challenge.

Mrs. White

Avery is at her penthouse. She's kept it, as they've kept Calden's pied-à-terre not far away from here. And of course she still has a suite of rooms at her father's house, one that was redecorated as soon as she married in order to reflect the couple on their occasional overnight visits for dinner or holidays.

Like the Fourth of July barbecue on the lawn, with games and the dogs running everywhere and extended families and maybe even Avery's packmates dropped by to eat ribs and corn and potato salad. Watching fireworks downtown and coming back to play with sparklers and eat ice cream and drink themed cocktails. Heading upstairs to shower and sleep instead of driving all that way north, Avery's golden head pillowed on Calden's chest, her hand covering his heart, his arm covering her smooth shoulders.

But that was some time ago, and this is now, and it's searingly hot these days. Avery is sunning herself out beside her little lap pool, reclining on one of her teak lounge chairs atop a fluffy white towel, her creamy skin gently darkening, the sun brightening her hair, her body clad in a surprisingly skimpy white bikini.

Her toenails are pink. Her manicure is french. Of course. And she is wearing her wedding ring and a pair of diamond studs in her ears, of course. Her phone sits on the little table beside her lounger, next to a coaster bearing a sweating glass with a thin straw and a cherry-orange garnish and some half-drunk cocktail inside.

Mr. Chase

It is searingly hot, but not unbearably so -- at least not in the first ten minutes after stepping out of the lovely, air-conditioned penthouse. And so door behind her opens, then shuts. Her mate's heavy footsteps thud their way across the terrace. He is wearing board shorts, and his shoulders are already turning red even through the tan.

He takes a seat beside her, setting a cold local beer next to her delicious-looking cocktail. And, leaning back in his lounger: "Is that a sunshine?"

Mrs. White

He has keys. He's had keys for the longest time. It was, perhaps, her first great expression of trust and love and welcome, giving him so much access to even her most private spaces. Her hiding places. Her secret dens, which are so lovely and airy and well-appointed that one forgets that they are, in fact, the dens of wolves.

This one, in particular. This penthouse. Her packmates and close friends have been invited here. Her family is welcome here, but they never come, for they know her best and understand her well, their own quirks of purity not quite so pronounced, as they lack the rage that exacerbates madness. But Calden is the one who, more or less, can come and go as he pleases. Can be here even when she is not, if he likes. Can drop in on her unannounced, if he wishes to. With Calden, Avery doesn't fear the intrusion. She doesn't feel she needs to hide it if she flinches at his presence. She can tell him that she wants to be alone, and doesn't fear that he will reject her for it.

She thinks often of that day she hid under the bed. She thinks of the couch in her bedroom here, and how passionately she liked this strange new idea, and how delightful and yet terrifying it was to realize that it was okay. That she wanted this. That she felt safe, even with him there, even at her worst, even if he had to sleep a few feet away from her. She thinks of the little cabin they built on his property, far from the main house, so that she would have a place to run away, and how much fun it was to build it alongside him. How he didn't find her less attractive or less deserving of his tenderness, to see her carrying drywall and wood in her warform. How he still held her as dear, as soft, when she slipped into bed with him that night.

So the patio door opens, whisper-soft. She senses him, inhales deeply of his scent, and feels his familiar footsteps, but she settles again when she becomes absolutely certain: her mate has come back outside. And he belongs there, and belongs in her den, as much as he belongs anywhere. Avery cannot help but smile to herself on the lounger, though she wants to pretend she doesn't know he's returned. She smiles anyway, like it's all still new. Like they aren't boring old married folk.

She is wearing big golden sunglasses. He is carrying a beer, putting his considerable, dense, muscular body on the lounger beside her. She can almost feel it, as if he were sitting far closer. She can smell his beer.

Smiles again.

"A Long Island, darling," she all but purrs.

Mr. Chase

She's so pleased right now, so pleased and content that he's reminded not of a wolf but a cat, curled and paws tucked and eyes slitted. She corrects him: a Long Island. Not a Sunshine. Which is a beer, damn it. He laughs under his breath, reaches for his beer, takes a swig.

She has a nice view of the city here. The downtown skyscrapers, the mountain range a backdrop. He reaches behind himself, turning a crank until a big umbrella opens to half-shade him.

"God, it's a hot one. We should get a cottage in the mountains."

Mrs. White

"Mmm," Avery hums. "Our real estate portfolio is diversifying," she murmurs, and then touches a fingertip to the lower rim of her sunglasses, lifting them just a titch to look over at him.

Look over him. Traces his abdominal muscles and his pectoral muscles and his arms, his lovely arms and heavy shoulders and perfect jawline. She breathes in, and sighs out, and lowers her sunglasses again.

"I'd like it if you picked the mountain property out," she says, still thinking about real estate and certainly not his body, or the heat, or anything of the sort. "Your taste would be so well suited to the environment. And I like surprises."

Truthfully, she likes his surprises. Because he knows her. Because he understands. Because he delights her sometimes with his shocking little truths about himself, his tastes that she'd never guessed at, his interests that run counter to what the world would like to pin on a Manly Man Of The Mountain Men. Or cowboys.

Avery breathes in deeply again, exhales slowly again. Every time she breathes like that, her breasts lift. It's not cold enough for her nipples to press hard against the fabric of her swimsuit, but if one looks closely they are there nonetheless. Perhaps only visible, intimated, if one knows their shape and location as well as Calden does.

"I am going to challenge for Adren," she says, at the end of this sigh, which might be quite distracting a thought from her nipples.

Which is unfair. Her nipples really do deserve undivided attention.

Mr. Chase

Of course he's not eyeing her fantastic tits in that skimpy little bikini of hers. Why would he do that? No reason at all, that's why. She inhales. He swigs. She --

says she's going to challenge. He blinks, lifting his head off the lounger. There's no cartoonish spit-take. He does swallow his beer, though, and slowly.

Sets the bottle down. Thinks a moment.

"Good," he says quietly. "I know you'll do well. Who are you challenging?"

Mrs. White

Good.

Avery smiles again, languid and warm.

I know you'll do well.

"I hope so," she murmurs, but she sounds confident. Breathes in deeply again, then slowly sits up, opening her eyes behind her sunglasses, turning so she's sitting on the edge of her lounger, facing him. Leaning forward a little, because she rather shamelessly does like to flirt, and just as shamelessly likes for her mate to look at her.

"There's a pack that has come through, a war party. Their Alpha is a Philodox of my tribe, and of appropriate rank." She gives a small shrug. "It seems opportune."

Mr. Chase

She sees his eyes flare with interest, primitive and unconsidered, as she sits up, turns toward him. She sees him looking at her. He's big enough not to pretend otherwise.

His mind is on the challenge, though. He's not easily distracted: not from this, anyway. Not when challenges carry ever more risk as a wolf rises in rank. Not when he knows it. "What do you suppose he'll have you do? Or she."

Mrs. White

Avery reaches over, picks up her tall, cool glass, and brings it over to sip from the straw. It would be lovely if they could both just pretend that this conversation is prelude to a sweaty, hot fuck on her well-hedged patio by the pool. If this was all bare skin and alcohol and summer sun and idle prattle to give them something to focus their restraint on, just to make it hotter in the long run.

Except:

she is a wolf. And he knows better. And she never wants to pretend -- not that much, at least.

Avery just shakes her head a little. "I don't know. My first challenge saw me driving all the way to Las Vegas, confronting a higher-ranked wolf of another tribe, nearly fighting a Ragabash. But... darling, I'm no Full Moon. My challenges won't be battles to the death, quests for bloody trophies, things like that. I'm a Judge." She implores him not to worry, though he voiced no worry. Blame the Long Island, perhaps; she doesn't usually try so hard to beat him to the punch. "My challenges are trials of judgement, not prowess."

Mr. Chase

In spite of himself he smiles, though his brow is furrowed. "Did I sound so worried?" he says, gently teasing. "I know they won't ask you to rush headlong into some serpents' den. Still. I don't know many people who aren't angry when they lose. Judgement's a good way to make enemies."

Mrs. White

Avery smiles, low and slow and sweet and warm. She huffs a small breath of laughter. "That Shadow Lord was. I was shaking when I confronted him."

She moves, then. She gets up, and turns, and sits beside him on the smooth, pretty teak lounger. She sits close to him, because of course she does. Their thighs touch and their arms touch and it's too hot, it's simply too hot, but she does anyway, because she likes the feeling of their sweat-soaked skins touching. She just likes his skin on hers, full stop. Her hand rests on his knee.

"It means everything to me that you said 'good' when I told you, darling," she murmurs softly. "Truly, it does."

Her hand strokes his knee lightly in whorls, then stops, squeezes gently. "You didn't sound so worried. I just don't want you to." She's quiet a moment, after that, coming to some quiet realization on her own, turning to him in her big bug-eyed sunglasses and tousled golden hair and sun-reddened cheeks. "I don't want you to worry about me the way that I worry about you. Which is very selfish of me, I'm afraid."

She tries to laugh. At herself, of course. Of course.

Mr. Chase

Well; she starts to sit beside him. But there isn't that much room on the lounger, and Avery's mate is a brawny specimen. He wraps his arm around her waist. He pulls her onto his lap, overheated or not, sweaty or not.

"Part of me wanted to say don't," he admits. "But I know you wouldn't challenge unless you were ready. You're confident in yourself, but never cocky. I've never known you to overestimate your abilities. So if you're challenging, then you're ready. If you're ready, then of course I want you to succeed. Of course I'm happy for you.

"I do worry about you." A second admission, this. "You were shaking when you confronted that Shadow Lord. But you confronted him anyway. And I worry about things like that. But I also love you for it. The things you do that worry me -- those are the things that make me admire you, too."

Mrs. White

Avery is, without preamble, hauled into her husband's brawny lap by her husband's brawny arms and perched there. This places her scantily-clad bottom firmly against his thin shorts, and her slightly-covered breasts within nuzzling distance of his rough jawline. Avery is not opposed to this arrangement, despite the heat, and casually and gently drapes each of her arms over each of his shoulders, sitting sideways on top of him and resisting the urge to wriggle and shift and get closer to him.

She looks him square in the eyes, even though her own are covered. She is glad of the shade he put up a few moments ago, even if it dims the way that the light catches in the green and gold of his eyes, the red in his hair. Even if shade and shadow make her think of darkness, and how often being in darkness with Calden makes her feel soft and sweet and sleepy and intimate.

No:

square in the eyes. She listens. He admits that he almost wanted to ask her not to challenge. Not to advance. Not to risk, not to become even more of a leader who will risk even more. She wonders if one of the many occasions when she begged her mother to stay, please don't leave, was a night when her mother was challenging for rank. She doesn't remember. She just knew she didn't want her mother to stop playing Monopoly with her and her father. She just knew she wanted her mother to be the one to tuck her in that night, please.

Avery doesn't blame Calden one bit for having that in his heart. She touches the soft little hairs on the back of his neck, stroking them with her manicured fingernails, a tender absolution for his confession.

He praises her, as he often does, but she neither blushes nor demures. What he says is true, and she knows it. She loves him for seeing it: that she doesn't think too highly of herself, that overconfidence is hardly the sin she accuses herself of. She loves him for wanting to see her exalted. She loves him for being happy for her.

She loves him for worrying. Even though it makes her ache for him. She never wants him to fret or worry or be afraid. But that is part of it: that is part of what loving her means. She knows that, too: remembers it. Not just from watching her mother walk away, and knowing what that feels like. She knows it from seeing the look in her father's eyes. Her brother's, too, sometimes. They choose to love her, instead of distancing themselves from the potential -- inevitable -- pain that will bring them. It makes her feel honored. It makes her try her very hardest to be good -- to make that love worth the loss at the other end. To comport herself in such a way, to live in such a way, to love them back in such a way that they don't ever regret, even for a moment, what it cost them to keep her in their hearts.

Thinking this, Avery leans forward and kisses Calden gently. Not on his lips, just yet, though these are of course the most appealing to her at the moment. His brow, very softly, in gratitude. Draws back, removing her sunglasses and blinking a few times as she lowers them, replaces her arm across his shoulder, shades dangling from her fingertips behind his back.

"I hope I make you proud," she murmurs softly, after a few moments. She doesn't sound self-doubting. She just sounds... hopeful. Truly.

Mr. Chase

Calden closes his eyes, receiving that kiss like a blessing. She's such a glorious, golden creature; when she removes her sunglasses and he can see her eyes, it's almost hard to believe she's real.

But she is. And he knows it, because from the very beginning her glory has been a present, potent, physical thing: a direwolf on the plains, a woman stalking him deliciously through the cellar. He knows it, too, when he lifts his chin and kisses her, catching her mouth this time -- an intimate, slow thing.

"You always make me proud," he says. "Succeed or fail, I know you'll do it with honor and courage."

He wraps his arms around her. He pulls her against him, body to body, both of them so indisputably there. "Just be careful, okay?" he adds, quieter.

Mrs. White

That pleases her. He can see it blooming on her so recently kissed lips, how he tells her that she always makes her proud, calls her honorable and courageous. Avery doesn't mind being praised. She delights in it, rather, especially coming from him. And delights in his arms, and leans into his body with her own, lush and -- yes -- sweaty and overwarm.

Avery nods, her response giving off an air of obedience, but then softening into something more real. She nods again, tucking her head around to the side of his, brow to temple, inhaling the scent of him.

"Yes, darling," she whispers. "Of course I will."

Mr. Chase

That brings a smile, and truthfully, it's the first real one since this discussion began. He gives her a gentle squeeze, then draws back; exhales.

"You wanna go inside? It's sweltering out here. I'll make you a sandwich."

Mrs. White

"Mmm," Avery muses, thinking about it. "But it's so warm and sunny out here," she tells him, sliding her arms further around him, leaning into him.

Which is very silly of her. It's not 'warm' out here, it's stifling. It's not 'sunny' today, it's searing. She does it anyway, sticking their skins together with sweat, kissing his mouth again. It's as lush as her body is, and goes on a little longer, but leaves her gasping a bit when she parts from him:

"It really is hot, isn't it?" she finally relents, easing away from him, slipping from his lap, picking up her Long Island. She takes a thorough sip through the straw, then reaches her hand out, fingertips cooled from the glass, and offers to help him stand. He doesn't need it. But she adores him; of course she offers.

Mr. Chase

It should shock no one that he's quite amenable to staying out here a little longer. Long enough to receive that kiss and return it. Long enough to let his hands wander, palms grazing over and past that bit of material that constitutes her bikini bottoms.

But she relents. So does he. His eyes, for lack of a better term, twinkle as she stands. He takes her hand readily, getting up, his teak lounger creaking a bit as his weight leaves it.

"So when are you going to challenge? Tomorrow?"

Mr. Chase

"After the challenge, you mean? Of course I'll be there."

It's a relief, the sudden coolness. Calden flexes his shoulders in that lovely dry air, relishing the sensation of sweat drying, heat dissipating.

"I'll grill us something tonight. Send you off with something better than a sandwich. While you're gone I think I might go up to the mountains, take a look at what's for sale. Maybe if your challenge runs long enough I'll surprise you with something when you're back."

Mrs. White

[DLP!]

Mrs. White

She nods, sliding her hand more firmly into his. She doesn't bother to adjust her bikini where his hand mussed up its placement a bit; it will be off entirely soon enough, she thinks, and not a bother to her.

They walk inside, carrying cocktail and beer, walking around the edge of the pool to the doors that go into the long, brightly sunlit living room. And as they do, she nods. "The pack I will be speaking with are nomads. I shouldn't put it off. I wouldn't want to keep them longer than they are willing to stay."

She looks over to him as they walk inside, their skins suddenly awash in conditioned, cool air, lifting the sweat right off of them. She can't help but sigh in relief. "I think if they're amenable, I'd like to offer to host them all for dinner at father's house. You'll come, won't you?"

It sounds like an assumption, but that isn't what is in her eyes or her tone; she means it as a true question. It asks a lot of kin, to ask them to sit down to meals with wolves. Strange wolves.

Mr. Chase

"After the challenge, you mean? Of course I'll be there."
It's a relief, the sudden coolness. Calden flexes his shoulders in that lovely dry air, relishing the sensation of sweat drying, heat dissipating.

"I'll grill us something tonight. Send you off with something better than a sandwich. While you're gone I think I might go up to the mountains, take a look at what's for sale. Maybe if your challenge runs long enough I'll surprise you with something when you're back."

Mrs. White

He makes her smile. He always has, really. She finds him utterly delightful, a marvel of pleasures. She squeezes his hand in thanks that he'll sit beside her at a meal, showing hospitality to those who might even fail her, tell her no, she's not ready.

In fact: it is that thought that makes Avery want him there even more. Just in case it isn't a celebration.

And then he makes her laugh. "Oh, that would be lovely." He says 'grill'. She knows he means 'steak'. Some of his own, often the best of what he has to offer. She likes that he still brings her these gifts, the same ones he wooed her with, the same ones he tamed her with: showing up at her door with meat in one hand, wine in the other.

They walk through the living room, bare feet on soft rugs and carpet, around the corner to the stairs. Avery is rather unabashedly leading him. She grins over her shoulder at him. "What are you thinking? A cottage? A chalet? Oh, don't tell me. It will be like the little place I made for you in the city," she says, positively gleeful. "Just don't decorate it without me -- you won't, will you?"

Heaven forbid he deny her the almost ostentatious joy she gets from spending money on throw pillows.

Mr. Chase

Neither of them have commented on the fact that she's leading him away from the kitchen and toward the stairs. Toward the bedroom. Neither of them are openly acknowledging the fact that they left that overheated terrace because what they had in mind would have overheated them more, resulted in heat-stroke. Neither of them are remarking on what they're about to do to, and with, one another, but: let's be honest. They're quite aware. That's what his hand in hers means. That's what that grin they share over her shoulder means. That's what runs an undercurrent beneath their current, playful discussion: chalets, cottages, a little place in the mountains.

"I wouldn't dare," he says, regarding throw pillows. He's just a little tiny bit dry, there. And following close on the stairs, close enough that their arms are nearly at their sides, "I'm going to buy a bed, though. Necessities, you know."

Mrs. White

"You have excellent taste in beds," she agrees, though he's only picked out the one at his house. 'His' house. 'Her' penthouse. 'His' apartment. 'Her' cottage on 'his' land. 'Her' pack house. These delineations don't bother them. She doesn't feel less loved. She doesn't worry that he feels excluded.

Not anymore. Once, perhaps, but it's faded. She rather likes that even now, married and mated and all that, she gets to slip into 'his' bed when she's with him there. She likes that she has this place to herself but that he comes here freely. Something about it pleases her, to have such separations with this constant exception running between them.

"Yours is very big, and not too soft, and I never get overheated," she goes on, describing his bed even as she's leading him up to her own. "That's why I replaced the one in our suite at father's house with a king-sized, you know; you're so very big, and I wouldn't want you to feel cramped."

She smirks at him, eyes twinkling, as she turns at the top of the stairs and starts walking him towards her bedroom. The cocktail is still in her hand, nearly drained to the dregs, and she takes another sip.

Her bed, notably, is still just a Queen-sized number in here. It complements the room without dominating it; its width is actually eclipsed by the couch that faces it, which was bought with Calden's height in mind, should he sleep there. Which he has, but only rarely. Only a few times. This pleases her. It makes her think that while she is far from perfect, she is doing okay. She struggles, but doesn't give up. Never. Especially with him.

They're alone in the house, but she closes the door behind them, setting her glass -- now only holding ice -- on a side table. Takes the spear from it and bites the alcohol-soaked cherry off the end, then drops the little garnish stick into the glass again while she chews her little treat, looking at her husband.

Mate.

Male.

Her eyes grow slightly heavy, more liquid. She asks, very innocently: "Would you like a shower? Maybe a nap?"

Mr. Chase

And he, in turn, likes that she still closes the door even though they're alone. He likes that intimation of privacy. He likes that she flirts, likes that she's coy, likes that she looks at him like she's seeing him anew, fire kindling in her eyes.

He takes a last swig of his beer. There's still half a bottle left; he'll save it for later. The bottle joins the emptied glass, and he turns his head to watch it click into place.

Looks at her, then. He smiles a little at her query. Well; it's more of a smirk. He shakes his head to both. "I think," he opines, "you know what I'd like."

Mrs. White

Her eyebrows perk up. "Oh? So you want to stay... filthy and lazy?"

Mr. Chase

Now the smirk flickers into a grin. He comes toward her, catching her by the hands if she starts to dart away. Or if she starts to move toward him. Either way: taking her by the hands, pulling her into his orbit again.

"I'd like to get quite filthy with you," he says, "and then maybe laze about in bed for a while. And then maybe take that shower. And then grill you a steak."

Mrs. White

Avery doesn't try to get away. She stays where she is as he steps forward, grabs her wrist, and it makes her gasp a little bit as she's drawn closer. Her eyes are set on his, a growing fire in the center of them, her pupils dilating as her breasts brush against his chest through those triangular scraps of white that cover her.

Filthy, he says, which is so much better coming from his lips than her own, she thinks. And then he tells her: laziness. Water. Meat.

She just sighs, a heavy and wanton exhale, and drops. Not a faint, nothing that dramatic. She just falls gently to her knees in front of him, taking her hands back and quickly, deftly undoing his shorts. With a tug, she pulls them down his thighs a bit and without any further preamble, without any lingering teases, begins kissing his cock. Yes: kissing it, kissing him, moaning when she presses lips to flesh, opening her mouth to slide her tongue against him, tasting.

Mr. Chase

They are ever so direct, aren't they? That's part of their intrinsic natures, his and hers; it's part of what drew them together. She never tried to hide what she was, what she believes, what she wants. He never tried to hide how he felt about any of those things.

Or, for that matter, what he wants to do. He's quite specific about it: the intimacy, yes, but also the absurd little details. He's so set on grilling steaks tonight. He hasn't mentioned it yet, but there will more than likely be alcohol too. Maybe red wine. Maybe whiskey. After all, his beloved is setting off on a quest. What else is a good Fianna lad to do?

Her hands slip out of his. He's still wearing a quirk of a smile when she tugs his shorts down, but it fades into a slow inhale as she kisses him. It's almost ludicrous how immediately he starts to harden. By the time she runs her tongue over him, his cock has risen away from his body; his eyes fall closed, his fingers in her hair.

There is a familiarity to this, and no shame. It's not discomfort or some imaginary taboo that makes him lift her to her feet a little later; it's simply that he wants something else. He kisses her, reaching behind her to undo the bikini top, reaching down her sides to brush the bottoms down. It's easy enough to get naked today, and then he lifts her quite easily, letting her wrap arms and legs around him as he carries her bedward.

Mrs. White

Avery would disagree: nothing about his cock is ludicrous, or even almost ludicrous. She sighs hungrily as she licks him, as he hardens to her mouth, her hands roaming luxuriously up his sides, over his abdominal muscles, up to his chest. She stretches herself out, getting closer, licking him again more fully, more wantonly. Her mouth is wet; her mouth is warm. Her lips are scorching when she wraps them around his cock and slides them down slowly. Avery groans around him.

Nothing about this speaks of a power imbalance between them; it never does. Not when he lowers his mouth to her cunt and tastes her, worships her the way he does. Not when she sinks to her knees and takes him. There's almost a sense of gratitude in the way they pleasure each other, as though it's a gift to be allowed to get that close, be that surrendered.

Perhaps it is. The sounds Avery is making as she starts to slowly, sweetly suck on his cock certainly have the tenor of thankfulness, of hunger satiated, of desire satisfied. She goes on for as long as he lets her, and when he pulls away, lifting her up, she looks at him with a glazed, plaintive shine in her eyes and murmurs: "Oh, darling, no, you never let me finish..."

This is not strictly true. If it were true, Calden would not know that Avery's preference is to have him come on her breasts. If he never let her suck him off to orgasm, he would not know how she purrs when he loses himself, how she rubs him against those spectacular tits, how she calls him filthy and murmurs about what a mess he's made of her as she's gently stroking him through the last of his pleasure.

However, it is certainly true that Calden rarely lets her finish. And no, not because he's uncomfortable or because she's not very good or because he thinks it's degrading to her or too vulnerable for him. It's quite well understood between them that he pulls her up, pulls her close, and kisses her like that because there is something else he wants. Something he wants quite badly, and here's another truth, more profound:

if there is any sorrow to be felt by Avery or Calden when the other is on their knees, it is simply that their pleasure is not pleasure shared. It's a faint thing, but perhaps there nonetheless: Avery, at least, likes to know that when she is enjoying herself, when he is making her feel so very good with his body, her body is making him feel just as nice. They are both so generous, always but especially in this, alone together, with each other. Their generosity is part of what defines them, and draws them together, and strengthens them.

So she complains: he never lets her. But her knees are sliding between his knees and her arms are wrapping around his shoulders as he kisses her, and she's moaning softly as he unties the sides of her bikini bottoms. Those fall away, dropping to her feet. She breathes in and lifts her breasts against his chest when he reaches behind her, still kissing her, tugging on the strings behind her back. There are two knots to be undone there, between her shoulderblades and another behind her neck, so while his hands are busy there, Avery's are pushing his shorts the rest of the way down, past his thighs where they drop of their own accord to the carpet.

Three scraps of water-friendly fabric. And then naked flesh, scented like sun lotion and sweat and purity and strength. Calden lifts her against his body and her long legs fold elegantly around his hips, her ankles crossing behind him.

The bed is close. Her ass hits the edge of her divinely soft coverlet just a few steps from where they stood at the door, and she wiggles it a little, luxuriating in the sensation of the fabric as much as the touch of Calden's hands on her.

Mr. Chase

"Sure I do," he murmurs back, amused, coaxing, though she doesn't need to be coaxed. Look how easily she folds around him. Look how elegantly she slides into his embrace, and how certainly he carries her bedward. "Just not this time."

Even in this air-conditioned haven it seems unnecessary to get under the covers. She touches the bed, and then he slides her back over it, hands sure on her waist. The mattress depresses -- though not very much, expensive and glorious thing that it is -- as he joins her, following her, his hard cock and his massive chest, his heavy body coming down onto hers. He kisses her, smiling into it; it's not a rushed, hurried, desperate sort of encounter, this. It's familiar and luxurious and -- playful, just a little; not the way one makes love when one is saying goodbye, because he is not saying goodbye.

They're just enjoying each other. They're just enjoying a lovely summer afternoon, and the sun outside is so bright, and the air is so warm,

and she is so warm, and she is so bright.

Mrs. White

No, she doesn't need to be coaxed, or convinced. She wraps herself around him and kisses him, tips her head back and lets him kiss her throat, rubs herself against his body while he's carrying her. She sighs beautifully, unresistant as he lays her back, lays her out, and covers her with his body. Avery is looking up at him as he comes over her, opening her eyes to watch him. She can smell him, every inch of him, sweaty and hot and male and Fianna.

And her hips lift, almost without her awareness or intention, to seek his cock between her legs and rub lightly against him. She's certainly not thinking about her challenge tomorrow, or leaving him, or risking anything. It's completely flown from her mind, and really: she doesn't expect anything dangerous to occur.

This is just what it looks like, on the surface: it is summer, and they both looked so very nice in their swimsuits, and the Long Island Iced Tea in conjunction with her mate's presence made Avery horny. Simple as that.

She makes this sound when he enters her; a soft groan, a plaintive little whimper at the end. The words don't form, but they hang in the air: just what I needed.

Mr. Chase

They both feel it. That perfect, poignant pleasure. She makes this sound. He doesn't, but his mouth opens -- his brow furrows. He kisses her right as she makes that little whimper, and then she feels him adjust over her, his hands pressing into the mattress, his weight sinking differently. He gathers her in his arms and then he's smiling again, like they're sharing some delicious little secret, which they are.

The secret is what's between them. It's his body in hers; it's what they both feel, which he sees in her eyes, hears in her breathing. He kisses her again as he rocks into her, and it's such a slow, lovely way to make love -- sunlight from the windows, perhaps the reflected light from the pool wavering on the ceiling.

A ceiling fan. Cool breeze from the air conditioning, circulating. The muscles in his back flexing under her hands; her arms draped over his shoulders or her hands gripping his sides. His brow touches hers for a moment while he fucks her in that unselfish, generous, enthusiastic way of his; a little faster now, energetic. He doesn't say it either, but it's in the air: he adores her so. Adores this so: giving this to her, savoring her enjoyment as much as his own.

Mrs. White

Sometimes they are so loud. Like the first time, and several times after. Sometimes every time he thrusts into Avery he's rewarded with some helpless outcry. Sometimes they are athletic and eager and he fucks her freestanding, bouncing her on his dick while she gasps and laughs happily.

Just as often, just as perfect, it's like this: what noises they make are low and soft. They aren't trying to be quiet to keep from disturbing some other guests in the house. They aren't trying to be secretive. They aren't bored or detached. It's just how it is this time. She groans and his mouth pants open; and then they kiss, and her hands touch his face, and he smiles at her when they part. She smiles back at him, because

she's in on it. The secret. The keeping of that secret.

--

She touches him, of course. His brawny back, his heavy sides. She likes to feel him breathing, and the way that breath hitches and uncoils inside of him even when he's quiet. She likes to know that this stroke or that one touched him somewhere even when he doesn't groan, just as he likes to hear her cry out when he makes her feel particularly lovely.

And she kisses him, her hands enjoying the flexing and roll of his hips, his ass, her lips parting to taste his mouth on her own. But soon enough there is less languor between them, less slow stroking of hands and body. A measure of fervency, of urgency, begins to drive them. She cries out louder, more frequently; she moves up towards him, fucks him back more eagerly. This is when she starts to lose herself. No wonder she pouted when he didn't let her finish him. Sometimes she's enjoying herself so much she almost misses his orgasm. It's terrible, just terrible.

Not that she complains now. Her hands tighten on him, nails dig in slightly as though she's grasping for purchase against a fall that couldn't be possible, not with that big soft bed beneath her. But tighten and grasp she does, all the same. And, gasping, getting ever so much closer, she pants out: "Do you want me to bite you, darling?"

And it's almost a purr, this offering. Would be, if she weren't trying so hard to breathe against her oncoming orgasm.

Mr. Chase

She holds him more tightly. He slides an arm under her; lifts her a little from the bed. There's something easy and athletic about the way they move together, sure of their own strength, confident in their pursuit of pleasure. She's so eager. He's so generous, smiling at the sounds she makes, dipping his head to lick at her breasts even though -- quite frankly -- the way they're fucking makes them a moving target.

She has a question for him. He lifts his head, a flush in his cheeks. Kisses her so quick and hard she knows the answer before he tells her --

though arguably, she always knew the answer before he told her: "Fuck, yes."

Mrs. White

That may be the first time she's addressed his obvious pleasure when her teeth bite down. Maybe not. But still, it's rare that she would say something like that, point out this small facet of him that seems strangely vulnerable, a quirk or fetish that belongs solely between the two of them. Avery would never want to make him feel embarrassed or exposed. And so she asks it of him gently, gasping the words when they're both so close that it's unlikely anything could decrease their ardor.

Look at him: wrapping her up, arching her back, holding her to him. Avery holds his shoulders, his arms, opening her eyes to watch him as he kisses her breasts, licks at her, tries to catch them in the midst of their bouncing. She feels faint for a moment, dizzied with lust, holding tight to him as she grinds her body more eagerly on his.

He kisses her, hard, and she feels behind it a growl, a savagery that he doesn't actually voice, and it lights her up. She wraps her arms and legs around him again, sliding her flat hand into his hair, clenching it into a fist as she kisses him again, pulls him down with her. Onto her, deeper into her, crying out when this thrust or that hits her just so; the sound tears her mouth from his, and then she's sinking her teeth into his shoulder, groaning noisily against his skin, her cunt clenching rhythmic and greedy around his cock.

Mr. Chase

Must signify something, that she points out a vulnerable little quirk like this. That she's gentle about it; does it when she's so vulnerable too, balanced on that knife's edge before orgasm. Must mean something, that he reacts like this. That he doesn't flinch, doesn't hide. Admits it so openly, and eagerly, and -- yes -- fiercely.

It lights something off in her. The kiss; the confession. And she lights something off in him, the way she wraps her limbs around him; the way she grasps his hair, not cruelly but: what? Claimingly, maybe. That's how her grip feels; that's how her body feels; that's how her kiss feels, and that's how her bite feels. Not the way one claims land or property or possession. It's not that. He feels claimed as though he were lost, and now is found -- as though he were groundless and shiftless, and now is centered. He feels seen. He feels bare in her presence, and fearless, and recognized.

--

So he comes. He was so close -- they both were -- and the moment simply splits him in two, touches him off instantaneously. His hand grips at her body. He thrusts against that arching of her body; their combined weight thuds the mattress against the headboard. Several times. She's groaning against his skin and he's shouting past her ear; grunts on every successive thrust. They're quite loud, but they're quite alone, and neither of them are ashamed.

Afterward he's thoroughly shattered. He touches her back; runs his palm up to curve over her shoulder. His sides move with every breath. His shoulder flexes under her teeth. That pressure is exquisite, resonates primordially in him. He wonders if he's known her before. Met her in some other life. Mistook her for a fairy queen, maybe; god, his people were mud-dwelling forest-spirit-worshiping primitives once upon a time, after all. The thought is ridiculous, and then he's laughing quietly, muffledly.

He rolls on his side. Then he rolls on his back, carefully so as not to dislodge her; likes, absurdly, these moments when he's softening inside her, and they're both sticky and sweaty but he's so loathe to leave her. Now she's atop, and he's stroking his hands over her back, over her ass, back up again.

Mrs. White

Loves him so much, she does. Calls him darling because he is so sweet to her, impeccably and heartbreakingly tender. There are times when she feels like she is utterly in shambles, when surely anyone who looks at her would see every flaw, every crack, every trembling insecurity, and wonder why on earth a man as strong and warm and steady as himself would wish to love her, or even be near her. There are those times. She keeps them as carefully hidden, locked behind a small key in a pretty box, as she does her jangling, scraping insanity.

But these flickers of self-reproach are there, tiny and fertile seeds of her madness itself. Sometimes it seems like pure logic, to take herself away from both humanity and the company of her own kind, if only to spare them the awfulness of her company. Sometimes she cannot even see how it would feel like rejection to anyone else; can't they see she's protecting them? Can't they see what she really is?

Avery trusts Calden, though. He adores her so completely. He treats her with such gentleness and care, like she is someone precious and worthy. He never makes her feel that she is fragile or frangible, fraying at the edges and cracked throughout. His concern for her never wavers in its respect; his protection never toes the line to control. He is not mad, she is quite certain. He is not broken or stupid or weak. He is not drawn to her because he wants to correct her. She is not his windmill to tilt at. He is entirely trustworthy, stalwart, and -- Avery believes -- intrinsically good in nature.

And he thinks the world of her.

Try as she might to not hang her sanity on this hook, it does help: Calden is good, and everyone who is sane thinks Calden is good, and Calden does not seem insane at all, and Calden thinks she is good. So sometimes, when she is curled in a dark corner of her vast closet, huddled in her own desire to vanish away, she repeats this to herself like a mantra, and it soothes her. She can trust this. She never speaks it aloud -- some part of her knows what an undue burden that would be on his beautiful shoulders -- but it calms her. It gives her faith that the whispers telling her to go away are wrong, and that she mustn't let them rule her.

--

It does mean something, too, that she reaches out to him when she's so vulnerable, so close, so hopeful that he'll love her back. It means the world to her that he doesn't hide from her, that he is ferocious and eager in his answer, that he is equally potent in in the way he fucks her right over the edge.

Her bed is thick and heavy and it takes rather robust lovemaking for it to hit the wall the way it does. It makes her cry out in -- perhaps encouragement or praise, while he's shouting and she's groaning and she's biting him harder, digging her nails into him to spur him on.

When she comes to -- did she faint, or did she simply go away in her mind, thrown into space or into the spirit world -- Avery discovers his hands stroking her softly, his body turning like a great beast, drawing her on top of him.

His cock is growing soft inside of her, and this is always such a strange and delightful sensation that she feels almost dizzily gleeful about it. She makes a soft sound, her jaw unlocking, her tongue sweeping softly over the marks she's left with her teeth. She holds herself to him, cradling herself against his chest while he touches her shoulders and her smooth back and her sweet hips, her curving ass. She cannot think of anything beyond pure physical sensation right now; she feels him under her, inside of her, feels heat, smells sweat, tastes his body.

The alcohol she had earlier is still saturating her brain. She sighs. "My dear, I think..." the breath is not coming easily, "...I think I'm falling asleep."

Her eyes are closed, indeed. And there is still a shower to be had and of course there are still steaks to be grilled, whiskey to be sipped, but she is drowsing happily and contentedly on his chest, stroking his shoulder beside the spot where it is so evident she bit him with her fingertips.

Avery cannot help but smile.

"And I think... if you'd still like me to... I'm ready to try tying you up sometime."

It's a musing, half-drunk thought, voiced aloud because she is fresh from orgasm and still wrapped blissfully in the closeness she feels right after the act, the perfect understanding she senses between their bodies. Her eyes flicker, then close again.

She sighs. "If you'd still like it, of course."

Mr. Chase

Makes some low rumbling sound in response to the first thing: she's falling asleep. Well, that is fine. That is a fine way to spend an afternoon, Calden thinks: making love and then falling asleep for a few hours. Also, steaks and whiskey later. Maybe on the terrace, when it's cooled off a little outside, when the night is deep and dark and the lights of the city sparkle all around. God, he loves her.

Not sure why one thing connects to the next but it does. It makes him happy. He's quite content here.

Then she speaks again, and his eyelids move. Then open. He looks at the ceiling. He looks at her, thought right now -- mostly -- all he sees is the top of her head, her golden hair; her golden skin where she lies atop him.

"Sure, but I left my lasso at home," he deadpans.

Mrs. White

The heat from the sun, the earlier exertion of swimming followed by the exertion of lovemaking, the catastrophic bliss that follows: of course they are sleepy, and warm, and replete. Sated, for now, til her belly starts to growl and his answers it. Sated, for now, til she wakes from a nap, stroking his skin with her fingertips and sometimes lightly scratching him with her manicured fingernails, shifting over him, kissing his chest and his shoulder and his neck until he wakes to her, answers her renewed lust with some reciprocal touch or a low, pleased sigh.

But that's later. She is drowsy now, thinking only of a little offer she wanted to make him before she forgets: this treat he floated, suggested suggestively, all but asked for, though she was terribly wary and a little afraid of following through on it.

She didn't ever want him to feel helpless, you see. Even in play, it unnerved her to think of him at her mercy.

Avery makes a small sound. "Oh, don't tease me, darling," she pleads with him, somewhat serious in her distress but not heartbroken. She moves her hand gently along his side, as though stroking him comforts her. It does. "I only want to please you."

Mr. Chase

Now he rises on his elbows, which lifts her as well. If she draws back to look at him, he shifts his weight to one side; pushes back her hair with the other hand. Finds her eyes, blue as can be.

"I love you," he says softly, "and I live to make you happy, too. I'd love that. I think it'd be ... quite something."

He sinks down again, like some great beast reclining back into slumber. His chest rises, falls: a deep breath. He smiles at the ceiling. "Maybe when you come back. I wouldn't mind being a trophy for a while."

Mrs. White

Shifts her a bit, and she slides to one side somewhat, though her body remains entangled with his. She smiles at him drowsily, happily, as he strokes her hair back; her eyes half-close with pleasure, as careless and unselfconscious as an animal.

Which, of course, makes perfect sense.

They open again, bright but soft. The way he puts it: quite something makes the corner of her mouth curve and quirk in a lopsided little smile, intrigued and faintly, dimly aroused. That flickering fire at the edge of her perception beckons, but she closes her eyes, nuzzling against him once more, sighing softly.

"Perhaps," she murmurs, now so coy and withholding -- she who moments ago was begging him not to tease her.

Mr. Chase

"Oh," Calden's tone is equal parts amusement and accusation, "now who's doing the teasing?"

Mrs. White

Avery just laughs, softly, propping herself up a bit. True to form, if she doesn't fall asleep quickly when she's drowsy, sometimes her energy seems to come back to her, especially if it was initially sapped by lovemaking. She looks him in the eyes, her own twinkling, leaning forward to nuzzle him. Her retort has evaporated in her throat, in her smiling cheeks, and she forgets whatever it was to be. Something clever, of course. Something coy and sweet and playful and warm.

She nuzzles him tenderly, nose against his cheekbone, rubbing her face to his like a damned animal. She wraps her arms around his broad chest and hikes her leg higher on him to hold him closer there, too. Hugs him like this, wrapped around him bodily, and then

her tongue darts out, quick and pink and hot, and flicks lightly across his jawline. Which is, of course, a little scruffy.

"I haven't even left yet," she says, amused at herself, "and I can't wait to come back to you."

Mr. Chase

When they're like this no one could be faulted for mistaking him for the stronger, the more robust, the protector and the warrior. Her skin is ivory and rose cast by summer into gold; her arm across his chest is shades different, her skin softer, her contours elegant. He's a base, earthy creature in comparison, heavy in the bone and thick in the musculature, hairy, scruffy, coarse. His hand bears callouses, which catch lightly on her skin as he palms her forearm, rubs. He sighs an inhale, an exhale.

"Well, don't stay away too long," he murmurs. "And call me. If you get a chance."

Mrs. White

Not just the way he looks: the way she holds onto him. If there were a hurricane raging around her, she would hold onto him like this, just more tightly. No one would be able to tell, even in that hurricane, that in many ways her embrace is meant to protect him, and that this in no way precludes the fact that she is also seeking his steadiness, his strength, his stability. It goes both ways. It always has.

"Of course, darling," she murmurs back, softly. "Of course I will. I promise."

Mr. Chase

Of course she promises.

Of course he believes her promise, because he knows her; he knows that her word means something. It means everything. He's never known her to lie, not once.

He smiles; he feels warm inside to out, but he feels -- wistful, too. She is, after all, departing on a quest. They both know what that could mean. They both know what it could mean every single time they part. It is part and parcel of who and what they are.

His hand squeezes her forearm gently. Then tugs: he pulls her over him, slidingly and intimately, wrapping his arms around her waist as she settles. "Come here," he whispers. "We've got hours 'til dinnertime."