her family, her mother.

witch

That's how it is the second time. Staying up all night, they both said. Fucking. Fooling around. He pulls her onto him and she smiles for it: blossoms over her face, smooth and open, even as her thighs are spreading over his lap: smooth. Open. Leans over him like that, her hands soft on his chest, her mouth soft on his lips. Don't doubt that she likes this. Or him.

Kisses him, hands running up his sides and over his arms. Kisses him with his hands cupping and squeezing and stroking her breasts, thumbing over her nipples. Kisses him until she's wet, until her breath is coming quicker, until she's reaching down to touch him, take hold of him, guide him into her.

Perhaps it's a surprise that this is no teasing, slow, grinding thing. At first perhaps: the slow rolling of her hips, the way she watches him, and his eyes, and the bursts of light behind them. Even remember this, from before, and wants to see his face where before she only heard his breath catch: Devon lifts his hand and licks his fingers again, sucks them into her mouth, her eyes locked on his.

Shows him where to put that wet finger after. Winds her hips in heavy, aching circles.

But that doesn't last. The laziness of it, the languor. Doesn't take long for something to kick up in her, and then she's not so much riding him as bouncing on him, gasping, crying out little wordless encouragements that occasionally -- only occasionally -- form words.

Like fuck me.

--

God, but she's lazy after all that. Comes against him with her breasts to his chest, her mouth turned, lips open against his arm. Holds onto him like an anchor, like a rock, while her body quivers, trembles, comes down. Works herself on him only a little, grinding here and there, but only a few seconds; she gives up. Gives in. Relaxes on top of him.

A lie to say she's completely worn out. She does doze, though. Falls into a little snooze on his chest, her sighs making little murmurs of satiation that ripple and curl across his skin. After some time of this she gets a crick in her neck, grunts softly, pushes up, looks sleepily at him.

Kisses him. It's not lustful. It usually is. It's not, though. It's just a kiss, soft and sort of sweet, before she climbs off of him and curls up beside him and just... decides to go to sleep.

Not before she takes his arm, though. Is using one as a pillow. Quite decisively pulls the other one around her like a blanket. It's up to Rafa if he covers them or not. Devon's asleep again already, heavy and motionless.

--

So much for staying up all night, perhaps.

Except: she isn't exhausted. She just wants to sleep with him. Doesn't say it, doesn't make any sense of it, just wants to sleep with him, naked and entwined and thoughtless the way she is only thoughtless after being rather soundly and completely fucked. Twice.

And so it is that she wakes, not even that many hours later, and turns her head to look at him. Slips from him and goes to the bathroom. Pees. Washes up a bit: cleans makeup off her face, strips those socks off finally.

But then her feet are cold. And she's coming with dancing little steps back to him in the dark, hopping into bed, wiggling down into the warm covers with him. Facing him now. Belly to belly, breasts to his chest. Kissing his chest. Urging him awake, if he's not already. Laughing softly when he begins to react, respond:

kiss her back. Touch her, too.

Maybe it's sort of rough, then. Her rolling onto his back, her thighs opening again for him. Soon as he's awake. As soon as he's hard again, wanting again, ready for her: he finds her ready for him, too. His cock is poised at her opening and she's whispering against him:

"Slow, Rafa," like a reminder, or a plea, but

she's kissing him so hard, groaning into his mouth when he pushes into her. Rocking with him on the bed, wrapping her legs high and tight around him.

The headboard goes back to knocking against the wall, but it's late now, and someone wakes, and they pound on the wall, which makes the -- currently moaning, currently quite distracted -- girl he's fucking break off her kiss and laugh, muffling it a little.

She shushes him, winding her arms around his neck, drawing him back down to her mouth. Her legs tighten around him, pull him closer. Her cunt squeezes him. "Shh," she's murmuring, like she's saying something else entirely. "Waking everyone up, fucking me like that,"

yes. Yes. Saying something else entirely. Something not shushing, not slowing. Something more in keeping with the way her body is holding him, drawing him in, refusing to let him go.

--

Eventually they do sleep. For real this time. She's gathered up in his arms and sighing against his chest and drowsy from the darkness and the sex and his warmth. She's not thinking about Boston, except

after what seems like only a few hours, she is. Her phone is going off, playing some song

hey you
where's your blood
where are your bones
how come you're invisible

and she's twisting to grab it, turn it off. Still dark outside, but she doesn't curl up against him again because then she won't be ready, she might miss her flight, and even Devon knows how hard she'd cry if that happened.

She does turn the song off. And puts her phone down. But she's sitting up, absolutely forcing herself to do so. She's starving. She's bleary-eyed. She's so warm in bed and they're both so naked and though she sits up she folds over his side, resting her cheek on his arm.

Looks down his body. Down his back. Appreciates his ass where the blanket has fallen away a bit and shows her the smooth slope of his spine down to those surprisingly muscular, well-shaped buttocks.

Sleepily reaches down and runs her palm in a light, rather tender caress along one.

"Butt," Devon murmurs, fondly and contentedly, and gives it a squeeze. She stops then, covering him up with the sheet, draped over his side, closing her eyes. Lays like that for a minute, maybe. Less.

"Have to go in a couple hours," she says softly, without opening them. "Need to shower. Need to eat." Yawns, big and wide and full. "Put clothes on, I guess."

wolfman

Wolf and girl in her room all night. They fuck

and fuck

and fuck

and fuck

and in between they lie together in that ever more tousled bed. He doesn't say much. His hands trace her body. Rough palms. Inelegant fingers. Touches her like he's learning about her, putting the pieces together in his mind. Sometimes he touches her breasts. Sometimes he touches her cunt, explores her where she's wet and filthy, doesn't seem to mind.

Mostly he just touches her back. Her arms. Her hair, her face. All those parts of her he gets to see every day but doesn't seem to get to touch too often. Seems like girl's always around these days, but so rarely actually there. Always a slender shadow at the edge of his vision. Wild thing in the clearing. Sylph in the woods. Rare that wolf has her like this, all to himself.

--

Every time she smells a little more like him. Every time her hair is a little wilder, a little thicker, a little darker to his eyes. Every time it starts a little slower, goes a little longer; he's lazier, and then simply more weary, wearing himself thin because he just can't seem to get enough of her.

Never tells her that. Never really tells her much of anything. But there's that time she pulls his arms around her like a blanket and arousal flares in him with no better reason than that it can. There's that time she slips from the bed to wash, to pee, comes back and finds him sitting up in bed, something about the brace of his arms and the curve of his back feral, animal, a second away from dropping to all fours and sniffing the floor for her scent.

Something about the way wolf looks at her as she comes skipping hopping bouncing across the room. She dives into bed and he seizes her right up, rolls her roughly under him like prey caught, scent found. She doesn't have to kiss or touch him to get him to respond. He has his mouth on her tits, he's eating at her. She has to remind him,

slow, Rafa,

whimpers that little plea out and then he's sinking into her. They wake the neighbors. She laughs at the neighbors, or maybe at him. Winds him up in her long arms, long legs, tangles him up in his own lust. Holds him so deep inside when he comes, silent and burning, hands clutching the sheets so hard he pulls a corner loose.

--

Sooner or later they have to sleep. Limit to how much the body can bear. Fucked themselves raw and sensitive and the last time was so slow. Even he didn't have it in him to flip her over and pound her. Even he didn't have it in him to be so rough, so savage, so brutal.

Was almost gentle, then.

Was lazy, and gasping, and aching.

Girl falls asleep wrapped up in his big arms. Skinny thing sighing against his chest. Burrowed against his heartbeat. Soft skin. Soft thighs. Soft.

--

Alarm blaring some song he doesn't know. Girl twisting in his arms and slipping away. Wolf rolls halfawake after her, ends up with face buried in the rumpled sheets. Somehow topsheet's half caught under him. Somehow comforters have half slid off the bed.

Girl's sitting up. Still dark outside. Girl's leaning over him, thin body against his arm. Feels like her thigh's about the size of his bicep sometimes, and yet there's such warmth in her. Just have to hunt for it sometimes. Her feet can be blocks of ice. She's rubbing his ass, calling it a butt, and wolf makes some disgruntled noise; what the fuck, girl. Girl stops and tells him she's leaving. Getting up, showering, eating, getting dressed.

Wolf opens his eyes. Sees the clock. Early-ass-o-clock is what it says. Wolf rolls slowly, lazily, titanically onto his back under her; so gradual a shift as to be a seismic event. Wolf says nothing, just starts gathering her up in his arms and arranging her. Face goes here, tucked in the curve of his neck and shoulder. Breasts go here, pressed against his chest. Arms go here, slipped under his arms and hands tucked under his shoulderblades. Belly goes here, pressed against his. Legs go here, and here, spread to either side of his thighs.

Cunt goes here. Hot against his hardening cock. Wolf's barely awake but his intentions can't be clearer. Couple of hours she said. It's enough time he thinks. Enough time to shower and eat and dress even if they threw an early morning fuck in.

witch

Disgruntled noise; she drowses, argues, protests: "Like your butt."

Her eyes catch the corner of bedsheet he dislodged last night. Doesn't remember that. Wonders who did it. She strokes her hand idly, lightly over his back, fingertips sliding smoothly along the dip of his spine.

It is very, very early. Dark, yet. Has to be down in Denver, at the airport, by ten. Lines are long. Everyone is flying: into the city, out of the city. Dawn is some measure off. Couple hours is long enough to eat a solid meal and shower and do her hair and her makeup and not have to rush any of it.

He rolls. Pulls her closer. And she goes drowsily, easily, resting her face where he puts it, winding her arms around him, warming her hands under him. Even puts her leg over him. Isn't til Rafael has his hand on her hips, urging her closer to his cock, feels how he's getting hard, that she knows what he wants. What he's after.

Her lips touch the corners of his eyes. The heavy ridge of his brows. His cheekbones. She kisses him soft.

"All right," she murmurs, just before she kisses his mouth. She's not ready yet; she kisses him though, long and slow and wet, until she is. Until she's sliding softly against the head of his cock, gasping softly at the feel of his erection. Doesn't say another word.

wolfman

Wolf doesn't know exactly when she needs to get on a plane. Or to the airport. Wolf can add, though. Two hours to eat, shower and get ready plus three and a half hours on the road equals ten am. Another hour, hour and a half to check in. Puts her flight out at eleven am. Wednesday before Thanksgiving.

Girl's coming back Sunday after Thanksgiving. Hasn't told him when yet. Could be as late as eleven pm, wolf supposes. Eleven am Wednesday to eleven pm Sunday: a hundred and eight hours to kill before he goes get her at the airport. Like he said he would. Like she didn't say he couldn't.

Wolf has no family. Wolf has no friends. Wolf figures maybe he'll actually visit the goddamn Caern.

--

Made some effort at pulling up the covers sometime in the night. Half of them might be on the ground but the other half slide over the girl's back when she slides on top. Keeps her warm. Her and her fragile little cold-fearing toes. Wolf's sort of insistent on fucking, but it's a lazy, languid sort of insistence. Girl kisses his face, all those features that she finds beautiful, all those features that gild a cage for the beast. Girl kisses his mouth too.

Agreeing. All right.

Wolf inhales into that kiss. Body rolls under hers, shifting, hips flexing and then relaxing. She's not ready yet. He knows that now, and they've fucked so many times that his hunger isn't a terrible thing threatening to devour him from the inside out.

Wolf can almost bear going slow.

Wolf bears it for her. Has her ass in his hands, rubs her cunt on his cock. Kisses her, slow and slow and slow and savoring, there in the pre-dawn darkness. Til girl's moaning into his mouth. Til girl's wet and slick and hot, winding her hips against him. Til she's the one to reach down, take him in hand, guide him inside.

Wolf closes his eyes, exhaling, as she slides down on him. Feels good. Not like triumph; not like savagery; not like bloody victory.

Just good.

witch

Technically the flight leaves at 12:10 PM. He doesn't know yet how she travels. He doesn't know what it means to her to go back. What it would do to her to miss it.

She keeps kissing him. Somewhere in his mind he's calculating when she leaves, when she's back, how long that is. A night and a day and a night and most of a day were so long. He missed her. He missed her in that time. Sometimes they barely cross paths in that amount of time and he never pins her to a wall, mutters in her ear that he missed her. Sometimes they go two days and there's just steam from a shower or a dish in the sink and maybe a glance across a room to connect them but they're both still there. He can't smell her when she's in his house. either of his houses.

Knows when she's there or not, though. And apparently: misses her when she's not.

He's insistent: fuck, his hands and body say. Fuck me. If there were words to it. Mostly there's just bodies. She gasps a little when he rolls his hips, strokes himself against her. She did lose count last night, overnight. Thinks maybe they had sex three times. Possibly one more in there. Some of it blurs together, warm and sweaty and with his growls, her moaning. She remembers the people next door bashing on the wall as Rafael fucked her so hard the headboard knocked. She remembers laughing, and the way his mouth seared that laughter away when they kissed.

Knew he wanted her. Knew, because he told her, that he thinks often of fucking her. Had no idea, though. No idea how long his hunger could be sustained. How ferocious it would be, every time.

Her mouth is on his neck, licking, when she starts taking him inside. Feels good. She gasps against his jaw. Starts to ride him like that, their bodies close, her hips going slow. Stays close the whole time, really. Mostly kissing him. Not near the end, when her arms are tired from bracing herself up. Still wants to be close, though. Bites his chest.

"Get on top of me," she mutters, and he does. Rolls her over, wrapped in one of his arms, his free hand pushing her thigh up, higher. Her hands are on his face, then. She moans a little tighter, a little harder. Wants it like this. Wants him like this.

The sun is rising.

And he's getting close; she knows by now. Sweat on his skin, hair askew. She feels it, too. Her head is tipping back, hair spread over the pillows. She's so fucking tired, she thinks. She can barely stand to come again, fuck again, but here they are.

She doesn't want to go. And that's not a lie, even though she wants very much to go, and wants to see her family, and eat turkey and mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce and all that. She would bawl her eyes out to miss her flight. Miss the cooking and miss the shopping the next day and decorating the tree on Friday night the way they always do. But another part of her, which is here and now and with him, doesn't want to leave.

Doesn't say it. Kisses him instead, moaning into his mouth, wrapping her legs around him til her ankles cross at his back. He comes in her like that, and she comes some beat after, some moment when it's all coalesced in her. Truthfully, it's not as explosive or all-encompassing as some others. No matter; that isn't the point. She fucks him to fuck him. Fucks him to be close to him. Fucks him like this, again, because she's leaving, and because it seems to matter so terribly to him. Fucks him because it felt good, waking up naked and horny next to him. Felt good, his sleepy hands pulling her closer.

--

Sun still isn't all the way up. She's sort of awake and exhausted at the same time. Her legs are open to either side of him, toes tucked under the tops of his thighs. Her eyes are closed. He's still buried inside of her. He's even still sort of hard. And she's holding him. Stroking his hair where he lays on her chest, lazily affectionate.

wolfman

World feels a bit surreal. Barely slept two hours all night. Both of them awake but exhausted, and the passing hours seem to have lost their rigidity. Feels like the hotel room was one night, the bar another. Feels like the two three days before that all run together into one.

Can barely remember all the details of all those fucks now. Only that they were in bed for all of it, nothing too inventive, nothing too acrobatic, but all of it,

almost all of it so intense. At least til the end. At least til they'd worn each other down, and out. This last fuck: slow, even when he turned her under. Slow, even when he was thrusting into her, rhythmic and rolling. Slow, even when she was clutching him to her, and he was coming inside her, and she was sparking off a moment later into her own long, slow, rippling orgasm.

--

Girl'll be sleeping on the flight out. Wolf'll probably stumble home and sleep til evening.

Girl's still holding him with her whole body. Wolf's collapsed on her, could probably fall asleep again. Girl's hands stroke his hair. When did she start doing that? Didn't do it the first time they fucked, he doesn't think. Now it's starting to feel natural.

Girl's toes hiding under his thighs. So little give to his body. So little softness. His thighs are bundles of muscle, machinery as complex as any. Arms a beautiful overlap of strength upon strength. Sides, back, chest, and yes: buttocks. All of it great and curving and thick and powerful, built tough. Built like the beast he is. Wolf turns his head, rubs his face against her chest, lays his other ear against her breastbone.

Hidden heart in there thumping. Deep below, subterranean, locked in a bone cage. Sheathed in leanness, and soft skin. Breasts rising over that heart, soft, sweet mouthfuls. Handfuls. Wolf brings a hand up to cup one. Paws at it, really.

"You'll text me when you're flying back?"

Only the slightest up-turn makes it a question.

witch

Almost never strokes his hair. May never have done it before. Definitely not the first time. Not in the aftermath, at least. Not like this: lazy, long strokes, like petting an animal who has nestled against her for warmth and comfort. Not thoughtless, not familiar. Not like this.

Doesn't want to get up. Shower. Drink hotel coffee. Go out into the cold, even into some warmed-up car with Franklin. She'll sleep three hours on the way into Denver and into the airport. She'll sleep on the plane for a good three or four hours. She'll make it up. She'll be less exhausted when she gets to see her 'godparents'; relatives of her fathers, so close or so distant it hardly matters what the blood relation really is, if it's there at all beyond the bonds of tribe.

He's fondling her again. She shifts under him, her nipple gently and slowly hardening to his touch. Can't be helped.

"Sure," she says, like he didn't need to ask. She looks down at the top of his head. At his hand, very large, cupping her in his his palm. Huffs a soft laugh that he feels all down through her breastbone, her belly, vibrating noticeably despite how quiet the sound is.

"Are you coming to the airport?" she wants to know, even softer.

wolfman

Wolf is quiet a while. Wonders if she means today. Sunday. Both.

"You want me to?"

witch

"Sort of," she murmurs, the words round and fuzzy in her mouth, against her lips. Her fingertips still move through his hair.

"Even if we're just sleeping the whole way."

wolfman

He hedges.

So does she.

Wolf thinks a beat, two. Turns his face to her skin. Girl can feel him inhaling, in and in and in. Releasing that breath to fan between her breasts, over her abdomen.

"Yeah. I'll go with you. Go to the Caern after maybe."

witch

Means yes. Wants him to come with her. Wants to sleep with him. Wants to lay her head on his lap again and pass out for a few hours. Wants his arm over her. Hasn't thought past that. Hasn't thought about waking up, about saying goodbye at the airport, hasn't thought about how awkward that might be or how weird it might feel or how that ache of not-wanting-to-leave might come over her. All she's thinking about is wanting to stay with him, warm with him, sleepy and drowsy with him.

Likes his arm as a blanket.

Devon breathes. Doesn't say anything. Does stir, though, shifting a bit, scritching his scalp instead of stroking his hair. Time to get up, her body says. Time to pull out of her and let her up so she can take a shower. Time to follow the sun's example and get out of bed.

wolfman

Wolf lapses into silence too. Silence for a while for the both of them. Then wolf takes a deep breath, rallies, pulls away and pushes up, rolls out of bed.

"Gonna shower," he says, which is hardly necessary. Naked, walking, could only possibly be heading to the bathroom.

witch

She watches him, propped on her arms, her back a low curve, as he pushes himself up. Pulls away from her, pulls out of her. She watches him, her cunt clenching on nothing, on absence, on void. She watches him roll out of bed, thinks of him for a moment as simply the man who fucked her all night, fucked her as soon as he could move this morning --

and wants him more for it. Truthfully:

likes him more for it.

A passing though. She lowers herself back down as he says he's gonna go shower. Sinks into the pillows, closes her eyes, breathes in and out deeply. Smells him. And sex. And his sweat. Nothing of her own, nothing but a whiff of something botanical behind her ears, rather overpowered by what we shall breezily call Rafael's man-stink.

"All right," she murmurs. "Wake me again when you're out."

wolfman

Wolf grunts something in the affirmative. Heads into the bathroom; door swings shut behind him but not all the way. Water turns on. Shower curtain rattles on the bar. Steam and the scent of soap and shampoo wind through the small confines of the hotel room. Girl drifts off.

--

Shower shuts off with a clank. Curtain rustles open; heavy footfalls on the bath mat. Then the door swinging wide. Then the wolf's sudden presence in the room, heavy, rageful. Comes to the bed. Pauses a moment there, bare feet and bare shins under white towel. Leans down. Puts hand on girl's shoulder. Gives her a gentle shake.

"Your turn," he says. "I'll get us some breakfast sent up. Eggs over medium?"

He remembers.

witch

She rolls over. Still filthy. Still naked. Still feeling the memory of him inside her. Falls asleep like that, with water falling in the little bathroom nearby. That's how he finds her, when he comes out, wrapped in his towel: curled up on her side, hugging a pillow. Her hair is a dark, messy cloud and her face is strangely, even surprisingly serious in sleep. Even light sleep.

Eyes are bright as ever, though, slowly opening. Look at him as he puts his hand on her shoulder. Doesn't need to shake her.

over medium?

She smiles. Lazy, replete: also hungry, at the mention of breakfast. Nods against the pillow, onetwothreefour times. "And tea and toast and eggs and fruit please and thank you," she says, rasping, stretching, pushing herself up slowly. She shivers a bit as she slips from bed, stands naked next to him. Rumpled and chaotic, she gives the edge of his towel a firm tug, like she wants it off but is too lazy at the moment to put real effort into it. Slips past him then, and walks into the bathroom. Closes the door behind her.

Takes longer. Breakfast may have even come by the time the water is off, but the hotel is busy, and they're not the only ones here.

--

Breakfast is definitely there by the time Devon has finished drying her hair and straight-ironing it, and putting on eyeliner (blue) and mascara (black) and shadow (a blend, though mostly silvery-gray). She's in a robe though, and eats breakfast wearing that. Near the end of the meal is when she gets up, munching on toast and picking up clothes. Shedding the robe. Hopping into a new pair of panties, which aren't anything spangled or exciting but just black cotton. Pulling on a pair of bright-blue skinny jeans. Bright blue as in cerulean. Bright blue as in not even really denim. Zips them up, bare tits bouncing a little, as she chews a strawberry from the breakfast tray. She finds yesterday's black bra and puts it back on.

Gets on his lap like that: blue pants and bare toes and black bra. Straddles his lap, towel or clothes or otherwise, and loops her arms around his neck and seems to have a surprising deal of energy despite hardly sleeping. Look at her eyes though: that energy won't last. She'll pass out as soon as the car starts moving.

Kisses him, though, her lips a little salty-buttery from the toast and her tongue a little bright and fruity from the strawberry. Makes out with him a little, if he lets her. Because she likes him. Right now, this morning at least, it seems like she likes him quite very much.

Gets up again if he lets her, wiggles away if he tries not to let her, because the time, and she needs to pull on a shirt. A tank top -- white this time -- and that big black hole-filled sweater which is different from the big black sweater that just has a wide knit. Doesn't bother with jewelry today, other than the studs already in her earlobes. Tugs on socks that might not be one hundred percent clean and laces up her dingy All-Stars. Starts shoving things in her backpack.

She can pack quickly; everything's pretty much the same level of mess. She doesn't have much, either.

wolfman

End up with a huge breakfast spread. Girl gets her eggs over-medium and her fruit, her toast, her tea. Wolf gets his scrambled eggs and his sausage patties, his bacon, his biscuits'n'gravy, his coffee, his mini cinnamon bun. Both orders came with cereal so there's cereal too, though perhaps neither of them touch it.

Girl dresses while she eats. Wolf eventually puts last night's clothes back on too. Jeans and thermal and sweater and jacket. He leaves the socks off, and the underwear; doesn't like rewearing intimates. Finds a laundry bag in the room and stashes them in there. Is already dressed by the time girl gets it in her head to climb into his lap, wrap those long arms around his neck. Kisses him, straddling his lap, until his arms pull her up and against him. Head tipped back to meet her mouth; her fingers in his hair. His hand stealing their way down into her pants, up under her bra.

Over too soon. Girl gets up and wiggles away, the time, she's got a plane to catch. Wolf sits on the edge of the bed watching, bemused, while she dons a tank top. The holy sweater. She's jamming stuff into her bag. He picks up a scrap of -- something -- and hands it to her. Helpful.

"When's the last time you saw your mom?"

witch

Both orders came with cereal. One tiny cereal bowl with its peel-back lid goes into Devon's backpack. She likes Cheerios more than airline peanuts.

Likes Rafael more than she admits. Has her hands under his jacket and sweater and when he's putting his hands under her clothes she's starting to slip her palms up under his thermal, too.

Except: the time. She has to take a breath and she has to kiss his neck one more time and has to wiggle away. And then shoots him a glare, looks meaner than she means it to, as she readjusts her tit in her bra.

He's a helper: hands her one of her long over-the-knee socks that is worn but doesn't go into a laundry bag. Gets shoved in her pack along with everything else.

Asks her. She thinks: a particular kind of frown, and not a displeased one. Glances at the clock on the nightstand. Which is next to the corner of bedsheet that one of them yanked out of place while they were fucking. Thinks about bracing herself on the headboard while he fucked her with his hand. Hands.

Looks back at Rafael.

"We Skype," she says. He did say 'saw'. Not 'hugged'. Not 'smelled'. Not 'went shopping together'. Not 'ate a meal together'. Not 'slept in the same house'. Not 'tickled'. Just 'saw'.

Looks back at her backpack, and zips it up, content that everything is there. Shrugs a little. Her body is tight. So are the words. "Couple of years."

wolfman

"You wanna go see her?"

Wolf sees the tension; senses the wound. Wolf pretends he doesn't, though, because he thinks maybe this'll make her feel less exposed. Less prodded, less hurt. Question's almost casual, offhand.

"After Thanksgiving, I mean. Can get you a ticket if you want. Boston to ... what, London Heathrow? And then back to Denver."

witch

"Course I want to see her," she's saying, before he even finishes, and it's so sharp, it's bordering on angry. Some of that is surely pure exhaustion. Some of that is obviously, clearly the tension, the wound. She tries to make it sound irritated. Annoyed. Like he's an idiot for even asking.

Hard to mask that even answering like she did, couple of years, nearly brought her to tears.

--

But wait:

there's more.

--

Devon doesn't look at him. She's looking at her zipped-up backpack, which sits in front of her on the edge of the mattress. "Why?"

wolfman

Hard to say if wolf has the insight to know the bite isn't for him. Maybe he does. Does the same thing, himself: masks emotion with callousness, sometimes. Viciousness, other times.

Wolf frowns too. Doesn't get the question. Looks down, zips his jacket up. "Why what? Why would I get you a ticket? Because I can. Not like I do anything better with my money." Pause. He looks at the back of her head, or maybe her profile if he has that much. " 'Cause I thought it'd make you happy."

witch

Can. Nothing better to do.

Look at the mirror he got for her. It's in her backpack, too. Put a bid down on that thing that would dissuade anyone else from even considering going for it. Probably for the same reason: because he can. Because it's not like he does anything better with his money. Because he thought it'd make her happy.

Says that last.

Devon does look at him. Suddenly, and fearlessly, as though she was never avoiding his gaze at all. Pride doesn't want her to say yes. Pride -- and distrust -- doesn't want him to buy her things that she really wants, things she really needs, things it would hurt to have taken away from her. It's time to go. Any second now Franklin is going to ring from downstairs, waiting with the warm car to ferry her to Denver International Airport. Her spine is tense. Her shoulders almost ache from it.

Quietly:

"I do want to see her."

From her eyes, her soft voice, the vulnerability there:

badly.

wolfman

Wolf's standing there when she looks at him. Jacket zipped. Hands in pockets, shoulders squared. Eyebrows pulled loosely together: to see her, to see the tension, to see the vulnerability.

Quick shrug and he looks away.

"So go see her. I'll get you a ticket. Okay? And you don't -- don't have to feel like you owe me something. Or whatever."

witch

Looking at him. Sort of wishing she could --

Phone goes off. It's sitting there in her hand, screen lighting up, the name Franklin in bold white, the anonymous faceless avatar instead of a photo of Rafael's driver. She glances down, away from Rafael himself, and swipes the call to answer it. Just says, without even putting it to her ear:

"Be right down."

And immediately ends the call. Looks at him again, and wants to tell him breezily that of course she doesn't -- wouldn't -- feel like she owed him shit. His problem if he wants to throw his money around on girls he's fucking. Not her problem if he -- or anyone -- sees it as some sort of payment for fucking him all night and part of the morning, blowing his mind, leaving him a lazy, sated, filthy wreck. Or whatever. Looks at him and wants to not feel this strange and unsettling feeling of not knowing what it is, or means, because she's known him all of a month and only really known him and spent time with him for a few weeks and not only were they fucking all night and going to galas together and fighting and snuggling while watching old movies but he's buying her expensive gifts and will later find out that she totally put this hotel room and all those drinks on his credit card, too, and now he wants to send her to England to see her mom because he wants to make her happy.

Devon just feels coiled inside, tight as a metal spring. Takes a breath.

"Need to go," she says, for them both. Shoulders her backpack, and heads for the door, leaving her room keys on the dresser per self-checkout rules. Still seems uncomfortable as they walk out of the room together. Still uneasy. Still wound up.

They walk towards the elevator, steps muffled on the hallway carpeting. Unlikely he remembers this hall, or that elevator. He had her in his arms, her legs and arms wrapped around him, mouths furiously on each other as he hardened in his jeans, between her thighs. They step in. And after a press of her finger, the L button lights up. Devon's eyes look up at the descending numbers. Not many floors to go down.

Just after the third floor lights up and darkens again, her hand comes down to her side. Brushes his, knuckles to knuckles, then circles around and rests palm to palm. Her fingers lace through his heavier ones. Her hand closes, gently, and holds. She takes a breath, and by the time she finishes a long, slow exhale,

the doors are opening to the lobby, and they're looking across the floor at the hotel doors, the car outside, the servant waiting for his master and his master's... guest.

witch

[oh poop.]

wolfman

Girl never really agrees to it. Wolf isn't sure what to make of her silence, that furrow-browed stare. Those blue eyes. Could drown in them. Never sure what to make of her, period.

Wolf startles a little when phone goes off. Girl answers and hangs up without even looking at the phone. Wolf's still looking at the girl and she's telling him she needs to go. Go away from him. Get on a plane, fly half a country away.

Wolf's hand makes a little motion. Like he almost reached for her. But then he doesn't. She puts her backpack on her shoulder and he forgets to get the door. Does hold it, at least, while she exits. Offers to hold her bag too, silently, with an upturned palm that she either deposits a shoulderstrap into or doesn't.

They're standing in the elevator when her hand finds his. They don't look at each other.

Doors open to the lobby. Bar off to the side is dark now. Guests in snow gear are tromping out to hit the slopes. Black car outside, driver waiting beside with his hands neatly folded. If Franklin's surprised to see wolf with the girl, he doesn't say a damn thing. Opens the door as wolf and his -- guest approach. Girl gets in first. Wolf follows. Their hands unlace for a while, but then wolf pulls the door shut and looks for girl's hand again. Takes it.

witch

In the back seat of his car, he does not hold her hand. Or take it.

In the back seat of his car, her backpack ends up on the floor.

And she ends up curled to his side, pushing his arm up over her head and around her shoulders, wrapping her own around his torso. Drapes her legs over his lap. Burrows her face into his shirt, inhaling him, exhaling heavily.

A normal person might say 'thank you' to indicate that yes, they would like that, and that they are appreciative.

Devon doesn't say anything.

wolfman

Wolf's a little surprised, even a little stiff, when girl comes close to him. Takes him a moment to relax. Takes him a moment to settle his arm around her shoulders, pull her secure against his side.

Wolf settles a little, too. Shifts and gets comfortable against the seat, the side of the car. Pushes the button to raise the divider. Watches the village, the mountains, the road go by for a bit.

Closes his eyes, then. Sleeps.

--

Awakens to daylight and the vehicle slowing. They're pulling off the freeway, passing the demonic stallion that guards Denver International. Wolf discovers in his sleep he's slumped down in the seat; they're both partially recumbent. Wolf pushes a hand against the seat, straightens up. Yawns. Rubs his face.

Franklin raps knuckles against the partition. Wolf fumbles for the button, lowers it. Franklin wants to know which airline.

witch

It hurts. Her chest. Whatever is inside her chest. Sometimes feels like a beating heart. Sometimes feels like a bird, flapping against bars. Sometimes feels like a prowling lion and sometimes feels like a cloud and sometimes it feels small and fragile and aching and she cannot tell if it is shrinking or growing, only that it writhes.

Pushes her face against his body, where it is warm even though he is not soft, and doesn't say anything. She sleeps before he does.

--

Somewhere along the way, she twists. Unfolds herself. Lays her body out, puts her head on his lap. Sleeps that way, too. As she did on the way up.

--

Wakes because she feels him moving; she hid her face under a fold of his sweater to hide from the light. Road noise has only soothed her. But waking, now, it's because he moves around on the seat. She sniffs, and turns her head, and hears Franklin.

"What?" she mumbles, bewildered.

It's repeated. She rubs her eyes, realizing where they are, slowly sitting up. Yawns back to Franklin where to drop her off. Realizes that means she's getting dropped off. Realizes she needs to use the bathroom so bad. Looks at Rafael.

Her mouth doesn't taste so good right now from sleeping for a few hours, but she turns to him, wrapping her arms around him and resting her head on his shoulder, brow to neck. Is quiet for a bit, tender, while Franklin joins the long lines of cars heading for Departures.

Then, her voice soft:

"If you fuck anyone else while I'm in Boston and England, I will punch you in your balls."

wolfman

Wolf's arm was over her while she slept. Laid over her shoulders, that sort of deep pressure that soothes some primitive part of us all. He lifts it now as she climbs up. Wraps it loosely, heavily back around her as she comes close again. One more time. Before she goes.

Wolf doesn't make a big deal out of it. Her going, or him holding her. Doesn't put a name on it, doesn't label anything. Laughs, though, low and huffing, when she lays down the law.

"Don't fuck anyone else either," he says. "Now gimme a kiss before you fly off, huh?"

witch

Boston and England.

She hopes he means it. That he'll get her a ticket from Logan to Heathrow. That she can go see her mum. Doesn't matter if one of the legs of her trip -- Logan to DIA -- is already paid for and will go unused. Doesn't matter that it won't be Thanksgiving or Christmas when she sees her mum. Doesn't matter if she comes back and he's a dick about it, tries to hold it over her head, anything like that. She just hopes he means it, and that one way or another he'll make sure she gets to England.

But not to stay.

She's going to come back. And punch him in his balls if he has sex with anyone else, even if their fucking isn't anything, if it just Is What It Is, if it has no name or label or any of that. She just doesn't leave it up to guesswork. Just like when she told him that it was fine if it was just fucking,

she just wouldn't be fucking him anymore if that was the case.

"Not my boss," she mutters at him, but she doesn't mean the first part. Means him telling her to kiss him. Smirks at him, something lambent in her eyes. Franklin is pulling up along the curb. And she leans in, brow to brow, and gives him this soft, lingering kiss on his mouth.

Slowly draws back as Franklin gets out, comes around, opens the door. Looks at Rafael for a few moments longer. Darts in, quick, and kisses him again, hotter but faster, and nips her teeth over his lower lip before scooting out of the back of the limo to go inside, backpack slung over her shoulder again.

--

Doesn't hear from her again until the plane's about to take off. Turn off your devices, et cetera. He gets a text, though truth be told he probably doesn't get it until he wakes up from whatever coma he slips into after she's gone. Sends it out, knowing he's probably asleep, knowing she won't have to face a response until the plane's in Boston anyway.

thanks x

snowmass village.

wolfman

Few days go by. Two or three. Not quite enough to make him worry. Not since she texted him late that night. His phone lighting up on his nightstand while he lay atop the covers, half-dressed, wide awake. His head turning first, then his hand batting at the phone, picking it up, yanking the charging cable out haphazardly as he squinted at the sms.

Turned out to be a promise. And for better or worse he believes her. Trusts her.

--

Tuesday evening and his phone buzzes against his hip. Wolf's out behind the house splitting logs. Not because he doesn't have anyone to do it for him but because sometimes he needs to do things like this. Physical things. Manual labor. Move his blood, use his strength.

Wolf sets the axe head-down on the ground. Leans the haft against his leg. Strips a glove off and swipes his phone awake. Girl wants to know if he wants to get a beer. Snowmass Village. Maybe half an hour away by car. Less if he takes a snowmobile, goes over a couple hills.

Wolf texts back one letter. Y.

--

Used to be little villages up in the mountains were lumberjack camps. Not so anymore. Village is seeing good business in its inns and bars, and especially on its slopes. Wealthy folks come up for Thanksgiving. Some have houses up here. Some are staying through new year's. Bartenders are lively and know how to hold a conversation. Innkeepers have recommendations on where to find the best snow, the best trails, the best jumps.

Wolf parks his snowmobile where the snow's deep. Walks the rest of the way, thick insulated winter boots on, leather jacket zipped over a fleece pulled over a longsleeve thermal. Scarf too, wrapped around his nose and mouth. Knit cap on his skull. Leaves just his eyes, angry and wolf-green, throwing people back out of his way with a glance.

Goes to the bar alone. Starts unraveling his outerwear. Pulls his phone out soon as he can get to it, puts it on the bar in front of him so he can see and hear it ring. If it rings.

witch

Just two. That night, Sunday night. All of Monday. Monday night goes by and she doesn't come back and she doesn't call, doesn't text. Tuesday comes and then it's evening and the sun is down and it's the dinner hour and that's when his phone goes off. She's supposed to go to Denver tomorrow morning, early, or maybe even tonight, so she can get on a plane to Massachusetts to see... family. Of a kind. Of the most important kind, in a way.

According to the nation, her bonds with her father's family should be stronger than any other. But for Devon, her greatest loyalty belongs to someone else. Someone outside the Fianna. Outside the Nation. Someone whose relationship to her transcends all that, is deeper than that. Is the relationship of Gaia to the Garou, earth to a seed.

She won't see her, though. It's an American holiday. It'll be with the other family. The ones who taught her what she is, and how to survive. The ones who taught her witchcraft, too.

--

Drinks?

That's what she asks.

Y

That's what he texts back.

Bar at Wildwood

That's where he's told to go.

--

It's powder season. Snow in the mountains, people on the snow. Every resort location with a slope or two is busy these days, especially since people take extra time off around the holiday. Come here after work. Ski, ski, ski. People like him -- people who can afford it. They have their best bartenders and waitstaff out. They have full rooms.

Devon is there. She's dressed in those boots of hers, the fuzzy gray ones. Socks that go up over her knee. A dress, long-sleeved and black, that ends just under her ass. Not unlike the way he saw her at Green Russell when he was saving the whales. His damn party. The dress isn't quite as skimpy, partly because it's a shirt, not a dress. A tunic, sort of. There's a thin double-headband in her dark hair, pulled over one shoulder. She's drinking something, not a beer, from a tumbler. Has a cherry in it. Has two tiny straws. Warm inside. Hearths going.

She sees him when he comes in. Everyone sees him when he comes in. Notices him when he comes in. She's looking at him. Wrapping her lips around those straws, sipping.

wolfman

Everyone notices him. He doesn't notice anyone. Or does: feels their eyes, their distrust, their fear. Way the whole bar quiets a little.

Keeps his head down. Doesn't engage. Doesn't want to engage. Sits at the bar and waits for girl to come in. Bartender ignores him and he doesn't ask for service. Phone in front of him stays dark and quiet until finally wolf prods it to life.

Girl's phone goes off.

I'm at the bar.

witch

Somewhere in the bar he can sense her. Can't smell her but there's the shivering sensation of something precious, something to be protected, something worth fighting for. No scent of her to lead him directly to her. No way to find her across a city, a country. No way to track her without a gift, a rite. No wonder he was scared she'd leave, and be gone forever.

Down the bar, perhaps a few yards, he hears a chime go off when he sends that text message.

She looks down the way at him, leaning past other people between them. Shows him the lit screen to her phone, his message popped up on it.

wolfman

Wolf feels stupid.

Wolf feels glad, too. Rush of it quick as blood. Embarrassed to be glad, but there it is. She's there, just like she said she'd be. Not gone. Not flown away. Not disappeared.

Wolf grabs his phone in one hand, scarf and hat in the other. Gets up off his barstool and goes down a couple seats. Spots on either side of the girl are occupied; no one shies away from her. People want to talk to her, meet her, figure out her story. Doesn't matter if she's got an expensive manicure and a thousand-dollar dress. Doesn't matter if she's wearing a sweater full of holes and fake Uggs. She's interesting, vivid, a flame in world of paper men. Wolf thinks so, anyway. Sees her like that. Can't imagine anyone else not seeing her the same way.

People get out of his way when he leans up on the bar next to girl. She's drinking something and it's not a beer. He looks at the bartender, sort of at a loss. Ends up ordering the old copout, whatever she's having.

Bartender gets busy. Wolf takes over a chair recently vacated by a frightened neighbor. Sits down, folding his forearms along the edge of the bar. Doesn't know what to say so doesn't say anything.

witch

She's gorgeous. She's wearing a shirt-slash-dress so short that most of her slender thighs are exposed. Over the knee socks. That face. That mouth. Those fucking eyes. Of course the seats near her are occupied. Of course she didn't buy that drink.

But someone leaves and he takes the seat there and she's having an amaretto sour so that's what he gets, too.

Looking at him, she wants him. Wants to climb onto him and smell his leather and his skin and feel his hands on her. Wants to be held, crushingly tight, in those ridiculous arms of his. She wants to bury her face against his neck and hide. She wants him to hold her all night and fuck her just the way she likes and be everything she imagines him to be, wishes he could be, even though at least half that is unrealistic.

So instead, she gives a soft sigh, and taps her glass against his when it comes, and sips.

After a while, Devon leans against his arm. She closes her eyes, listening to the bar around them, feeling him close to her. For a long time, actually. Just leans there, rests there, and sips her drink and feels him near her.

That long time passes. She opens her eyes, her drink half done, held lightly in her hand.

"Already told Franklin I need to be at the airport at noon tomorrow," she says softly. Still leaning on his arm. "Would like it if... we stayed together, tonight."

wolfman

For a while they just sit there. Girl's so gorgeous wolf's mouth is dry. Wolf gets angry thinking of all those idiots panting over her bare legs, buying her drinks and shit. Wolf knows he has no right to be angry. Has no right to do a lot of things.

Wolf's awkward. Says nothing. Gets his drink and it's an amaretto sour and it's good but sweet and on ice isn't the way he thinks of alcohol when he wants to drink. Drinks it anyway, from the rim, ignoring those ridiculous little straws.

After a while girl leans against his arm. Happens just all of a sudden, without his expecting it. Wolf tenses a little, then relaxes again. Relaxes more than he has all night, or maybe in several nights. Still has this much, doesn't he?

Still has her head on his shoulder. Slender body against his arm. Wolf's still got his jacket on and it's too many layers between him and her, but he leaves things be. Maybe if he doesn't disturb -- anything -- she won't leave again.

Girl's skylit eyes open. Wolf's looking at her, down over the rugged slope of his deltoid, tricep. Girl divines a couple truths for him. Wolf sighs a little, taking a sip of his own drink.

"I'd like it too." He fiddles with those straws, stirs the ice cubes. "Wouldn't have minded just staying with you that night. No sex. Kinda wish we had. Seems like every time I look back on what we do together there's ten thousand things I could've done differently. Should've, could've, would've, didn't."

Most he's said to her in a long time, that. Words run dry again. Wolf drinks.

witch

That night. He means two nights previous. He means Sunday night, night after the gala, night when she felt so raw, so exposed, that she almost --

doesn't bear thinking about. Not when she's surrounded like she is. Not when she's had two more nights alone to breathe, to think, to relax, to keep herself under control. She just leans against him, noticing that he doesn't put his arm around her. Not knowing why he doesn't. Usually doesn't know why he does what he does.

He wishes they had. And she recalls frustration, anger. She remembers feeling hurt. So hurt. Wasn't the first time he'd dumped her off, walked away from her in sexual frustration. Wasn't the first time he made he feel like that. For a moment all she wants to do is make him see that: he hurt her. She said no and he just left her there. Not for the first time, either. Can't he see, doesn't he --

Devon takes a breath. She sits up. He didn't disturb anything but there she goes anyway, straightening. Licks her lips, staring at her drink.

"That's all I was wanting, at first," she tells him quietly, both aware that they are in public and aware that no one is listening to their conversation. Glances over at him. "But you're gorgeous, yeah?" Abrupt, or so it seems. She's looking at his profile, his eyes, his mouth. Swallows, looks away, takes a breath. "I think about fucking you... all the time, really. Ridiculous amount. Love it when we finally do."

Lifts her glass tumbler, takes a drink from the rim so it's a round mouthful and no small sip.

"So I was set to sleep, and... then I just got to looking at you. With the fire, and your shirt coming off, and... and it'd been such a weird day, between us. Wanted to be close. Wanted to... make you feel good."

With those words she looks at him again, a quick flash of her eyes and her face toward him. Looks away again, quick. An honest confession: "Just wanted to have sex with you, too."

There's a long pause there. She finishes her drink in a single swallow, reaching up, rubbing the back of her neck. She taps the glass when the bartender glances her way; another. She exhales, dropping both slender hands to the bartop again, right thumb rubbing left thumbnail.

"Didn't mean to scare you when I left, anyway," she says, with a different tone, a shift away from her feelings, her wants, these raw exposed things that terrify her. "Just needed some air."

wolfman

Wolf straightens up a little when girl pulls away. Takes his drink between his hands like it's something stronger than what he got. Never occurred to him to put his arm around her. Felt like she'd fly away.

Girl tells him he's gorgeous. That she wants him all the time. Loves fucking him. Wolf gives this little huff, disbelieving and surprised. Girl like her. Looking the way she does. Moving the way she does. Laughing and smirking and talking and existing and living the ways she does. Never occurred to him that the street would run both ways; that his attraction to her, desire for her didn't exist in a vacuum.

Girl drinks.

So does he.

Girl goes on, then. Makes him a little uncomfortable to hear it: she wanted to make him feel good. Do something for him. He knows, he knows it's not some sort of sordid exchange. Roof over her head and meals in her stomach if she makes him feel good. It's not like that. Still -- helps when she adds: just wanted to.

Girl gets another drink. Wolf looks down at his. Drains it the same way, doesn't order another. Just quiet for a while, empty glass between strong hands.

"Sometimes don't know how, or who, you want me to be," wolf says at last. "Else I think I know and then it changes. Like chasing a moving target. I just get frustrated. Just got frustrated and had to leave."

witch

Just goes to show how deep a bruise on the old self-esteem can go: she sees his disbelief and doesn't grasp why he's surprised. She flirted with him. Chased after him. Tried to bring him pizza and beer. Offered herself to him. Threw herself at him -- quite literally -- on two occasions. She's initiated things with him so many times, nearly every time, with a touch or a glance or a word, that she can't fathom how he might doubt her attraction. Her desire.

Tells him she thinks about fucking him all the time. Wants him all the time. Loves it. And the truth is, at first, when he laughs she thinks it's because he's thinking well, duh. That must be the flash in her eyes toward him, the wariness, the sharpness, before she realizes he can't quite believe what she's saying.

Sharpness dawns into something else. She takes a little breath, tells him what else she does. Truth of the matter is that she wanted to make him feel good because she likes him. Because things had been weird. Because she felt bad for how weird they'd been. All those words. All that talking and confusion. That moment in the hall when she almost snapped because she was so, so raw. The way he held her, and then snuggled with her, watched that movie with her, carried her upstairs. Started a fire because he didn't want her to be cold. God: of course she wanted to make him feel good.

Another amaretto sour comes, and she sips at it. They don't say anything, for a while.

When he speaks, she looks at him. Not as shy as she was a minute ago about looking at him. Looks at his profile. That regal nose, the jawline and cheekbones that make her think not of the arches and buttresses of architecture but the soaring branches of trees, the elegant bowing of a stem with a heavy bud, the daring and flagrant sexuality of nature. Might just be the drink but she wants to run her tongue along certain fine bones beneath his skin, wants to bite him where she senses a pulse, wants to run her fingers and her lips over every part of him that she finds beautiful.

Devon blinks her eyes slowly, lazily, and her brow furrows a bit. Shakes her head, fractional.

"Want you to be you, Rafa," she says quietly, quiet because that name is a secret, it seems, that doesn't bear speaking aloud in mixed company. "Just... want different sorts of sex, sometimes. That's all."

Sips her drink. Through the ridiculous tiny straws.

wolfman

Wolf thinks about that a while. They're at a disadvantage here, the both of them. So much goes on behind their eyes and so little of it makes out. Less still when it comes to the wolf. Impossible for girl to tell what's going on in that head of his, behind that beautiful,

savage

face.

--

Thinking about the gala. Thinking about the way things went weird. Thinking about the drive up and her head on his lap. The warm security of a moving vehicle, girl close and warm and safe under his paw. Palm. He meant palm.

Thinking about the way things went weird again. And then she found her own place to sleep. And then the next day everything was so strained, and there was a moment when seemed like everything was going to snap. Thinking about the strange, tender little lull. Cute old-timey movie and two of them sharing popcorn and a blanket.

Thinking about the sex they almost had and didn't. Thinking about her eroticism and her vulnerability, a challenge in her stare and smirk, a shiver in her body when he fucks her. Grip of her slimboned hands, spread of her slender thighs. Thinking about her hands on his back and then her hands on her face, frustrated and hurt and that wasn't how she wanted it. Wanted a different sort of sex. A different kind of fuck. Wanted him to be himself, but -- gentler. Wanted him to remember the strange day and a half they'd had, maybe, and take care of her tender body, bruised emotions.

Wolf remembers her drawing his hand to her cunt. Showing him:

Tender, yeah?

Yeah.

--

Now it's Tuesday night. She's going back down to the city in the morning, then flying away. Boston she said. Makes sense, that's where her area code's from. Might as well be the moon, seems so far away right now.

Wolf straightens up. Turns on his barstool and faces girl. Reaches out, grabs the edge of her stool and moves her wholesale, draws her in closer til his legs bracket hers, outsides of her knees to the insides of his thighs. Puts his hands on her legs, palms on bare skin, high up on her thighs. Looks at her while she drinks through tiny straws or puts the sour aside.

"I can be gentle." Sounds more like determination than fact. A will be rather than an am. "Just not very good at figuring out what you want. And when. So you oughta just tell me. All right? Otherwise I just ... it's just what I know."

witch

She thinks about the gala, too. About how he looked at her as soon as he saw her. About how he kissed her in front of everyone. The sex in the gallery. The way it was. The way he pressed his face between her breasts as though in reverence. The way he said her name. The way it all felt.

And the drive. Waking up intermittently to find him there, hand over her, and how she would pretend to be asleep again until she was, in fact, asleep again.

And cuddling against his side, his arm around her, a blanket over them, sharing that buttery popcorn and feeling him laugh at this line or that of Dinah's, react with a subtle wtf at the weirdo pinching uncle, watch intently as Katharine Hepburn wandered around in the garden after dark, thinking herself cold, hearing a man falling in love with her say no,

no. You're not.

Devon thinks of a lot of things between them. Strangely she hasn't gone over the other night much in her mind. When she thinks about it she thinks of his bare back as he pulled his shirt off in front of the fire. It's such a blatantly erotic memory for her. Warm. Golden. The way the bed felt under her, the way she quickly, quickly got naked so that when he turned around he'd see her, because she wanted him to want her like she wanted him. See her skin and lust for her. See her body and feel welcome to her. Touch her.

It's not that she doesn't recall the rest. The ache where he left her. It's a wound; she touches it gently, and that means not delving too deeply and with too much regularity into the wound.

--

She notices when he straightens and turns to her. Twists a bit, looking at him. Her breath catches in her throat when he just pulls her seat, closer now, til her knees bump the edge of his stool and his thighs are on either side of hers. His jeans ruck up the edge of that skirt-dress. Another inch and a half and he'd see whatever panties she's wearing today.

Devon doesn't tug it down. She looks at him, her hand resting on her glass which rests on the bar. Her other hand comes down on top of his, where his palms touch her bare skin.

And she wants him again. It's a heaviness in her eyes, the way the shine in them goes a bit molten. The way her breath moves, the consciousness she puts toward steadying her next exhalation. He says he can be gentle like he's making a vow or taking up a challenge, which is amusing and endearing to her. She doesn't laugh.

She tips her head to one side. "I'll tell you," she says, "if you don't storm off when I try."

wolfman

Another inch and he'd see. Don't think wolf doesn't notice. He does: his eyes flashing down for a second, a flush starting in his cheek. Not embarrassment, or modesty. Just heat.

Heat in his eyes, too, when he looks back at her. Heat in hers. No question they're attracted to each other. Even half-drunk vacationers across the bar can see those two are going to go home together, and maybe some asshole thinks to himself that of course she'd pick the Bad Boy over a Nice Guy like himself, but --

they don't even matter. None of that even matters; not worth wasting breath or thought on.

Wolf's thumbs draw an arc across the tops of her thighs. Tip of his thumb disrupts the hem of her shirt-skirt. Now his eyes are drawn down again, looking at her like she's a puzzle to be solved, pandora's box to be opened. Nothing inside but flame and hope.

"Felt like you were rejecting me," he says. Not an excuse but an explanation -- trying to explain his sorry behavior to her. "So guess I figured it'd be better to just reject you right back. Wasn't really thinking; was just a reaction. Shitty of me, though."

witch

A breath, quick and soft, as his thumb moves. It's almost a laugh but really, more purely: a sound of enjoyment. Of ticklish pleasure. She very nearly shifts closer to him. Nearly moves into his arms of her own accord, to brush the rest aside and simply kiss him, smiling, until they fall --

but that's the thing, isn't it? She doesn't want the next time she feels this way to go awry again, to tell him no, stop, wait, because what he's doing doesn't feel good anymore, because she doesn't always want it to be rough, and firm, and a harrying hunt for orgasm.

Wants to tell him no now, too, as she leans closer to him, but she understands. Doesn't matter if she was or not; matters that he felt that way. She just nods.

"Wasn't trying to reject you," Devon says, low. "But I understand."

After that she's quiet for a few seconds. She's looking down at their bodies, their legs together, his hands on her.

"I have my room upstairs for tonight as well."

Her eyes have moved up; find his.

wolfman

Wasn't trying to reject you --

"I know." Quick; not an interruption but an answer, an assurance. Does know that.

--but I understand.

Wolf nods. Once, then a couple more times. Nothing more to it. It's enough. Wolf looks up like maybe he can see her room, the wreck she's probably made of it by now. Amazing what a mess she can make, especially considering what few things she really had. Wolf looks down to find her looking right at him.

Can't even describe the color of her eyes. Nothing compares. Wolf leans forward and kisses her, right there, in front of everybody. All those paper people that don't matter at all. His hand comes up, cups her cheek. He's still kissing her when he stands up off his chair, his jeans sliding past her bare thighs. Some last lingering shred of modesty keeps him from picking her up off the chair and carrying her up; probably only because he realizes if she straddled his waist again her skirt would ride all the way up.

Wolf just tugs her to her feet instead. Hand takes hers. He takes her out of the bar and up the stairs, though he doesn't know where he's going.

witch

Started this by telling him she wants to spend the night with him.

Ends it by telling him where. And by telling him, though less obviously, when.

Now.

He kisses her. And she lifts her hand to his cheek almost instantly, her fingertips still cold from holding the glass. She grazes them over his cheekbone, welcoming that kiss, leaning back as he leans into her, lifting her face to his. He rises, bent over her, would be bent more severely if she weren't on a barstool.

Wouldn't care if he picked her up, if her hemline rode up, if they made a scene. Of course she wouldn't care.

Doesn't care: Devon presses her hand to his back and lifts herself up onto the foot-rest of the barstool, takes a step into air, and wraps her legs around him. A few people look away from the black boyshorts she wears under that shirt, noticing only that they're spangled somehow, gleaming like a starry night, and the bartender half-laughingly says Whoa, and a group of skiiers (very drunk) over by the fireplace whoop and clap. Devon ignores them all. Her hand is on the back of his head, her other hand is on his bicep, and she's kissing him, and he's walking away, heading for the elevator. Touching a button when she pauses, murmuring in his ear: "Fourth floor." Which is the top, here.

wolfman

Wolf doesn't hesitate. Doesn't miss a beat. Girl steps off and his hands are there to scoop her up. Girl could be weightless. Act could be choreographed. Somewhere out there someone whoas and several someones whoop and clap. They are all ignored. Wolf's kissing the girl. Miracle they don't stumble. Wolf carries girl out of bar and he's kissing her. Get to the elevator where she pushes the button and he is kissing her. Elevator dings as it arrives and he is kissing her. She tells him fourth floor.

Wolf pushes the button. Doors shut. Floor rises. Her back sinks against the elevator wall and he is kissing her, his big hands straying up under her dress to cup her ass. Fingers slide up under the hem of those boyshorts, touch her skin. Here's a secret: he loves the way she dresses. Those crazy things she wears.

Elevator dings and doors open. Wolf lifts girl off the wall and she has to show him where, tell him which way. They get to her door. His mouth at her neck while she gets the keycard out. His teeth nipping at her top, pulling it away from her body, as she slides the card in and pulls it out, turns that little light green. She's the one to push the handle down. His weight against her, her weight against the door, is what swings it open.

witch

His body is thick, and hard, and hot between her legs. She gasps softly at the first impact, when he rests her back against the elevator wall. Not hard, but somehow that leverage to press herself closer to him only turns her on more. She rakes her fingers into his hair, bites her lip when he slips his hands beneath those spangled, sparkling panties.

Not a secret, Rafael. Just one he doesn't intend to tell.

Her directions are brief: Left, she mutters against his mouth, then four oh-seven. Key is in her damn bra -- she reaches in, slips it out through her neckline and reaches to the side, unlocking the door, twisting the handle as best she can. And it's awkward; best she can is awkward. No matter. She grinds against him as he pushes them into the darkness and instantly trips over a pair of her boots.

wolfman

Left.

Four oh seven.

By then words barely mean anything to the wolf. Numbers, less. It's pattern recognition that gets them to the right door. Pattern recognition and sensation, senses: scent of -- not her, no, but her things. That giraffe's in there somewhere. That bag that was on the floor of the mountain manor, and on the floor of the townhouse before that.

Girl struggles with the door. Wolf's eating at her neck and her shoulder and her top, using his teeth, rubbing his face. Rolling in her non-scent. Her knuckles brush his nose on the way in, and he twists his head back from the hard little card on the way out. She jams it in backwards. He bites her neck.

Door spills open. Wolf spills in. Trips over boots, stumbles, damn near drops the girl. Maybe she shrieks; maybe she laughs. Maybe she moans because then he's kicking the door shut and her back is to the wall and he's pulling, pulling, pulling her shirt-skirt-dress-thing up.

Bare skin catches what dim light there is. God she's so beautiful, the narrowness of her frame, the rose-through-white of her skin. And those freckles across her nose. Those remarkable, unforgettable eyes. Wolf kisses her mouth again there in the dark, panting into it, mouth open, lips wet from kissing. Fills his hands with her breasts, pushing her bra up and then off -- pushes it up over her head like a tank top.

"Missed you," he whispers, like a secret he doesn't want to tell. "Missed you."

witch

Her things don't smell like her. Smell like a familiar detergent, smell like remnants of his own house. Smell like the perfumes she wears sometimes, the things she washes with. Smells like all the things that surround her but do not, ever, smell like her.

Even up close, right at her throat, teeth in her skin, he can't smell her. Can't tell from scent if she's getting wet for him yet, can't see in the dark if her cheeks are flushed. They stumble in, and she laughs gaspingly but holds him tighter, doesn't want to be dropped. She finds herself against a wall and gives a low noise -- not a moan, not quite, but sort of a purr, a hum of energy as he presses against her.

She arches. As he pushes and pulls her shirt up her body. Leaves her in those panties that sparkle in whatever light reaches this ark room. Leaves her in some black bra, the very same one she was wearing the last time he saw her -- well. Not wearing, the last time he saw her. Had just removed.

She doesn't have much, you see.

Her body is long and lean between those two pieces; her thighs are long and lean and soft between panties and thigh-highs. She's holding him, cupping him closely, kissing him. And he's panting, he's hungry, he's fighting with her bra but she stills him. Puts her hand on his wrist and pulls it down, holds her against her belly, her side. Kisses him again.

Rafael tells her he missed her.

Devon kisses him; doesn't say a word. If it's a secret, it's kept: not answered, nor repeated.

When she stops kissing him this time -- and it is a long kiss, her hand firm on his wrist, her legs firm around his waist. She looks at him in the dark. "S'all right to go slow," she murmurs. "Enjoy it." A small shake of her head, before she leans in, kisses his mouth again, whispers: "Not going anywhere."

Which is half a lie; tomorrow she's leaving for Boston. But she means here. Now. Tonight. They have hours

and hours, and hours,

in which to be together.

wolfman

"You're going to Boston."

Leave it to him to point out the obvious. Doesn't even seem to see the joke in it. Says it serious and hushed into the humid air between them.

Gets the point, though. Slow down. All right. Enjoy it. She pulls his hands down. He strokes her waist, her sides. Girl kisses him and it's such a long, slow, luxurious thing. Wolf lifts her off the wall midway through it, walks deeper into the room. A little more careful now. Planting his feet firmly. Kicks something aside, some soft collection of clothes or towels or whatever. Not a big room, not really a premium anything, but clean enough, nicely furnished. Bed doesn't feel gross to sleep on.

She tumbles back on it. Wolf tumbles down atop her. Wrestles out of his jacket, then his fleece, then his thermal. Rolls onto his back to start on his jeans; kicks off his boots, too, letting them thud-thud to the floor.

Wolf's eyes glimmer in the dark. He watches her as she lies there, or rolls atop him, or sits up -- whatever she does. "Take off your clothes," he whispers.

witch

Makes her brows tug together when he says that. Not in displeasure, not in frustration. Something else, deep and twisting.

Kisses him again. Slowly and deeply. He lifts her from the wall as she does, and she's stroking her fingers through his hair as he picks his way across the room. Yes, shoes there, towels there, discarded jeans, a throw pillow she kicked off the bed. Which hasn't been made, because she slept until after housekeeping finished for the day. It's warm in here. The window doesn't have much of a view but they're in the mountains; everything through that window is glorious, even at night. Even with a moon still no more than a papercut-thin sliver in the sky.

They land on the bed. She slips out of and kicks off those slipper-boots; they thump behind him to the floor. Long legs wind back around him, stroke his sides and his back. She's not quite ready for him to pull away when he does; she's helping him with his clothes, pushing them up, marveling at how hot he is,

and how hot he is.

Leans up to kiss his bared chest, making that low, pleased sound again. Makes another noise, a laughing half-caught protest, as he rolls away. She watches him unfasten his jeans, push out of his boots, and she leans back on the bed, propped on her elbows, wearing lingerie. That's what it is. Bra. Panties. They don't entirely match except that they're both black. Thigh-highs are the same ones she wanted to keep on that one night, the ones he took off of her that same night. Thick and knit and gray. Her headband still sparkles lightly in her hair.

Tells her what he does.

She smirks at him in the dark.

"Like it when you take them off." Gives a little shrug with that smirk, and pushes herself up, kneeling on the bed, turning her back to him. "If you insist." As she folds her arms back to unclasp her bra.

wolfman

Wolf's busy with his own clothes. Wolf's eyes are on her, though. Always on her. She smirks and it makes him hard. Wolf loves that sly little smirk of hers; makes him rolls half on his side, leaning over to kiss her. It's a quick, hard, tangling thing, that kiss.

Then she gets up on her knees. He falls back. She turns her back as he's unzipping his pants. Starts unclasping her bra like that, shoulderblades winging delicately.

"Supposed to be facing me," wolf mutters, and arches his hips up, and pushes his pants off.

witch

She laughs when he kisses her. It's a quick, gaspy little sound. Her lips catch at his, drink him in. He's back again, as though he can scarcely keep up kissing her at all right now.

Hears him behind her, unzipping his jeans. The rustle as he pushes them off. She unhooks her bra with an easy tug and then one strap slips down. She doesn't take her bra off. She looks at him over her shoulder.

"Why's that?" she wants to know, her barely-clad ass resting on her stockinged heels, her back open and bare to him.

wolfman

Jeans slump to the floor in a pile. Wolf rolls up on his knees, surges up over her like a wave. Nips, nuzzles, bites his way up her back and kisses her over her shoulder -- heavy arms coming around her, grabbing her bra and pulling it all the way off. Replaces the cups with his hands.

"So I can see your tits." There he goes again. States the obvious like it's anything but.

witch

Her eyes close. She tips her head forward, and away, while he nuzzles her skin, kisses her, brings all that heat and warmth over to her body. She's holding her bra against her breasts but lets it go when he reaches around her, takes hold of it, draws it off of her arms, away from her. Cups her breasts in his hands.

His answer makes her smirk. Eyes still closed. She lifts up a little, rubbing her still-clothed ass against his cock. Doesn't say a word, though. Seems to be telling him something else, though, with that little stroke of cotton to skin.

wolfman

Wolf doesn't know what she's trying to tell him. Wolf doesn't realize there's a message there. Wolf reacts: teeth catching his lower lip, hissing a breath in. Calloused hands rub her tits, squeeze. He reaches one down between her legs, inside those sparkly boyshorts of hers.

Finds her cunt under the fabric. Soft hair, softer flesh. Tender, yeah? He's wrapped her up in his arms again. Curved his whole body to and around hers. Leans in to kiss and bite at the side of her neck; paws at her pussy, her clit, so inexpertly.

"Take it off." He means her panties. He means her stockings. He means all of it, all of it, until she's bare as can be. She likes it when he takes her clothes off but he's busy right now; busy touching her breasts, busy touching her cunt. Surely she can see that.

witch

That sound of him. The reaction he has. The way he goes at her tits because of it. She keeps rubbing against him, one hand now braced against the headboard, but their bodies are aligned. He's pushing one hot hand down into her panties, finding her thighs spreading a little to permit the width of his palm. Finds her growing wet for him. A little. But hot. Jesus christ.

She's so hot.

Devon is twisting, seeking his mouth with hers, panting softly. She catches his mouth and moans a little into it as his fingers -- by sheer luck, perhaps -- slide across her clit. Moan has a bit of a whimper to it. She tips her head back, licks her lips. She's kissing him again, lingeringly, even though she has to arch and twist for it.

Her hand leaves the headboard for a moment. She reaches down, hooking her thumbs into her panties, pushing them down -- just a few inches. Just to mid-thigh. She replaces her hand on the board, leaning that way the better to press herself against him. And with her free hand, her right, she runs her fingers over the back of his hand, in between his knuckles, in between his fingers. And draws his hand up

to her mouth. Licks her taste off of him, scarce as it is. Runs her tongue between his fingers, around the tips. Draws them into her mouth entire: his ring finger, first, sucking once. Index, once. Middle finger, slowly, moaning softly, her mouth tightening on him. Leaves those fingers wet, slippery-wet, and then puts his hand between her legs again, opening her thighs a little more. As much as her panties will let her.

Shows him. Pantingly, whispering, as she shows him with her own fingers, with his:

"Little circles.

"Not too -- oh!" and it's not a happy oh, it's a taut little oh of resistance, followed by a breathy: "Not too hard. Just light, yeah?"

Her breathing is unsteady. Takes effort. A little quiver to it.

Heat in her skin, under her skin, turning it pink.

"Ohmygod," she mutters, low and heavy, some time after he's taken over, after both her hands have gone to rest against the headboard. After he's felt her grow so hot that when she groans that epithet to a deity neither of them believe in, he can feel the slick wetness that accompanies the sound.

"Put your finger inside me," Devon says, with begging note in her voice, a shivering, tight little plea. "Fuck me with it."

wolfman

Hand on her breast becomes an arm around her ribs, holding that lean lovely body of hers firm against his. Size difference is remarkable, and truth is it turns him on: how much more slender she is, how well she fits in the circle of his arms, the bracket of his thighs, the clench of his teeth.

Girl tries to teach him. Wolf tries to learn. Slow pupil at best; this doesn't come natural to him, and when she sucks his fingers wet his pupils blow out; his mind almost melts out his ears. She has to push his hand back between her thighs because he's just grasping at her aimlessly, hungrily, rubbing his cock against the cleft of her ass, small of her back.

Hand gets there, though. Panties down halfway to her knees now. Thighs open as much as that constraint allows. Girl shows him: like this. Little circles. Wolf pants a laugh, and then it burns clean away. Wolf kisses her with his eyes open. Wolf bites her lip, gently, then draws back enough to see her eyes. Her face.

Wolf's got that look again. Eyebrows flexed together, lower lip catch beneath his teeth. Focused, fine-tuned, determined. Girl's eyes get that look again, heavy-lidded, wanting to flutter shut. Eyelashes so long, irises so blue. Both her hands go to the headboard for support. Leaves him to support her body, pleasure her body. Girl wants his finger; girl wants to get fucked. Wolf bares his teeth in a flickering, passing, soundless snarl. Presses his lips to her bare shoulder; moves his other hand down, slides middle finger inside. Index too. Bites her shoulder to keep her upper body against his. Fondling her turns into a bimanual exercise, little circles, fast; long slides, slow. Still his eyes are on her, hungry for the sight of her, hungry to see the way she runs molten with release.

witch

God, she's wet now. She's arched and even though her palms are still against the headboard it's really his arms that hold her up. She keeps on rubbing against him, moans. Louder than before. "Oh, fuck," she mutters, because that isn't what she meant, that isn't what she expected, she meant the same hand but

oh, fuck.

She's a little dizzy. Her mind feels like it's detached from her body a little, tethered there. Can barely feel the bed under her knees, or the elastic of her panties against her thighs. He's so hard and she's losing her mind, lost, better than she was expecting, and not expecting it makes it feel that much more... everything. More everything.

Soon enough that quivering and that heat turns into a sheen of sweat rising on her scentless skin. She's moaning, mewling almost, bouncing her pussy against his hand. He can feel her squeeze him. Clenching on him. Slicking his fingers, his palm, panting.

"Put it in me," she says, ungraceful and raw, her voice all breath and fierce demand. "Fuck -- Rafa, hurry. Want to come with you inside me."

witch

[nitpicking about phrasing: CHANGE THAT TO "Want you inside me when I come"]

wolfman

That pulls a growl out of him, dredged up from deep in his chest. Wolf never says much when they're in bed. Said her name once and that was about it. Wolf never makes much sound at all except those growls, brutal, feral, not even really human.

Makes that sound now. Girl doesn't know how hard it is not to bear her down under him. Throw her face-first on the mattress, grab her by the shoulders, shove himself inside her and pound her until he comes. That's not what she's asking for, though. Wolf doesn't know much but wolf knows this: that's not what she wants right now. Or maybe ever.

So. Wolf moves. And it's swift, and it's sure, but it's not brutal and it's not impersonal. Rises up on his knees and bends her forward a little, gives her weight a little more to that headboard. His fingers slide out of her, wet, hot, leaves a streak of fluid on her inner thigh. His teeth let go. Head bends; so dark in here. Does it by touch, grabs himself by the base, finds her by instinct. Bends to her, back curved and powerful, kisses the nape of her neck.

Pushes into her, and -- let's be honest, it's still rough. It's still fast, and hard, but he tries; he does. His hand grips her hip. He pants against her skin, breath washing down her back. He keeps fingering her, little circles, yeah. Kissing her neck and kissing her cheek, he's letting go her hip. Turning her face around and yes that means she has to strain a bit but: he has to kiss her mouth. Right now. Does. Kisses her hard and wet and biting. Cock inside her so hard, beating with his pulse but he doesn't thrust, doesn't hammer, doesn't fuck. Just lets her have that. Have him. Inside her; an anchoring presence while he rubs her off.

witch

Hasn't been inside of her since that upsetting, frustrating moment a couple of nights ago. Hands on her face, pleading with him to just stop, feeling rejection, enacting it. Truthfully she thought they could come up here. Kiss. Undress. Tease. Fool around. Teach him a thing or two about slowing down and just enjoying it. Then he used both of his hands. Fucked her with one while the other kept working at her clit. Fucked her like that, his body warm and heavy behind her, the night dark and encroaching and the shadows thick as velvet around them.

And now she's begging him to fuck her, put his cock inside of her, be with her while she comes. He growls in answer and for the first time in all the times they've been together, she snarls. Full-throated, rolling out of her, her teeth bared. She tightens her cunt, fierce and wanting.

She told him hurry.

He moves swiftly.

Devon presses her hands more firmly on the headboard, gasping. Her stupid panties are still tugged around her knees. She feels him right at the start, bites her lower lip against a whimper, a groan. Lets that lip go, and that whimper, that groan, the two rolling together from her mouth as he --

kisses her neck. So soft, that. Strange counterpoint to the way he pushes into her, but right now she wants him inside of her fast, and hard. She's close, and she wants him there, and her pussy is open and wet and welcoming. Her legs spread a little as she bears back on him. He's still fingering her, and she almost can't stand it. Almost can't kiss him, but she does. Doesn't care that she has to strain. Doesn't care so long as he's kissing her, drinking moans out of her mouth. And he's not fucking her and she has no idea how hard it is for him not to push her down and just pound her but she'll worry about being grateful later. For now she gets what she wants, and he goes on touching her, pleasuring her while he keeps his cock

very hard, and very hot,

inside of her pussy. Not his fault if she starts squirming. Not his doing if she starts fucking him like that. Not under his control if she lowers herself from the headboard. Grabs one of those thick, heavy hotel pillows and shoves it under her hips and is bent over it, moaning the way she does, fucking him like she wants to.

She's so fucking close. Mind-searingly close.

wolfman

Wants to make this about her, all her. Wants to do just what she asked. Put it inside her. Touch her. Get her off. Wants to show her he can: can listen, can resist, can perform, can be what she wants.

Then girl goes bending over like that. Girl goes laying herself out like that. Girl goes moaning like that, fucking him like that, winding that tight hot cunt on him like that. Wolf can't be blamed; he's only a wolf. Wolf makes this sound, a gasp and a growl and a pant and an exhale all at once.

Palm hits the mattress by her head. He throws his hips into hers, drives her hard against his hand, his hand against the pillow she put there. Wolf's weight on his hand and his knees, but bearing down on her too. Let's be honest: he fucks her. He starts fucking her, hard and fast, panting through clenched teeth. Keeps fingering her the best he can even as he's stroking into her, pumping into her, hammering her against that hand, that pillow, that bed.

This mattress does squeak. This frame does creak. This headboard does slam the wall, again, and again, and again. Wolf leans down while he's fucking the girl; licks her spine between her shoulderblades. Kisses that arch of bone. Bites her wherever he can catch flesh.

witch

They are but mortal.

And he touched her and she moved on him and now,

now,

they are both falling apart.

--

He fucks her. She's fucking him and he starts fucking her right back, hard, til the bed is creaking and the headboard is hitting the wall and she's moaning, moaning like she's losing her mind. He licks her; she groans, swearing. Starts muttering god knows what at him, telling him -- nothing, really, because none of it forms real words. Just gasps, outcries, things that might one moment become words if for any moment she can just hold on to a sound. He drives it all out of her. Drives her out of her goddamn head.

Between one clench of her cunt and the next she's coming, sudden as a summer storm and just as wet. Her hands clutch at the sheets and the other pillow and one hand finds his,

holds. Tightens as she bites into that other pillow, burying a long sound close to a scream in the fabric. She's swearing there, between clenched teeth and cotton, or sobbing, or something. All he can know is what her body tells him: that sweat has no scent but somehow it has a taste. That scream has no words but it certainly has meaning. Her hips are taking him, yes, but not in the sense that she is enduring; she is taking him, collecting him, gathering him into herself to hold him there, perhaps forever.

And she is coming. God, she is coming without stopping that mind-melting, needful roll of her hips, over and over. Her lips have parted from the pillow; she's panting against it now, whimpering. It hasn't even begun to let her down yet; she whimpers because it hasn't stopped yet, she can't stop yet, and he's so fucking hard. That's all she can think, now: he's so fucking hard. He's so fucking hard.

wolfman

Hard to say what it is that tips the girl over the edge. Sex is inexplicable; so is attraction, so is lust, so is love. Can't pinpoint the moment, the motion, the reason. Can't break it down like that. She's close. She's close. She's close and then she's not close; she's there. Grabbing at the sheets, grabbing at his hand. Biting into fabric. Screaming, or near enough. Sobbing, or near enough, and

sometimes it's not so inexplicable after all. Way she sounds, way she looks, way she feels: sets the wolf off. Tips him over. Wolf pushes into her hard, pins her to the bed with the weight of his hips, his lower body, the force of that last thrust. Wolf's teeth are still in her shoulder. Grip hard. Wolf's hand stills, wolf's arm goes hard as steel, wolf's whole body goes rigid.

Whole consciousness focuses to a pinpoint. White-hot. Then the sear of it floods through him, wave upon wave. Girl's making too much noise to hear what sound he makes. Feels it though, maybe; vibrating in his chest, tattooed in her flesh.

Wolf lets go her shoulder a moment later, leaves the imprint of his bite there. Kisses her neck instead, or close enough to it. Presses his mouth to her neck. Pants there, growling, as he shudders through the aftermath. Fucks her through the aftermath, suddenly and savagely energetic; pounds her, fondles her, fucks her until the sounds she makes are overcome, until her hand is grasping his to stop, stop.

He slows. He stops. This time -- he sees the line, doesn't cross it.

Head is heavy; hanging, brow to her shoulder. Wolf's panting, back drenched in sweat. Moving ever so slowly now, slow slides that make him shudder. Collapsing rather abruptly, half atop her, half on his side. Hand's still caught under her, cupping her between her legs now. Protective, almost. Shielding her from overstimulation.

Girl's left her curtains open. Outside, ghostly in the darkness, the shadow of mountains. Distant as fables. Wolf looks at them lazily.

witch

It's a strange kind of regret, to not be able to enjoy his orgasm because she's so caught up in her own. But regret it she does, briefly and flickeringly and amused-at-herself-ly. She can't even laugh. He's fucking her eagerly, even though he just came for god's sake. She whimpers, and cries out, and squirms away from him and swats at him. Just swats at him, reaching behind her and flapping her had at his hip oh god, how dare he.

But they rock. He's so energetic and she can't take it but still: she moves. She winds slowly, softly under him, hugging a pillow, smiling into it, sweating against him and against the bed. Feels him kissing her, then resting his head against her, and they're moving so slow now, lazy and warm.

Devon likes this. Her eyes close; she just enjoys it, sweaty and overcome and complete. Could go on forever like this, except she can't, and he can't, and strangely she feels that it's perfect when he just collapses like that. She couldn't handle another thrust of his cock, stroke of his hand. She goes still, too, snuggled in bed, snuggled half under him, his cock still buried in her cunt. His hand covering her. Not teasing, stroking. Like she showed him, some time ago.

Tender, yeah?

Makes a low sound, soft, like a song: mmm. And that's all. She sounds drowsy. She sounds pleased. Still takes time, while he's looking at the window and the curtains and the mountains that they are sort of technically a part of right now, and after that time she exhales a long, soft sigh.

Shifts. Rolls a little, and her panties are around her knees and her socks are still on but rucked down. She turns onto her side, with her back to his chest, and draws his arm over her like a cloak. She lays there, holding him still quite intimately within her as he softens, as his heart beats through his cock, and makes that mm sound again, a murmur behind closed lips that is also a burst of air from her nostrils. The sound is satisfaction; he has to know that. Like a good meal. A good hunt. Flopping into his den in the dark, without a thought in his head.

That is how she sounds now. Warm. Safe. Sated.

wolfman

Wolf's got regrets too. A few more, and a little more poignant, than girl's. Regrets that this didn't happen two nights ago. Three. Regrets all that time apart. Regrets that they're not in his house right now. In his room. In his

(den)

bed, fire burning down in the hearth, air growing a little chillier as the night deepens outside. Highest peaks carving a serrated line against the sky. Frost on the windows, snow on the ground. Winter. Cold days but plentiful prey; nowhere for them to hide. Wolves can find prey even in winter. Especially in winter.

Wolf's thoughts meander. Come back. Girl smells a little like him now. Even that seems muted somehow. Wolf never asks her why he can't smell her. Maybe he thinks it's some side-effect of her magic. Perk of the trade. Maybe he thinks it's a blessing of the fair folk. Those wild, capricious, cruel creatures whose blood mingled with Stag's.

Wolf's heavy arm over her grows heavier. Wolf's eyelids drift lower. Wolf thinks of sleep; is halfway there when he thinks of Boston.

Eyes open again. Wolf stirs, nose brushing her thick hair.

Murmurs into the darkness: "When are you coming back?"

witch

She smiles in the darkness. His nose is in her hair; she can feel him back there, searching for her. She starts to turn a little, and by nature of physics she draws off of him, doesn't mind that they're messy, that his cock is wet against her thigh. Just wants to turn on her back, look at him, his arm crossing her belly.

Touches his cheek. Fiddles with his hair a little, just above his ear. She's still smiling. Warmly. No smirk to it this time. Just... yes. Warm. Safe. Sated. No regrets now, for her only one was so brief as to hardly matter. She doesn't think about weirdness the night of the gala or the failed attempt at sex the night after or the two days apart. All she can think of now is how very, very good this feels. She pauses a moment, and wiggles her panties down her legs, tosses them aside. She doesn't worry about her stockings.

Rolls to face him, smiling like that still.

"Sunday," she whispers. Pauses her stroking of his hair to lean forward, kiss his mouth. It lingers; it's so very soft. She slides her arm around him, smooth and soft despite the heat of her skin. Touches their noses together, eyes closed, whispering:

"Best it's ever been, yeah?"

wolfman

Forgot about her panties.

Forgot about her stockings too.

Likes it that she takes them off now, though. Likes her bare, naked, not a stitch on her. Not a scrap left between his skin and hers.

Still plenty of secrets, though. Wolf thinks even if he knew every last thing about her, she'd still be full of secrets somehow. It's the color of her eyes. It's the way her lips move, that hint of wryness when she smirks. And when she smiles. Girl's smiling now, and wolf's slow-blinking eyes are drawn to that shape. Wolf puts a hand on her jaw. Rubs a thumb over her mouth.

Sunday.

Wolf thinks a moment. Five days. While he's thinking she's touching his hair, she's kissing him. He stops thinking for a little while, lets his mind go liquidly blank. Kiss is so soft, and if he's not careful he'll read meaning into it. Inside of her arm's the softest skin he's ever felt. Except it's not. Her thighs are softer. Her cunt is softer.

"Yeah."

Wolf's arm resettles over her. Draped over, lazy, warm, heavy.

"I'll come pick you up on Sunday."

witch

Well: she keeps the socks on. Toes get cold. The heavy knit rubs against his calves when she comes closer again. He touches her mouth; her eyes close in reaction.

Thinks about fucking him all the time.

Her teeth set softly in his thumb, and then she kisses that spot, and then she openes her eyes and looks at him.

Loves it when they finally do.

--

They are kissing. He's not thinking. Neither is she. She's just kissing him, slowly, softly, and it's the best it's ever been and she wants him to know that. That his patience paid off, or something. That it was okay that at the end he just fucked her, hard and fast like that, and it got her off really fucking well. That it was so good, and she liked it so much, and wants him to know.

His arm is heavy and warm around her. Can't help it; she sort of wants him again. Right now. Wants to:

"Could stay up all night before I go," she murmurs, kissing his jaw, and then his neck, moving closer. "Take a nap. Fool around some more." Her breasts touch his chest. Her lips are on his throat. She's sliding her thigh against his. Her head draws back a little. Her eyes look up, meet his. Maybe she has no comment on him picking her up. No argument. No need to confirm. Just:

"You wanna?"

wolfman

"Wanna take you back home."

Words come out unconsidered. And then they're out there; can't be unsaid. Wolf's eyes open. Meet hers.

"Stay up all night." Pause. Doesn't euphemize. "Fuck."

witch

Her eyes close drowsily; it's sheer lust, that. She aches with it. And she gets it: his house. His den. His woods.

But still: "Just stay here, Rafa," she murmurs, sliding her leg around him. "We're already here. Warm. Naked." Nuzzles his jaw. "Don't wanna put clothes back on. Don't wanna go out in the cold."

Kisses his neck. Presses closer. "Wanna stay. And fuck." Looks at him, meets his green eyes with her blue ones. Doesn't euphemize. "And fool around. Just wanna be with you."

wolfman

Wolf relents. Hard not to. Girl's moving closer and closer still. Wolf's hand on her thigh when she slides that leg around him. Even he can't miss a signal like that; so open, so accessible, so wanting.

Girl kisses his neck. Wolf kisses her mouth. Rolls slowly, lazily on his back; more languid now that the initial rush is past. Pulls her on top, sprawled on him, long limbs, loose hair.

"Okay," he whispers. "We'll stay."