. Oh, but her heart is beating so heavily, and her hands are plunging so deeply into his hair, and whatever he was saying about prime rib is lost in a kiss.
And maybe her toes, the balls of her feet touch the soft carpet in her room, but his arms are still there, he's still holding her half-suspended against his body which is a body hardened and honed not by war but by good honest work. That duality of the Garou -- nurturers and destroyers, protectors and avengers -- is echoed in him. He raises his animals, he feeds them, he provides for them, he cares for them when they are injured or ill. He sends them to the slaughter, too, in the end; is well aware that nothing comes without cost. That always, safety and comfort is paid for by blood. That always, life and death are interlinked.
He is not a warrior. He is a herder of cattle, a keeper of land. But these things they hold in common.
--
In her room, near her bed, he lets her down out of his arms at last. His mouth parts from hers and he is breathing harder, he is nearly gasping for breath. He kisses her again before his breath is caught, and now,
now his hands are slipping around her waist, searching for clips and ties and zippers and snaps.
Perhaps they'll dance later.
Avery ChaseAvery reaches out as Calden's hands find her waist and run up her back. Her palm touches the door and pushes it shut, closes them off from the rest of her vast yet empty penthouse. His fingers find the golden zipper to that green dress.
She has no explanation for him. She knows none is necessary, not with him, but she still wishes she could give him one. I thought of you finding a place to live occasionally to be closer to me and it made me want you. You are so gracious and tender when you think you've upset me and it makes me want you. You put your arms around me and lifted me with your strength and it made me want you. You brought me into my den, towards my bed, and it made me want you. You tell me you are going to bring meat for my family and it makes me want you.
They're all good explanations. They aren't whole, though. He's sexy to her -- that's the word for it, shy as she might be about just saying exactly that. He's unbelievably sexy to her. But it's not just that. It's not the meat or his arms or the generous, rough-tender way he makes love to her, though that's all part of it. It's harder to put her finger on, or put into words, why she can't think of doing anything but loving him right now. For someone as articulate as Avery, that should be stunning.
It is stunning.
The dress slips off her shoulders, and she lowers her arms so he can push it down. She's wearing seamless, soft lingerie beneath it, nothing particularly special or exciting. She's wearing a slip beneath her dress so the silk doesn't cling to her pantyhose. There is something almost old-fashioned about undressing her right now: that conservative dress, that simple and practical lingerie, no matter how fine each piece may feel between the fingertips.
Once it is off her arms, that dress falls of its own accord to the floor. Avery is still kissing him, unbuttoning his shirt, opening it over his chest as he's helping that dress on its descent. She kisses his chest, breathing in his scent, going straight for his heart with her mouth as her hands go to his belt. He is good to her, patient with her, understanding, kind, generous, honorable, noble, pragmatic, handsome, good-natured, good-humored, hard-working, protective,
it makes her want him, it makes her want him, it makes her want him.
Calden WhiteThey have never really tried to define their attraction to each other. To some extent they've defined their admiration and love for each other; attempted, and on more than one occasion, to put some of what they feel into words.
But that raw, powerful attraction, the thing that drew them so irresistibly together from that very first night even though they are not, in fact, the sort of people to recklessly indulge in casual encounters and one-night-stands: they have not spoken of it. Perhaps they are too polite. Perhaps it is simply too personal, too private, too potent, too
all-encompassing to be easily defined.
--
Calden loves that tonight, undressing Avery feels a little like going back to an older age. He loves her conservative dress; he loves the slip she wears under it, so fine it feels like a wisp of air between his fingers. He loves her simple, practical lingerie, as though she did not expect to be loved tonight. He loves these things because it makes him feel
just a little
like maybe he's married, mated, or otherwise bound to her. Just a little like he has the right, and has had the right, to undress her in the privacy of her bedroom for years instead of months. Undoing that zipper, he has the fleeting fantasy of undoing just such zippers a hundred, a thousand times before. Undoing her bra, and slipping those straps from her shoulders, and kissing her shoulder again,
tenderly, right where that strap pulled into her skin,
his brow furrows with emotion. His hand opens over her back and presses her closer to him, closer. He finds her hand with his other, guides her fingers to the buttons on his shirt. Guides her backward to her bed, the backs of her legs brushing against the mattress, his hands leaving her briefly as she pushes his shirt down and off his arms.
Avery ChaseIn this, they only have the rights they give each other. She may only come onto his land and make use of his guest shower and eat his meat and drink his wine because he freely offers it to her. And even now, Avery is careful about how much she takes advantage of the rights and privileges that Calden urges her to accept. She had to be convinced that he would love it if she showed up out of the blue on his ranch, had to be told more than once that he would be thrilled to wake up and find her in his bed when he'd gone to sleep alone. Still, she's careful. She is slow to adopt these privileges. She does not use them often.
To some degree she feels ashamed that she does not give as freely. That she didn't offer him a key to her penthouse until she did, that she had to convince herself it was temporary to be comfortable with it, that she thought long and hard about asking him to return it after the stock show was over. She feels guilty that there is a couch in her room now, even one with a broad, single cushion to make it more pleasant for sleeping. It makes her ache that should he come to the city a few times a year, she cannot tell him he is welcome to live with her.
Just like it makes her feel awful, more often than she'd like to admit, that she lives with her father and brother... and has two other residences to run away to.
--
And yet: she gives him the right to touch her like this. To come into her den and follow her up to her room. To put his hands on her body, to let himself into her bedroom, draw down her zipper, unclasp her bra. She gives him the right to stay here.
His shirt is already undone; she has her hands on his belt, undoing the buckle. Her mouth pulls from his as she looks down, her feet holding their place on the carpet even as he's trying to push her this way or that. Avery isn't having it. She feels him press against her and feels him kiss her shoulder and sighs, even though she is resisting now his attempt to move her anywhere.
Calden must shrug out of his shirt of his own accord, then, if he will; Avery is unfastening his belt, drawing her arms back as the buckle drops to one side, letting her bra slide down her arms a bit farther and slip to the ground. She exhales, sighs, standing there in her pantyhose and slip while unbuttoning his slacks, reaching for the tab of his zipper.
Calden WhiteIt would sadden Calden to know that Avery felt badly, felt guilty about the compromises she has to make in order to maintain her sanity, and to be as warm and loving and giving and unselfish as she so clearly is. It would sadden him that all the things he sees as worthy compromises, as ways for her to balance what she wants with what her madness demands, are things she views as badges of shame, or weakness, or selfishness.
These, too, are things they do not talk openly about. Not yet, at least.
And truthfully there's so little room right now to speak of such things. There is so little room to speak at all, there in the privacy of her room. They are both half-undressed. He does, indeed, shrug out of that fine shirt of his. He does indeed peel off the undershirt beneath it, tugging it up and over his head in a single pull, hands gripping the back of the shirt. Both garments are abandoned to the floor as his hands come back down, hang loose and open at his sides.
She undoes his belt.
She undoes his zipper, and that button that holds his slacks up. He watches as they fall, and then he steps out of them, takes a step back to peel out of his socks. Barefoot and in boxers he stands before her, smiling a little, his hands warm at her waist as he draws her close to him again.
His mouth seeks hers, and finds hers. His kiss is a warm, dear, close thing. He works her slip from her hips, and then he starts to peel her hose down. They are saying very little now. There's something sweetly familiar, something undeniably hot, about undressing one another like this. Calden's chest moves with his breathing. His heart is a heavy, insistent hammerfall against his ribs.
Avery ChaseShe would not be who she is if she were not constantly trying to be better. She wouldn't be so respected, so well-liked, if she were not always trying to improve, seeing her own flaws before anyone else's come into focus, demanding the greatest things of herself before she dares make demands of others -- and she does make demands of them. She demands that they live up to their potential. Sometimes, first, she has to make them see it.
--
For a moment, they part. He steps back from her to get out of his slacks, peel off his socks. She smiles at him as he does, finds him smiling back at her as he steps to her again. Calden isn't urging her to her bed anymore. Avery isn't undressing herself at all. She slides her arms around his waist, kissing him. Kissing his jaw. Kissing his neck as he's drawing her slip down and down and off, letting it fall in a flutter of satin over her legs. Kissing his neck, suckling softly, as he starts reaching for her hose. She breathes in and touches his wrists, stopping him.
Her hand slides down his wrist to his hand. She looks at him, walking backward, over to that couch.
Calden WhiteSo he stops. So he looks down at her hand tracing down his forearm; the strong, sturdy bones of his wrist. He smiles again, small and quietly pleased, as her hand takes his.
His eyes lift back to hers, then -- his brow lining with the raise of his eyebrows. That smile, which has never quite died, quirks a little wider. There's a sort of questioning playfulness in it. A touch of anticipation and pleasant expectation as he follows her over to that couch.
The one she bought so that he could be near, even when she couldn't bear to be touched. The one that she made sure had a single, flat cushion; that she made sure would be comfortable to sleep on for hours at a time, or even all night.
Avery herself is never quite satisfied with how good, how great, how wonderful she is. She strives to be better, kinder, braver, truer. Sometimes, Calden can hardly imagine how it would be possible. But then, she shows him.
At the couch, he pauses. He waits to see what she'll do. What she wants him to do. A pause, though, as she starts to move again -- his hand on her waist, holding her still for just a beat.
"Stay close to me tonight," he whispers. "Let me love you."
Avery ChaseAt the edge of the couch, Avery lowers herself down, wearing just those black hose, smiling up at him, holding his hand. She is drawing him down when he tells her to stay close. When he whispers his plea, his request, his entreaty, if she will gift him.
"Silly man," she murmurs back to him, turning, laying back on the couch, drawing him closer, nearer, to cover her, to kneel with her. She doesn't know why she brought him to the couch. She knows it feels right, that's all.
Calden WhiteEven the hose, simple as it is, arouses him. It's almost absurd; not so long ago she wore an elaborate, erotic outfit to bed. Lingerie in satin and lace. Bra and panties; garter belt and stockings. In comparison, what she wore tonight was very nearly mundane,
and all the more intoxicating for it.
His fingertips trace her hips through the pantyhose. The callouses on his hands snag and catch at the weave. She calls him silly; he laughs under his breath. She lays back and he comes with her before she has to pull him -- though he bends all the more willingly to her as her hand urge him closer. He doesn't ask why she brings him to the couch, either. He thinks maybe he understands, though he wouldn't be able to put it easily into words.
The cushion dips beneath her as he leans over her. His knees sliding onto the couch; his body covering hers. He moves easily, familiarly between her legs. The hose slides smoothly over his thighs and his sides, but not so smoothly as her skin would. He comes down over her, kisses her mouth and her neck. Pauses a moment, tracing his nose over her skin; makes his way, as she must know he would, to her breasts.
Lifts his head for a moment, there. Shares a smile with her, wordless; a little sheepish, almost, as though a touch ashamed of his ever-so-predictable fascination with -- what did he call them? -- those magnificent tits.
And then, returning to her. Putting his mouth to her, closing his lips around her nipple; warm, adoring, enveloping. He makes a sound low in his throat. He puts his hand to her hair, blindly; threads his fingers into it. He could worship her breasts like this forever.
Avery ChaseIt's cool in her bedroom. Neither of them went for the thermostat when they came in, neither of them needed to. The heat between them is enough; the heat of her body is enough for both of them.
That heat builds. When he follows her, smoothing those rough hands over her body, his knees denting the cushion, their bodies making a rustling sound where they come together, move apart, brush against the upholstery. Avery slides her legs up the sides of his own, rubs her calves and the insides of her knees against him, smiling at the way it feels, smiling as he bends to her, kisses her, covers her. She wraps her arms around him, sighing a soft sound of pleasure that is already contentment.
Calden slides his body down hers. His abdomen brushes against her through her hose, through her panties. She inhales, softly, but sharper than she means to. Her hips lift to increase the contact, the pressure, aching for him. He doesn't rush. He strokes his face, his nose over her skin, over her breasts, looks at her but she's lost, her eyes closed, her lips parted in anticipation
of his mouth on her breast, engulfing her nipple in warmth and wetness, suckling at her, making her brow tighten and her lip quiver slightly. They touch each other's hair, as fond as animals, as primates, and her fingertips rub his scalp while he sucks at her.
He could worship her like this forever.
Avery doesn't even think about stopping him.
Calden WhiteHe loves this. More than almost everything else; as much as making love to her face to face, mouth to mouth, bodies aligned. He murmurs appreciation against her body as she lifts to him, arches to him, and as her fingertips comb through his hair.
For moments, minutes on end he adores her just like this, with his mouth on her breasts, with his arms wrapped around her, with his large body warm between her legs, warm atop her. It is a slow, languid sort of adoration; very nearly lazy. It is slow, and it is languid, but there is a subtle escalation there, a rise in the vital rhythms of his body
until he's growling low in this throat as he laps and sucks at her. Until he's licking at her like an animal, inexactly, lapping at her nipples and her areolae, her breasts, the skin over her sternum; pushing up on his hands and rolling up on her like a wave, catching her mouth.
Which seems to sate him. Which seems to tame him, if only for a moment. He loses himself in that kiss, bottomless as it is. Catches a breath and catches her mouth again, his hand running up her side to sweep her breast up in his palm.
Avery ChaseThe first night they met, he could not get enough of her breasts. He caressed her even in his truck when he drove her south a bit, muttering that he didn't know how he was going to live for two whole weeks without those tits, like he was already addicted.
Addicted is a good word for it. He sucks on her nipples and her flesh until he can't anymore. He licks her then, rubbing his jaw and cheeks against her breasts between laps, stroking her with the tip of his tongue lazily, inexactly, and every time he shifts his weight a bit his body presses or moves differently between her legs, and Avery sighs. She lifts her hips again to him, every now and then, letting him worship her like this until every few exhales there is a panting gasp from her throat, until every so often her pussy clenches a little, warm and wet and aching.
He's hungry then, leaving those tits to kiss her, and Avery moans softly into his mouth. His hand slides up to cover her and she does it again. Her own hands are busy, sliding down his sides, to his hips, tugging on the elastic of his boxers and pulling them away and down. She does try not to rush. But when she has his boxers down, at least far enough that they are out of the way, Avery reaches for his cock.
Wraps her hand around him.
Moans again, her lips pulling from his, her back arching. She starts stroking him, panting. And then her mouth does tear from his, her chin lowering so she can look down between them. Watch herself touching him, look at his body, look at that thick cock as she mutters the words themselves, biting her lip.
Calden WhiteHis mouth doesn't want to leave her. His hands don't want to leave her, either. He touches her so eagerly; kisses her mouth, kisses that moan from her lips, kisses the bridge of her nose and the span of her forehead as she lifts her head, bows her neck, looks down their bodies to where she's pushed down that last precarious article of his clothing.
He groans against her skin -- because his mouth is still pressed to her skin, wherever he can reach it -- when she puts her hand on him. His hand on her breast halts for a mindless instant. And then he's playing with her again, rubbing her, lifting her, squeezing her, and he's gentle with her because of course he is, but he's also bold, and unhesitating, and there's an animal heaviness to his caresses.
She says things. She says such things, such wanton things, and he laughs -- softly, his ribs moving with it, his abdomen moving against her knuckles as she strokes him off. And then he kisses her again, licks her, traces his tongue from where her teeth clip into her lower lip: from there and upward, skimming along the edge of her upper lip, flicking over that well-shaped dip of her philtrum.
"You just say exactly what's on your mind, don't you," he whispers. It's a gentle tease. There's a spark in his eyes, and his eyes don't close when he kisses her again. "Take your pantyhose off."
His hand sliding down her body. His hand dragging, pawing if we're honest about it, from her breast to her abdomen; swiveling about at her navel, sliding fingers between her legs. Rubbing her through that last, currently-under-discussion piece of attire.
"Take it off," he repeats, and -- as though he'd entirely forgotten what he was saying -- bends to her again. Slides down her body again; catches her nipple on the tip of his tongue. Lifts it, sucks it into his mouth, opens his hand over her breast all over again as though to keep it right there, keep her right there for the adoring.
Avery Chase"Not always," she pants softly to him, lifting her eyes to his again, teasing him by tearing her mouth away, evading his attempts to kiss her again. "I thought it the first time and didn't say it."
Which is the truth. When he was in her for the very first time, when they watched each other in the darkened glass of his downstairs rec room, fucking on his couch, when she was screaming and he was covering her mouth even though his orgasm made him bellow against her shoulder in loud, ecstatic waves. She totally thought about his cock, and how thick it felt in her pussy, and what a good fuck he was, and how much she needed that, and how nice it all was: the run, the meat, the fire, the wine, the scotch, the game, the banter, the body he bared for her, the mouth he put on her nipples, her clit. It was all so lovely, and she wanted to tell him and she wanted to keep it to herself, as though to maintain some vestige of being ladylike.
After all, it's one thing to slap, kiss, suck off, and fuck a man you just met. It's quite another to tell him while he's fucking you that you like his thick, hard cock.
Of course.
--
She squirms as he reaches down, rubs her body through her pantyhouse, through the soft little panties beneath them. She gasps softly, opening her thighs a little wider, her hand slowing mindlessly on his cock.
He keeps telling her to take it off. Nevermind that he's on top of her, and that she has his dick in her hand. She strokes him again, slowly, her brow tugging tight into an enraptured, fixated expression of pleasure. "I want you to," she mutters back to him, finally, barely able to manage the words. "I want you to take them off of me and kiss it." Her eyes open, drowsy, shining, as her hips lift to rub her belly against his cock where she's touching him. "Kiss my pussy tonight, darling," she whispers. "Will you?"
Calden WhiteNot always -- she evades his kiss. He kisses the angle of her jaw instead, nuzzles her beneath her ear. Not the first time.
She feels him laughing: the quirk of his lips, the sound moving through his chest, in his throat. There's an edge of a gasp there, a shudder as she strokes him a certain way, but the humor is real and deep. He nuzzles her again.
"Good," he whispers. "I might actually have blushed."
Then there's a polite discussion about who takes off her pantyhose. And also a polite request from the lady, which makes the gentleman's eyes gleam. His hand cups behind her head, lifts her for a kiss -- unless of course she's coy again, she avoids him again, in which case
he kisses her anyway, her neck or her breast or something, groaning, parting his lips, scraping his teeth over her skin. "So hot," he calls her, or what she says, or maybe he means that part of her which she is requesting to be attended to, which he is touching through her hose, at least until he starts grasping at her hose and tugging at it.
It's not the easiest thing to get pantyhose off. After a while he pushes up, a sort of wry playful exasperation in his snort of an exhale; he grabs the damned thing and peels it down from her waist, down from her hips, off those long golden legs. Once it's off her it's a wispy thing, but it clings to the couch and he has to brush it off with the back of his hand.
And then he takes her by the hips. He swings her around -- back to the back of the couch, legs off the side. He comes off the couch and boy isn't he in a hurry, isn't he just so eager, his knees thump the thick-rugged floor, his hands strip her panties --
-- wait, no. His hands tuck under the waistband but then he changes his mind. He leans into her, his body pressed as tightly to hers as he can manage, and he sucks at her breasts just one more time because he just can't resist and then, then, then he grabs her hips again and drags her right to the edge of the couch, opens her legs, puts his mouth on her right through those plain, demure panties.
"Mmmmph," he murmurs: low, growling, insistent. He's at her for a long time, his tongue lapping at her through her lingerie until the fabric is damp, is moist, is so soaking wet it's hard to tell if it's him who did it or her.
That's when he hooks a pinky under the cotton. Tugs it gently, delicately aside. He's looking at her with such hunger, such intensity, a muscle flashing in the corners of his jaw as he swallows. So hot, he whispers again,
looks up at her, meets her eyes, grins sudden-slow, a quick quirk and then a slow spread, as he leans down.
And kisses her. Ever so sweetly, ever so chastely, ever so gently,
right on that lovely clit.
Avery ChaseAvery is ever-honest, but not always bluntly so. Sometimes, though, she cannot help but speak exactly what is on her mind, as Calden rightly points out. Right now she cannot help anything. She cannot help herself but to stroke him like she does, rubbing his cock against herself and smoothing her palm over him again and again and again, nearly obsessive about it. She can't help but look at him, tracing her eyes all over his body, fixating again and again on, yes, one particular point. She cannot help but forget what they were doing ten minutes ago, an hour ago, only that for some reason it necessitated wearing hosiery she still hasn't gotten off. She cannot help but whimper a little at the thought of him blushing that first night, had she praised his body for being what it is.
She isn't coy this time when he kisses her, but she's resistant, wanting to keep looking at him, wanting to keep touching him, devouring him not just with her hands but with her eyes. She felt so animal when he brought her into her own room, following her with his body. She cannot understand the complications of kissing, which is why her affectation of human speech is so stunning and tender and erotic.
Oh, she squirms. When he peels her hose off, as they bunch and roll and come off in his hands, clinging here and there. Her panties have rucked down a bit with the effort, hanging barely onto her hips, but he doesn't take them off. She squirms, reaching for them herself; perhaps he stops her, pressing himself against her and lowering his head to kiss those tits again, worshipful, hungry, or -- to call it what it is -- simply horny. She arches, scooting away from his kisses until he's pulling her back to the edge of that couch, kissing her, licking her through cotton, ridiculous man, and then Avery is simply fighting him. She is pushing those panties down and away, not aside, bewildered by this bizarre behavior from her paramour, enough to be sitting up, panting, trying to get him to let her get them off when he's trying just as hard to lean into her, kiss her pussy, press those smirking lips to her --
if we are, again, to simply call it what it is --
hot little clit.
Calden WhiteShe's like an animal now. They're both animals now, struggling over her panties like it's a particularly choice bit of meat. Her hands push and his hold, she squirms and he seeks, she peels that scrap of fabric down and he shucks it aside and --
his tongue flicks over her clit. She pushes her panties down. He loses his grip on it for a second, loses that absurd little war in a flash, and then he simply capitulates; simply turns his coat. He's grabbing her panties and yanking them down and suddenly they are in collusion: she's drawing her legs up out of them and he's whipping that last little bit of modesty to the floor and then she's opening her legs and he's lifting them over his shoulders and stretching his hungry hands up to cup and hold her breasts in his palms.
Feels her heart beating against his wrist as he puts his mouth to her again. Feels her body arching, feels her breasts lift into his grasp; feels her thighs trembling when he licks her just the way he's learned she likes it. He's murmuring incoherent little praises as he eats at that hot little clit, that wet little pussy, praising her body and her sexuality and her eroticism
not the way one praises a pet but the way one praises a force of nature, a deity, a god.
Avery ChaseAvery, one might say, is used to winning.
But one would be wrong. She enjoys triumph; she seizes it with grace and purpose when she has achieved it, without hesitance or shyness. She aches when she is defeated, but she never denies it. She does not try to pretend that a true loss is a win. And deep down, particularly in personal matters or matters of the heart, she does not quite know much at all. Certainly not enough to feel as though she is always 'winning'. Certainly not enough to have come to see love as a war or a game that can be won at all.
--
There was one boy her heart fluttered for, and he was a rebellion for her, he was neither kin nor garou, and they kissed sweetly and hotly at a party and he tried to put his hand up her skirt and something erupted in her that should have been a warning and she slapped him so hard across his face that her palm burned and he saw stars from the pain in his jaw. It should have been a warning, but when she wept on her mother's lap,
because her mother was alive then, you see,
all she said was that she slapped him. Her mother stroked her hair and imagined a young girl's slap, a brittle but loud thing, fearful of doing harm. She was not at that little party, she did not see the ferocity in her teenage daughter's eyes, she did not see the flash of fear that came before anger in the boy's, or see the way his cheek turned bright, bright red. She cannot be faulted for not knowing, just as Avery cannot be faulted for not knowing. It was just a slap.
And that experience taught Avery to be so careful. The first boy she ever kissed tried to take liberties with her, he did not respect her, he thought he was entitled to her body, to her submission, to her. She felt in her body that one of the reasons the unwanted touch was such a betrayal was that had she desired it, it would have felt so very nice. She did not kiss other boys, or go to any more of those parties that she realized now were only flimsy excuses. She held herself apart, because she always should have been.
When her mother died, other teenagers whispered less about her sex life or lack thereof anyway. She did, after all, attend only the best institutions.
--
And then there was him, that kinsman she grew up with, who (she realized not very long after her little rebellious kissing with someone well and truly human) was the one she really wanted to kiss. The one she could never be with, because of their sept's rules and traditions. The one she tried for anyway, when she learned what she was, because it was okay now, it was allowed, she --
lost, really. If love is a war or a game, she lost.
There were other boys in between and there were experiences during and after, but Avery has never given her affections away very easily. She has been adored and she has been given love letters that she could not answer in kind, she has been admired deeply, but when it comes to love, the language of wins and losses and conquering and submitting feel alien. She loves Calden and Calden loves her. Their little war, their little battle over her panties is eager and heated and panting but it is ultimately playful. It is sweet, and hot, and her mind never thinks of winning against him.
--
She has her fingers in his hair when he pulls them off, puts his mouth on her again, in such a hurry
she whispers to him in a rush of slurring words, panting them out, her legs spread wide, her hand helping him bury his face right there,
oh! right there when he tickles her slit with his tongue-tip and rubs the flat of it against her clit. She whimpers, biting back a shriek, grinding into his face, her lips open and her back arched, body forward, taut as a wire, while he's eating her alive and playing with her tits,
"Mmph," she says, working her pussy against his mouth a little harder, groaning in the depths of her throat. "Fuck that pussy."
Calden WhiteIt's not, as they say, their first rodeo. They did not come to this relationship complete innocents, blank slates, virgins. For her there was a boy, and then there was a kinsman, and then there were other boys here and there; dalliances, flirtations, perhaps nothing more or less than physical releases. There was love, and there was loss, and somewhere in the midst of it was perhaps a far deeper and more permanent loss. Her mother, taken so soon and so young, felled in the prime of her glory.
Avery, blessed as she is, has lived a life closely shadowed by heartbreak. Even if she were not who she is, gracious and strong and good and brave, that alone would have taught her what it is to not win all the time. To sometimes lose. To know loss.
--
And Calden. For him, the typical story. The puppy crushes in junior high, in freshman and sophomore year. And then the growth spurt, the clearing of his skin, the broadening of his shoulders and the varsity letters on his jacket; the almost-expected romances and breakups and backseat-fumbling-hookups with the cheerleader, the captain of the girls volleyball team, the class treasurer. The girl he took to senior prom was a friend rather than a girlfriend, a neighbor -- insofar as five miles of country road could make anyone a neighbor, anyway.
After graduation there was college. There were late nights, more of them studying than partying; but there were parties, and there were cheap dates at the dollar theater, cheap dinners at the local college eateries that they tried to make romantic by dressing nice and asking for a table for two. There was a girl that he thought maybe about, and he brought her home to his mother,
because his mother was alive then, you see,
but then they graduated and he traveled and while he was away their ardor cooled. Their futures began to solidify. Their hopes and dreams, their ambitions and their goals. She, like his brothers, wanted the city, wanted a career, wanted something quite different from a ranch and a few hundred cows. It wasn't that he wasn't as driven as she. He was. But they were different species at the core.
And so --
And so he came back from Europe, from England and Ireland and all the places of his ancestors. He made his way back alone, and then his mother died, and then the last of his brothers moved away.
--
There were other women, in between and after. There were brief dalliances here and there; a business partner that was more for a few months. A woman at an auction, for a few weeks. And, if we are honest, there were other Garou and kin, other citizens of their shared and secret Nation -- women and wolves that he met on those full-moon nights, perhaps, when that full moon used to take him to the Caern. Travelers, once or twice, who like Avery shared the hospitality of his hearth and kindled in his heart some spark of desire. Like Avery in that respect too, yes, but also: nothing like Avery.
Nothing so deep and utter and unflinching as this, before. She thinks him so fearlessly generous, so terrifyingly willing to give and give and give. But the truth is he was not always like this. He was never like this before her. Not in this way. Not when it was himself he gave.
He was never one of those kinfolk whose hospitality extended to their own bodies. He was certainly never one whose hospitality extended to his own heart. He was never that sort of host.
And yet the first time they met he kissed her. And she slapped him. And then she grabbed his hair and pulled him down and
here they are now.
--
Here:
his hands caressing her body with such ferocity that he is nearly mauling her, nearly devouring her with his touch. His mouth on her, following the motion of her body, the way she grinds on his face. She's telling him to fuck that pussy, telling him to do this, do that, the way she sometimes does.
He is doing as he is told. He is all over her, god, until his hands rake down her body and grab her hips; until he holds her still just so he can have at her, just so he can eat at her. Focused and fevered, echoing her groans, burying his face between her legs: licking, sucking, nuzzling, her until her breath escapes her.
He loves it when she arches like that. He loves it when her voice catches; loves those intense silences, loves that shivering in her thighs. He loves the taste of her, the wetness slicking his mouth; the way her cunt grips at his fingers and his tongue. He loves the way her thighs feel, the smoothness of her skin, and he loves
the way it feels to worship her like this, to know her so intimately and so utterly. To receive her ecstasy like this, kneeling before her with all her glory and all her -- let's just say it -- gorgeousness laid out for him. Sometimes he tries to resist, tries to focus on her and only her. Tonight he can't help it: can't help touching himself, taking himself in hand, jerking himself off slowly but heavily, roughly almost, hard forceful backhanded strokes that have him panting, groaning into her cunt as he laps at her.
Avery ChaseTo be fair, Avery has also lived a life of power and grace and privilege, of joy and love -- her mother stroked her hair when she was sad, her father found her when she would run away and coaxed her back to community, her brother still comes to her on occasion just to feel closer to the mother he barely knew. She walks in the sun. Yet she knows enough about the darkness to be grateful for the light.
She knows solitude is sweet and it is dangerous.
She knows that gatherings of wolves feed her soul and make her go a bit mad.
She knows she does not care who Calden has loved, if he has loved, who he has touched and allowed to touch him, whether she is unique to him because of some special quality in her or some odd lack in previous encounters. She knows she knows not nearly enough about him, does not know anything about his schooling or his traveling, cannot even remember how many brothers he has. She knows that none of these things can explain or validate what else she knows:
when she wanted to run away and hide, she did not want him to leave. When being touched made her skin crawl, she bought a couch for her bedroom instead of telling him she couldn't see him anymore. She doesn't need to understand these things. She was not expecting them. She was not even looking for them. She is afraid to think too much about it, lest it break something between them that she is starting to think she will need to survive.
--
She gasps, and he hears the tenor of it as his hands are mauling her, and he gentles. As he must. He knows the difference between a shiver of pleasure and shudder of discomfort, a gasp of enjoyment or one of pain. He knows that sometimes, in his excitement, in his hunger, he finds that Avery is surprisingly delicate, that her hunger for rougher sex waxes and wanes and has a limit that is not quite as far as his own. That difference does not matter; the fact that he knows how she likes him to kiss her and touch her and lick her does. The fact that he can tell from this intake or breath or that soft sigh what she would like him to do: that matters a great deal indeed.
Avery leans back, sliding down on the couch cushions a bit, biting her lip as he goes at her, nuzzling her, letting her body wet his lips and his chin. She whimpers a little, her cunt pulling, clenching, and that is when he gives her his fingers, stroking them against her to wet them before he slides them slowly into her. That's when she moans, her body tightening up around the touch, her thighs tensing, her toes curling against his back. She shakes for a moment, all over, and he knows:
if he slows a moment, goes still just for a heartbeat or two, and then starts giving it to her rhythmically, steadily, a momentum will build deep in her core, one he can stoke like a furnace, faster then, faster now, keeping time with the way he jerks himself off, til her breath is quivering in the air, climbing note by note into tremulous reaches.
She almost cries out, but the words are gasps themselves: "Don't make me come yet," she pleads with him, something she's never, ever asked him before. She's bucking slightly though, whimpering. "Please -- please, Calden, I want -- oh, I want you to -- "
and words fail her, breath fails her, as she sits up, moaning, fucking his fingers and fucking his tongue, unable to tell him that she wants him inside of her, she wants him to come with her, she wants him now. She can't because, truth be told, she is already on the verge.
Calden WhiteShe gasps. It is not the same as the way she gasps when she is enjoying what he is doing. It is not the same as the way she gasps when she's close, or climbing, or on the edge.
It is not the same, and he recognizes it. Reacts to it, in truth, before he even fully recognizes it -- gentles instantly, immediately, his hands loosening, his fingers outstretching. He strokes his palms over her nipples, slow soothing circles, before his hands cup over her breasts again. And for a while even his mouth slows. Even his tongue is gentle, and delicate, and slow.
And so she leans back.
And so he rubs his face against her, and kisses the inside of her thigh, and puts his mouth to her and slicks his fingers on her and slides them into her.
She moans. He slows. He touches her only with his hand for a little while, watching her, and as that remarkable momentum begins to build in her he lowers his mouth to her, opens his mouth to her, touches her with the tip of his tongue and then the flat of it, with his lips, with his hands, until she is asking something of him that she has never, ever asked before.
And one would think it is an easy request to fulfill. Stop, don't, not yet: one would think it's just a matter of cessation, a switch flipped from go to stop. One would think, but
god, it's not easy to stop,
it's not easy to stop when she's making those sounds, when her toes are gripping his back and her fingers are gripping his hair, when her body is taut and shivering and he knows, he knows all it would take is to stay with her a little longer,
all it would take is three more slow torquing slides of his fingers, two more flicks of his tongue, one single, singular suck against her clit --
-- he stops.
He stops and he lifts his head and he is panting, he is stroking himself to that same precipitous verge. His pulse is a multisensory thing: a thunder in his ears, a pressure in his brain, a flashing of bright-and-dark in his eyes. He straightens on his knees and he draws his fingers out of her, pulls them out swift and sucks her taste from his fingers before her wetness has so much as cooled. He groans, muffled, around the taste of her. He's jerking off again, lost for a moment in the taste of her; the imagined feel of her.
Pulls himself back to the moment. Comes down to her, bracing his hands on either side of her. Licks her like an animal, one single stroke from her breast to her neck to her jawline to her mouth. Kisses her devouringly, grasping her by the hips, tugging her to the very edge of the couch. He still has his cock in hand, only now he's not stroking himself; only now he's pressing himself to her cunt and slicking himself down and
his mouth tears from hers, he moans aloud,
he enters her quite suddenly and stills an instant later, holds very still, very still; waits.
Avery ChaseShe would come so easily if he didn't stop. If he held his fingers inside of her and sucked oh-so-tender, oh-so-gentle on her clit, flicked her once or twice with his tongue, then she would fall over the edge, collapsing as she fell, unfolding as she fell, changing into something entirely new and entirely familiar. She would be coming, moaning, wetting his tongue with her taste, sweating lightly from desire and pleasure, both.
Calden stops, and Avery cries out in protest and relief or some mingling of the two. She clutches briefly at his hair before she remembers, and releases, and her eyes are open, looking at him, watching him,
her hands pulling him up, her voice making begging noises that have no words to form to. She does not give him time to suck her taste from his hand, she just wants him now, is grabbing his shoulders and accidentally her nails maybe rake or dig in from sheer need, but she's twisting as she pulls him, laying back on the couch. Calden is covering her, licking her, and he doesn't seem to understand how impatient she is, how close, because her hands are on his hips, her mouth open for each panting breath, her eyes watching their bodies as she guides him to her. Every so often, half a word manages to wrap around her breaths: something like please, something like his name. She cannot wait. She can't wait even a second.
And then he's against her.
And then he's inside of her, and she's already clenching on him, arching under him, starting to slide her pussy around him, starting to fuck him.
Avery's head tips back, her throat bared and her body aching for this. One of her hands is still on his lower back, on his flank, as though to keep him buried inside of her. She fucks him as eagerly as though they've been going at this for hours, as though she were on top of him, hungry and athletic and demanding.
Calden WhiteCalden groans, loud and raw, when Avery starts fucking him like that. Right from the start, without an instant's pause: riding him, working herself on him, using him in that way that -- really, let's be honest -- he has never, ever objected to for an instant.
And this certainly isn't an objection. That groan isn't an objection, the way his hand scoops her up behind the small of her back isn't an objection; even the way he comes down over her, turns his face to her neck, pants a harsh overcome breath against her skin isn't an objection. "Wait," he does say that, though -- "wait, wait, stop. Let me. Let me just feel you."
And maybe she does. Maybe she does stop, maybe she does slow, maybe she does wait. Merciful, gracious lady: maybe she lets him have that moment, a few seconds where his eyes are closed and his pulse is catching up to itself and his cock is just
buried in her, beating in her like it has a pulse of its own. A few seconds where he just feels this, her nearness and her wetness and those long athletic limbs of hers wrapped around him, her hands gripping at his back and his ass, pulling him into her. He does love that.
He does love it, too, when he gives her earlobe a gentle suck and tells her okay. He does love it when he starts moving in her, and she moves in counterpoint, and the two of them are conspiring to drive themselves out of their minds, he's pressing his fists into that soft flat cushion and leveraging himself to give her that good solid fucking they both seem to want.
There's enough space between their bodies for them to watch each other. There's something decadent about that, too. Something shamelessly enjoyable about enjoying each other like that, watching the wind and coil of musculature beneath skin, watching the bounce of her breasts, watching the shine of his sweat,
watching the way his eyes close and his brow furrows. There it is, then. There's that note to his groans. There's that look on his face, reaching, almost-almost-not-quite attaining -- the scattered mutters, something about god and i'm gonna and, because he does try to be a gentleman, he does try to wait for the lady to climax first, or at least ask her leave --
can i -- ?
-- which is all the polite notice she gets, or he can manage. An instant later he comes back to her. Comes down to her sudden and surging, wraps his arm so tight around her. Presses his mouth to her neck. Presses his body to hers, kinetic and powerful and instinctual as he goes past that point of no return into those last, forceful thrusts. He groans through clenched teeth, they're more like grunts, animal noises; he bears her against that couch and fucks his orgasm into her in solid, driven strokes.
Avery ChaseShe can't wait. She couldn't wait when she was sitting up and his face was buried between her legs, couldn't wait once she got him inside of her. She can't wait now, when he's wrapping his hand around her lower back and begging her to wait, stop, let him --
Avery whimpers, writhing on him, reaching for his arms, holding on, her brow furrowed tight and her voice winding into his ears: "I can't -- darling, I can't," which is the truth, because she isn't fucking him like this without cause, without reason. She can't wait. She can't stop. She's so close.
Her hands are clenched into fists against his back, her head turning, mouth against his shoulder, lips parted, moaning aloud as he moves in her, or as she moves on him, aching for pleasure, for completion of some nearly-finished bar of music inside of her body. She can't think. She can't form words anymore. When she comes, maybe it's when he's coming with her, gasping that he's gonna, gasping for god, trying and failing to ask permission of his lady, who never considers asking his permission for this.
Those fists unfurl, palms presssed to him, fingers splayed, and then they curl, her pearl-manicured fingernails digging gently into his skin, her legs wrapping that much tighter around his waist. Every breath she lets out then is a ragged pant, a ferocious gasp as he is fucking her, fucking into her, coming with her.
--
Avery can feel hear heartbeat in her pussy. It's a maddening sensation, each pulse going all the way through her. She shudders here and again, dizzy from loving him, molten, shaken apart, waiting for her limbs to come together as one body again. She gives out a soft groan, wavering in the air, her head turning toward him again, resting her brow against his neck, panting against the dip where his clavicles meet one another above his breastbone.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, when she can manage words again. "Darling, I couldn't --"
wait to fuck him, when she came in the room saying they should dance.
wait to come, when he was finally inside of her, giving her that cock she rather unabashedly loves.
But Avery never gets the rest of the words out. She shivers, kissing his shoulder, his neck, his face, wherever she can find his skin. "I love you," she mutters, over and over, panting it softly. "I love you."
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