back from england.

witch

What cause does she have to even come back?

Her extended family -- the ones who know that she is kin, the ones who know and can comprehend that she is a practicing and surprisingly effective witch, the ones who can understand what her life on this earth will really be -- live in Boston.

Her mother -- the one she calls at midnight-seven-in-the-morning overseas just to talk to her about a boy who is confusing her and, the one who raised her after Some Shithead left them both, the one who she came from and leans on and wants to please and wants to be near -- is in England.

Devon has no job in Denver. None that she cannot take with her.

Devon has no home in Denver. None that belongs to her.

Devon has no deep friendships in Denver. None that she needs.

No one that she needs.

Perhaps he wonders if she's coming back, when his people call her in Massachusetts to set up her travel to the UK and discover how long she wants to stay in England. Days and days and days and days. Perhaps when he asks (if he asks) or when he's told (if he's told) when she intends to return not just to the United States but to Denver, he wonders if she really intends to come back at all. If there is anything, really, worth leaving her family for.

--

At the same time, she reaches out. That little 'thanks' text before the plane takes off to Boston.

Nothing, for a couple of days. A photo, late at night, texted to him: sent to several numbers. It's many people, Devon among them, sitting around a long set of tables piled with traditional food, all of them smiling. Lots of dark hair and lots of freckles and some bright blue, bright green eyes. One wolf -- funny how he can sense it, even in a photograph where half the creature's face is cut off -- not looking at the camera but right at Devon, his eyes piercing, intense, consuming. That look could mean a lot of things. Rage. Lust. Both. It definitely speaks of knowledge. Familiarity. But there is nothing friendly about it.

So that is Thanksgiving. And she's in contact with his people a bit after that, working out details for Sunday -- leaving Logan International to go not to Denver International but London Heathrow. Maybe they talk then. She's busy, flighty, is a wee bit drunk, laughs a lot.

Somewhere else in the country, Devon goes across the Atlantic to see her mother, and then she does not text Rafael or talk to him much at all.

One night some texts. Night for her, at least. She knows the time difference well enough, but he's a wolf so she asks: you up?

And maybe he answers. And maybe she tells him she's just about to go to sleep. And maybe she tells him that she just wanted to say hi. And maybe,

likely,

the screen goes dark and she stops answering, because she does go to sleep. Falls asleep with her phone on her chest, waiting for his next response. Holds it over her heart, sleeping.

Might just be doing that, even if he isn't up,

and doesn't answer.

--

Sends him a selfie of her and her mother. She's making a weird face, all down-turned mouth and bugging-out eyes. Her mother is... gorgeous. Twenty-odd years older than Devon but still only in her mid-forties. Her hair is still so thick and so dark; her eyes are behind big, fashionable sunglasses. She is laughing at her daughter, their brows close. Devon is much paler than her mother. Devon's mother has no freckles. The shape of their mouths, though; the richness of that dark hair. They have things in common. But it's clear how strong Devon's Fianna blood is. Clear, too, from the way she looks in that selfie -- and a few others, each one with her mother laughing and whatever absurd face Devon is making -- that being with her 'mum' brings out something in her that is warm and real and honest and

for some reason she's sending them to him as ways of saying 'oh, hello'.

--

She does come back, though. There is an appointed time and an appointed airline and an appointed arrival and she does remember telling him -- sort of asking him -- to be there at the airport. And so there he is,

at the appointed time, at the appointed place. And so is she. In soft jeans and a black sweatshirt bearing the face of a cheetah, and a triangular gold necklace pointing downward and just a black purse, a pair of sunglasses already on because it is bright outside and her body hardly knows what time it is. The jeans are tucked into black ankle boots, flats, and she wears no other jewelry. Her hair is tousled and her earrings, also gold, look like sparrows and fake diamonds. He's never seen her wear any of this.

Doesn't have the backpack she took with her, the only piece of luggage she had.

She walks over to him, visibly exhausted by a transatlantic flight, and her step doesn't quicken and her eyes don't brighten but when she gets to him she just sinks against his chest, shoulders rounding down, purse slipping from its spot down to her elbow, feet resting between his.

"Hello," is what she says,

muffled against his body.

wolfman

No answer that first time she texts. Girl falls asleep waiting. Wakes up to a reply:

Sorry. Was sleeping. Where you at?

Wolf gets his own response some time later. Girl and her mother. Resemblance clear as the differences. Age. Skin tone. Blood. Wolf doesn't know what to say back so he doesn't reply, except for a text several days later:

Gimme your return flight info again?

--

Girl tells him the time, the airline, the place. Wolf tells her he'll be there. Time comes, airplane lands, place is the arrivals curb. Wolf's driven himself here, in his own car. Plain sedan. Parked with emergency lights blinking. Wolf's leaning against the passenger's side, smoking. Gets a few dirty looks from health-minded folks passing by.

Wolf sees the girl before she sees him. Sees her through the doubled sliding doors of the terminal, looking exhausted and pale and cleanskinned and ... different. Never seen her like this before. Still draws something inside him taut, vibrating finely as a violin string.

Sliding doors whoosh open. Wolf takes cigarette out of mouth, drops it on the asphalt and grinds it out. Girl comes walking over while he's popping open the trunk, but then he sees she's not carrying any luggage. Wolf shuts the trunk again. Girl leans into him. Wolf stands there, frozen and surprised, uncertain.

She greets him.

His hand comes cautiously to her back. Then firmly. Then he wraps his arms around her and holds her a minute, fiercely, before he puts his hands on her shoulders and straightens her up.

"Too damn cold for what you're wearing," he says. "Get in."

witch

Wants her back. She can see that, plain and clear as day, when his message comes through asking to know when. When, when. Remembers the way he looked when she pranced back to bed from the bathroom, naked, middle of the night. Like he was a breath away from hunting for her.

Sends him the information anyway. Always ends her texts the same way, with that little x.

--

He shuts the trunk. She slumps against him. He is an idiot and doesn't wrap his arms around her, scoop her up, kiss her neck, sniff at her no matter how futile that is. Idiot, she thinks, and lets the thought go when he touches her back, wraps his arms around her, and someone is looking at them, considering approaching to tell them they need to move it along.

Rafael straightens her up. She looks blearily up at him, though he can't see how blearily since her eyes are still covered by sunglasses. She yawns. He tells her it's too cold, which it is.

"Need my luggage," she mumbles. Realizes

he didn't park. They're at the curb.

Brow furrows.

"Thought I told you," she also mumbles. "Checked... stuff."

wolfman

Wolf's momentarily nonplussed. Then he puts his arm around her shoulders. More or less directs her car-ward, reaching out to pull the passenger's door open.

"What color's your bag? I'll go get it. You stay with the car. Don't let them tow me."

witch

Onward she slumps. Car-ward she is directed, slumpily. She shuffles along and shrugs. "One is orange. One's grey, purple leaves. Then a black one, Swiss gear." She gives a little sigh as she crawls into the open car door. "They all have tags."

wolfman

"Right."

Girl gets in the car. Wolf leaves her the keys. Apparently trusts she won't drive off, leave him stranded with her bags. Goes back into the terminal, broad back disappearing into a rush of people who can't wait to get away from him.

Gone for a good ten, fifteen minutes. In that time airport cops come around and want Devon to move. She does or she doesn't. Maybe there's a ticket on the dashboard by the time wolf comes back, three bags hanging from shoulder and both hands. He goes around to the trunk and thumps the rear bumper with his knee to indicate that she ought to open the trunk.

Door swings up. Car sinks a little lower on its struts as one, two, three bags go in. Then wolf comes around to the driver's seat, glances for traffic, pulls door open and ducks in. All shoulders and height, folding into the cabin. Takes keys back and turns the engine on.

"Going back to the townhouse?"

witch

Not going to leave him stranded with her luggage. Left with a backpack; came back with three suitcases. Which, as he discovers, means a small (grey and purple) bag, a medium (orange) bag, and one very large (black, Swiss Gear, like 90 other bags that go by) bag. All have wheels. Doesn't make it any easier to get the three of them through the terminal.

At least this is post-Thanksgiving. It's not pure, unadulterated chaos in the baggage claim. It's just the normal, everyday chaos.

Airport cops come around and want Devon to move. She looks at them sleepily, then climbs over the center console and pulls away from the curb and drives around until she finds a parking space and then she texts Rafael:

had to move.

Gives him the parking level and row so he can find her. Takes another five or ten minutes. She crawls back into the passenger seat and curls up until there's a thump on the car, which makes her startle back to alertness. Peers out the window, sees him in the rearview and, for a moment,

does nothing but appreciate the cut of his body through his clothing, the size of him, the way things fit on him.

Then she climbs over the center console again and fumbles for the latch and pops the trunk open. Door swings up. Bags go in. Trunk thumps shut. Rafael gets in. She looks at him, and he's halfway through asking her about the townhouse when she climbs over the center and onto his lap, knees to either side of him. Palms on his jaw. Mouth on his mouth. Kisses him devouringly. Eats at him, then, like she's starving.

wolfman

What the fuck, wolf thinks, staring at message telling him the parking structure, the floor, the row. Ends up dragging three bags -- small, medium, and very fucking large -- from terminal to parking to level 3 to row 16. Is, frankly, huffing a bit by the time he knees the car. White steam rising in puffs while he watches her crawl around. Pop goes the latch.

Thud thud, THUD go the suitcases. And then he opens his door and has to slide the seat way back. Is getting in, shutting the door, talking about his townhouse when girl comes climbing onto him. Makes him go what -- but then she answers him: her mouth on his, her hands on him.

Wolf's stiff with surprise. Then melting into it. Big hand comes up and cups her cheek. Eyes close, hand finds the release -- seat goes tilting back under his weight and hers, thumping into the back row.

Wolf starts tugging at her clothes immediately. Undoes her jeans and starts working them down. Car's been off for a while and windows are cold enough to start steaming.

witch

Knows he's going to kiss her back. Or: kisses him like she thinks he is. Expects it. Doesn't fear that he might not. She just climbs onto him, kisses him, meltingly. He pulls a lever and down they go, her weight falling onto his chest. At first she moans a little, softly, her hands roaming over his face, into his hair, down his body.

His hands go a-wandering as well. He has her jeans unfastened before she can even think to borrow a phrase from him and say what.

"Whoa," she breathes, drawing her hips back from his eager hands. She no longer has sunglasses on; didn't have them on when he came back to the car with all her luggage. Her cheeks are a little flushed; her eyes are a little glassy. He might not know they were glassy before from jet lag, and not just lust.

"Gonna get arrested," Devon murmurs at him, turning her face to the side of his face and rubbing her nose over him. "I was only saying hello."

wolfman

Wolf follows her when she draws back. Flexes up off the seat, chasing down one more kiss. Then girl says whoa. Wolf's eyes are there to meet hers. He stares a moment. It's an animal regard, open and intent and uncomprehending.

Then comprehending. Wolf drops down, exhales. Pulls his hand out of her pants. Girl comes back, nuzzling. Wolf tips his head back to allow it.

"Misread," he mutters. "Go on, get buckled in. Let's go home."

witch

Chases her mouth. Finds it, and she's kissing him again for a moment, fingertips on his skin, a sigh in her breath. She mumbles that whoa and he meets her eyes, stares at her. She nuzzles him anyway. His hand slips out of her jeans as she's -- well -- cuddling to him a bit.

She ignores the part where he says home.

"Wanna," she murmurs, close to his skin as she is, her breath warm. Hasn't tried to fasten her jeans again. Smiles against his jawline, lazy and unseen but felt. "If you take me to bed. And get on top. And do all the work," a verbal grin, there. "And don't fuss over it if I'm too sleepy to come. All right?"

wolfman

Wolf laughs -- low sound, barely more than a grunt. Nuzzles her back, roughly, jaw all-abristle. Practically a beard. Like he stopped shaving altogether for the duration of the time she was over in England.

"Lazy." He picks her up on that note. Deposits her back in her seat. Pulls his seat upright, whisks seatbelt over his shoulder and clicks it into place. "Not gonna fuss. Not my problem if you just want to dead-fish it."

witch

She nuzzles him. Tells him what she wants. How she wants it. And then she's lifted, shifted, and that's when she twists around, decides to button up her jeans and slump backward. She lazily, slowly decides to buckle herself in. And yawns a little, and shrugs. "Jetlagged," she corrects.

He tells her he won't fuss. Not his problem. Her nose wrinkles.

"Don't be gross," he's told. She looks at him: looking behind his shoulder, putting the car in reverse. Looks at him, not saying anything, then looks out the window. Closes her eyes.

wolfman

Wolf's eyes meet girl's for a beat. Shadow and fluorescent lighting and even so -- even unkindly lit, even unshaven -- he's a beautiful thing, savage and vivid. Doesn't say anything. Is chagrined maybe, or maybe really does care as little as he lets on.

Still. A couple moments after girl curls up to go to sleep, she feels warm air. Vents directed her way. Heater turned up higher than wolf needs, really, wearing that ever-present leather jacket of his.

Trip back to his townhouse doesn't take too long. Not three and a half hours; not even half an hour. Pretty soon they're pulling into the garage. Garage door rumbles its way down as car door pops open. Trunk thumps open too, and wolf goes around behind the car to lug girl's luggage out.

"What the hell is all this anyway?" The enormous suitcase lands on its wheels, followed by its smaller siblings.

witch

She wakes up when the car slows, turning into regular traffic, going into his little pretty townhouse area. She opens her eyes and smiles a little, to herself. He's already getting out of the car, and she turns, stretches, and clambers out, dragging her purse.

Goes back to the trunk. At least this time she'll help carry her own bags.

"Clothes," she says. "My stuff."

Doesn't glance at him as she says that, to see his reaction,

much as she would like to.

wolfman

Truth is girl might've been disappointed if she had looked. There isn't much of a reaction. Wolf considers her moved in already. Been staying with him for weeks. He calls her coming back going home. Would probably call this -- the stuff he's pulling out of the trunk of his car -- not her stuff, but the rest of her stuff.

"Had the cook make some chicken noodle soup, if you're hungry," he says, shouldering one bag, dragging the other two. "Don't know. It's the sort of thing I like eating when I've been on the road. You probably want a shower too. Before bed. I'll drag your stuff upstairs, put it in your room."

witch

One of the bags goes with her, unless he gets all uppity about it. Wheels it along behind her while they head inside. He talks about soup. She huffs a laugh, but the truth is that she likes hearing it: what he likes to eat when he's been on the road. The epitome of comfort food in the American consciousness. Heads inside, smelling it.

She looks back at him, standing inside the house now. "Are you saying I smell bad?" she teases.

wolfman

Wolf looks at her. Oddly serious. Walks over, suitcase in one hand, suitcase dragged by the pullbar in the other. Leaves him no hands with which to touch her, but that's all right. Wolf comes right up against her, bending his head to nudge his brow against her hair. Nose against her temple. Then lips against her temple, kissing her there.

"You don't smell like anything at all." First time he's ever said anything about it. "Makes it ... more difficult, when you're away. Don't have much to remember you by."

witch

So she's there, and he's there, and he's right up against her. Doesn't make her push back, step back. She welcomes it. Knows it's an embrace, even if his arms are busy. She uses her free one to slide around his waist as he bends his neck, his head, kissing her.

Tells her she smells like nothing. Which she knows. And he can feel her tense a little bit to have it brought out in the cold light of day; he's never said anything about it before. Didn't make him attack her, first time he saw her. Didn't make him seethe at her with distrust every time he saw her. Didn't stop him from fucking her. Hasn't stopped him from holding her when she gets back, or sleeping with her, or anything else.

Devon takes a sip of air, to hear what he says.

Not bringing it up to tell her anything else. Just saying it to explain: it's difficult when she's gone. And she knows he means the last couple of weeks. Knows he means the day and a half, two days she was at the Wildwood while he was at the mansion in Snowmass. Could be that while she was gone he went into her room back here, looked in and saw her gold-and-silver dress tossed on the bed where she left it after the gala, her high heels kicked off. The purse, and the stuff she dumped out of it on the bedspread (unmade) that she didn't take with her into the mountains. Bottles of goop and fluid and herbs and baggies of dust and candles and all her other shit scattered here and there. Dirty laundry. And no scent of her to be found. Just remnants, long since cooled from being touched.

Her arm around his waist tightens. She turns her face into his chest.

"Here now," she says, muffled by his clothes. And his body. Her hand flexes on his back, fingers scrunching in the fabric. Breathes in, and exhales slowly.

Quietly: "Sorry I don't smell like anything. Don't know why."

wolfman

Wheels grate on hardwood as wolf straightens the big suitcase and lets go. Wraps that arm around the girl, a firm embrace verging on too tight. "Don't apologize for that," he says. There's a wince in his tone. "Dumb as me apologizing for having a mole on my stomach. Not something you can help."

Big fingers combing through her hair. Big palm passing over the back of her head. Back of her body. Wolf draws away, picks her suitcase up again.

"Go on. Get fed, get showered. I'll put your things up in your room."

witch

He mentions a mole on his stomach and she realizes she's never noticed a mole on his stomach. He's holding her so tight, though; she makes a mental note to just check later.

Devon doesn't say anything. He rubs his palm over her head, and she exhales a soft sigh, a warm sigh. Wants to stay there. Can't stay there, though, because he withdraws, hefting her suitcases again. She watches him. Tells her to feed. Bathe.

Can't deny that even though she wants to crawl into bed with him right now,

soup also sounds good. A shower sounds good. So she just nods, and heads into the kitchen, hunting for the source of the chicken-smell, going for a bowl, a ladle, the rest.

wolfman

Wolf goes thumping up the stairs. Three suitcases and a spiral staircase don't mix well. There's a lot of clanging, banging. Then the muffled roll of wheels over carpet, all the way to that room that's stood unused, though not empty, for weeks on end.

Back downstairs before girl's done with her chicken soup. Wolf ladles out a helping of his own. Joins the girl wherever she ended up sitting, pulling up a stool or a chair next to her.

Silence for a while. Feels awkward. Wolf's forgotten how to talk to girl. Wolf realizes he probably never really knew how to talk to her at all. After a while he comes up with this: "You have a good time over in England?"

witch

Downstairs in the kitchen, Devon has soup. Homemade stuff. No skinny, chopped-up noodles from a can, no obscure cubes of dark chicken 'meat'. Fresh shredded roast chicken. Real broth. Big buttery noodles. Chopped-up vegetables. She spoons some out, and looks for bread, and then sits down at the bar and digs in. Has a glass of milk nearby. Is still eating, slurping down mouthfuls, when he comes down and gets a bowl and sits beside her.

Ray Bans are on the counter near her. Purse is next to them. She looks over at him. Doesn't feel awkward. Feels sleepy and warm and strangely enough: glad to be back here. Glad to be with him again. Sips her broth, momentarily unaware of his awkwardness, his discomfort with the silence, til he asks her if she had a good time.

Looks over at him. Raises a brow.

"Sent you pictures."

wolfman

Wolf frowns at his soup. "I know. Just meant. I don't know. Just wanted to know if everything was good."

witch

"Yeah," she says. Not an acceptance of what he just said. She means: yeah. It was good.

"Mum wants me to move back. Live with her."

wolfman

Frown deepens. Silence hangs. Then wolf looks at girl.

"You gonna?"

witch

She screws up her brow, her nose, everything. Looks like disgust. Doesn't say anything though.

Pauses after a bite of soup, looks over at him. "You just carried most of my mortal goods upstairs. What do you think, Rafael?"

wolfman

Wolf feels dumb then. Looks away, stabs at his soup with his spoon. "Just didn't wanna assume." Picks up the bowl. Slurps. Drains it, then stands up and goes to wash his dishes.

"Glad you're back," he says, offhand.

witch

She huffs a little breath through her nostrils. She eats some more bread, soaked in broth, watching him as he gets up, washes up.

"I know," she says, soft and round, when he says it. She's staring at his spine. She's thinking of his bare back. Bare ass. Hard cock.

Chews her bread.

After a few seconds, chugs some milk. Pushes both away, leaving dishes where they are. Sits with her hands between her knees, looking at him as he turns back around. Drags her eyes up from his waist to his face.

"Wanna just go to bed?" she asks. Quietly.

wolfman

Catches her looking at him when he turns around. Catches the long drag of her eyes up. The faintest beginnings of a flush in her cheek. Catches all that, except it's not catching her at anything when she means for him to see.

Wolf wipes his hands on a towel, tosses it on the counter. Comes across the room to her and puts his hands on her waist. Picks her right up, the way he does, and brings her in against his body. Wraps his arms around her even as she wraps her legs around him.

Open-plan means a straight shot from the kitchen to the staircase. Up they go, and then down the hall to his room. Which is lived in, which smells of him and his things. Girl arrived on the evening flight and dusk falls early now. Dark enough in there that he could turn on a light, but he doesn't. Carries her to the bed where he lays her down, braced over her. Looking down at her face in the shadows.

Quiet: "You still want me to take care of you?"

witch

Truth be told, she does feel sort of gross. It was a long flight from London to Denver. Much longer than Boston to London. But there is a secret: she freshened up as soon as she disembarked. She went into a bathroom and she changed her panties and her socks. She used these lovely white-tea facial cleansing clothes and went behind her ears and under her arms and if he smells anything on her it's probably that faint scent, long since absorbed. She brushed her teeth and reapplied a tiny bit of mascara and lip gloss. She fussed with her hair a little.

And then she came out of the airport and slumped against his body and was almost instantly warm for him, wet for him, though still sleepy as hell and mostly just glad to be motionless for a moment.

Should still shower. Relax her entire body, wash herself up. She wants to. But not desperately. Not enough to stop her from looking at him like that. Just like it wasn't enough to stop her from climbing onto him in the parking garage. Not enough to stop her from telling him that even though she's worn out and doesn't want to bounce like a bunny on his dick and doesn't even care about having an orgasm,

she wants to have sex with him. Wants to be bare with him. Wants to be naked and wants to be with him and wants to be as close as two human bodies can physically be when one of them isn't a gestating fetus for chrissakes. She wants nearness. She wants warmth. And it doesn't really matter to her beyond that.

Rafael wipes his hands. Comes around and she twists on the barstool and he picks her up. She doesn't wrap her legs around him but wraps her arms around his neck, sighs against his neck. He carries her. At the stairs she finally, genially, wraps her legs to either side of his body. Up they go.

Takes her to his bed. Not her room, which may have been cleaned by now, tidied up, or left as it was, who knows. She doesn't. His room, always so tidy, so impersonal, except that it's his, and it does smell like him. She still has her shoes on. He lays her out, and she leans back, and looks softly up at him.

Nods a little.

"Yeah," she whispers.

wolfman

Foreign concept, that. Not something he's used to. Not something he's done before. Consider how rough he's been with her, how impatient, how boorish. Consider how long it's been. Amazing that she even trusts him not to simply go at her like an animal now.

Wolf doesn't go at her like a beast, though. Wolf is poised over her, eclipsing her in his shoulders, his chest. Palms flat to the mattress. Eyes aglitter when they meet hers. Not often that those startling blue eyes look soft. Not often that that wry mouth isn't smirking.

He leans down to kiss her. It's a slow, soft sort of kiss. His hand delves under her sweatshirt, pushes it up ahead of his thick wrist. Work-roughened palm smooths its way over her stomach, up to the bottom of her bra. Then wolf withdraws, straightens up. Stands there at the foot of the bed and sheds his clothes, rapidly and without delay: jacket and a sweatshirt of his own. Longsleeve thermal under that, adherent to the cut planes of his body. It comes off too. Then his jeans, then his underwear. Socks.

Wolf comes back to her when he's naked, a continent of strength and heat. Sweeps her sweatshirt up much the way he'd pulled his own off. Runs his hands under her body to lift her torso, undo her bra. Pulls that off and tosses it aside. Then her jeans, her socks, her shoes if those are still on. Her panties, which lasted only the hour or so between the airport bathroom and this.

Now she's naked too. Freckles and a pink flush beneath the fairness of her skin. Wolf's fairskinned himself, but his hands still look darker against her body. His palms run that sweep up her abdomen again. Cup her breasts, rafts them up across her ribs. Wolf leans down and licks her skin, an arbitrary trail from the bottom of her ribcage up to her collarbone, passing over a breast, a nipple. A moment later he goes back to that nipple. Sinking down on her now, span of his waist solid between her thighs, breadth of his chest a pressure against her abdomen. Wolf has his eyes closed. Wolf rolls his face blindly against her chest, rubs against her skin, licks and nips at her flesh, bites when he can't contain himself.

witch

She thinks that if he doesn't know now, after conversation after conversation spanning the last month, after the last night they spent together, after the way she told him she was too weary to even get on top -- if he doesn't know, without being told, not to rut at her like a beast, then she may never fuck him again.

Thing is, she doesn't tell him. She does trust him not to do that. Even though she knows -- look at him in the car -- that he's missed her. Wants her. Probably wants to tear her clothes off, pin her down, and fuck her as rough and mindless as he ever might have. But he knows she doesn't want that right now. She believes that he knows.

He kisses her and she sighs. Her hands come up, slowly and lightly, touching his face as she melts into that kiss. It's the first she can really remember today, even though they kissed in the car. It's this slow, tender thing. It tastes sweet. He tastes sweet. And warm. And his hands are warm, her stomach trembling slightly beneath his hands as she shivers from the contact.

Devon begins to lift her chest into his touch but he pulls his hand away. Her eyes come open; she watches him stand. Props herself up a little to watch him strip. Not a tease, just: strippig off his clothes, dropping them to the floor. She looks at his stomach to see if he really has a mole there; then she looks at his face. Even though right then he's taking off his jeans, baring himself to her. Even though she could be looking at his cock again, which she has also missed, she looks at his face as he comes over her. Lifts her arms and her shoulderblades from the bed as he takes her sweatshirt off. Arches as he unclasps her bra.

He's not really a brute. Or: he is, but not because he has no capacity for anything else. His hands are far too practiced now at undressing her. At unclipping a bra and drawing it off her shoulders and arms without ripping it off, snapping anything against her. Takes off her shoes, her socks, pulls down her jeans. Takes off those panties, which are a dusky rose color turned into a deep deep purple by the darkness. Takes everything off. Strokes her fingertips over his ear, touches his hair there. Runs he fingers down his jaw, his chin. Touches his face as though to memorize it, fine and careful.

She is still touching him like that, light and soft, when he leans down and licks her. Pants a breath out, lifts her hips a little to search for his body. His cock. His thigh, hard between her legs. Something nice, like that.

Rafael, for his part, sucks at her breast. She bites her lower lip, her breathing quickening as he just rubs his face all over her, licks her, scrapes his teeth over her, bites down a little. Gives a little whimper, once, when it's a touch too hard. Her thighs are open to either side of him. She has her eyes closed, her head tipped back.

wolfman

Might be the most passive girl's ever been. Only passive seems such a bad word; implies cold, implies uncommitted. She's not that. Receptive, then. Maybe that's the word. She's receiving what he gives. Takes what he offers.

Which turns out just to be himself. Rafael: a wolf, a brute, a hard man and a killer and a monster with the name of an angel. Of healing. Of protection. Patient with her now, even if sometimes he can't help himself. Sucks too hard. Rubs his bristly jaw against her too roughly. She whimpers to let him know: no. not like that.

And he gentles. Scrapes his teeth over her skin, open-mouthed. Doesn't bite down. Eventually it's his tongue touching her after all. It's his tongue circling her nipple, his lips sucking her in. His eyes watch hers, but hers are closed. Head tilts back and her neck is such a vulnerable thing, slender, conducting life from her mind to her heart.

Wolf's hand on her thighs. Outside, then sweeping in. Wolf's fingers against her cunt, finding that slickness there that is unlike anything but itself. Wolf growls against her chest, drags his fingers up, leaves streaks of wetness on her belly, her breast, licks his fingers. Licks that streak over her tits. Licks her lips, too, when he raises himself up and slides up to her. There's a natural way their bodies fit together, almost like they were made to fit: her thighs around his waist, hooking over the tops of his legs. Her arms over his shoulders, and his under her back. His biceps against her sides. Her breasts against the sloping planes of his chest.

Their mouths together. A dynamic fit, this: ever shifting. Changing with their kiss. He kisses her over and over and on and on, lips and tongue, and sometimes teeth. There's always bite to him. He is an animal, after all.

witch

Still funny to her. The angel who protects travelers. Who saved her life and got her to a safe location. Who, just recently, was the agent of her seeing her mother for the first time in almost two years. He is a brute, and he's just terrible sometimes. His prick quotient is going down, though. And that means that the amount of time she spends liking him keeps chasing down the amount of time she spends despising him. Or being wary of him.

When he gets to her nipple, circling and sucking like that, she pants. She arches a little, unable to bite her lip, unable to groan, but wanting both. She aches. Her hand is in his hair; she likes that. Oh -- she wants it harder, and she wants it just like this, and she wants him never to stop. He touches her thighs and the deep, heavy muscles there quiver. He touches her pussy, the way he always does, like he's drawn there. Drawn to feeling her. Drawn to the feeling of pleasuring her, because he does. She's taught him once, and as soon as he touches her again she remembers it.

Bracing her hands against the headboard. Telling him to put his fingers in her and thinking he might just use the same hand, tease her a little longer, but no. He decided he had two hands, and would put both to good use. He decided he would wrap himself around her like that. And it was everything she could do to wait to come until she could feel him inside of her. All of him.

Doesn't even think of it, when she murmurs his name. Sighs it,

Rafa,

wanting and meaningless, just a moment before he rises up and brings himself to her, lays himself out against her. She realizes she's never gotten to the point where she is just aching, mentally begging him to give her his cock. Is now, though. Laces her fingers in his hair and pulls him down, harder, kissing him more hungrily.

Decides not to tell him.

wolfman

More than anything their matings have been defined by hunger. Wolf's always so hungry for her. Ravenous for the sight and feel of her, naked. Peeling off all her clothes and pulling up the covers in compromise if he has to. Starved for her eyes on his while he fucks her. The color, the clarity, the way her pupils open up. Famished for the feel of her, her long lean body, her thin limbs wrapped all around him, her cunt a white-hot point in an imploding universe.

Girl kisses him like she's hungry, too. Fingers lace into his hair, which is dark and thick and soft and coarse at once, like raw silk. Like fur. Wolf growls into that kiss. Always growls when he's in bed with her, beast-like, like words were always something he has a tenuous grasp on at best. Doesn't have a grasp on at all, like this.

His hand, though. Working itself free from under her shoulderblades. Passing between their bodies, with his back bowing to make room. Wolf's so hard by now, length of his cock trapped between them. Rubs himself on the soft skin of her belly as he reaches past. Finds her cunt,

again,

touches her,

again.

Kisses those sounds off her mouth. Eyes open, but hooded. Watching her hypnotized by the flash and flicker of pleasure in her eyes. Mesmerized by her breathing, the catches, the quivers. Enchanted,

bewitched, shall we say,

by the little sounds she makes. The hungry way her fingers tighten. The hungry way her cunt clutches when he slips his fingers into her. One hand this time; it's all he has free. Other arm's wrapped around her, holding her close, affixing her to his body as he teases her, pleases her, fucks her with his hand. Slowly. Slide of his fingers; little circles with his thumb. Just like she taught him.

witch

From the first, she knew that he wanted her. Not the first time he saw her, propositioned her, offered to pay her. There was a glimmer of it: just what he offered, what he was willing to pay. But she thought: could be anyone. Could just be desperation. It wasn't til later, living with him a while, that she thought that sometimes his looks were a little long, his eyes a little sharp, and that it wasn't anger but hunger. So she guessed at it. Even flirted with him a bit to see what he'd do. That he got angry about it didn't suggest to her that she was wrong.

Wasn't until she held out her hand and told him she wanted it, though he wanted it, too, that he showed her. Showed her just how much he wanted. Showed her how hungry he was. Showed her that having her near, scentless or no, having her body close but not touching, was only keeping that hunger tantalized but not satisfied. And every time since, it's seemed that hunger is insatiable anyway. He can fuck her til they're both exhausted and he'll still be hungry for her.

Still, she waited til just a couple of weeks ago to tell him it was the same for her. That she thinks about it all the time. Now it shouldn't surprise him when he finds her looking at him like that, long and slow and devouring, and telling him in that low, secret voice that she wants it.

--

When he touches her again she whimpers. It isn't pain; he knows the difference by now. The shorter, louder sound of ow, no, don't versus the undulating, gasping sound of oh, god, yes. He's rubbing himself against her and she starts to slip her arm down, finds his cock, wants it rubbing on her pussy. Wants the full, hard length of it against her clit, stroking her. But he is looking at her, kissing at her, even though she can't keep her eyes open. Her hand is on his hip, eager. He starts to finger her,

and truth is, something about just thinking those words is incredibly fucking hot to her,

so yes. She clenches on him. She lets him fuck her like that, and she whimpers. She groans behind her bitten lip. She sounds so aching, so bereft, when she gasps at him:

"Please, Rafa -- stop teasing me. Fuck me," and the words tatter apart, tender and helpless, even as she's saying them.

wolfman

Wolf isn't actually trying to tease her. Push her to begging. Anything like that. Wolf's just trying, for once, to take his time. To not push girl down and mount her like some sort of barbarian. But then she goes reacting like that, so sensitive and responsive. Can't blame him for drawing it out a little. Can't blame him for being so fucking transfixed by her that he doesn't want to stop.

Even when she starts grabbing at his body. Hand in his hand. Hand on his hip. Even when she's twisting a little in his arms, that supple strength of hers that reminds him of -- he doesn't know what. Something slender and graceful and wild. Reminds him of her, that's what.

Words coming out of her mouth. Words spilling apart. Syllables that don't quite hang together. Girl's biting her lip. Girl's gasping. Wolf's kissing her, nipping at her lips too, and girl

is pleading. Sounds bereft, sounds tender, sounds helpless. Sends a dark little thrill through the wolf. Can't help that either. He's an apex predator. Dominant animal. There's a gleam in his eyes. A flare of hot lust. He bites her: on the shoulder this time, seizing her with a rough growl. Cups his hand over her cunt, gives her a last grind with the heel of his hand.

Pulls back, then. Messy hand makes a mess on the bed: pushes against the sheets to leverage himself up. His thighs push hers apart. Wolf bows his head, dark hair, dark eyebrows drawing together in fierce concentration. His cock is so hard, so hot, but she's hot too: molten, melting, liquid. He slides against her once and he's slick. Finds her again.

Enters her this time. A firm long slide. Different when she's this hot. He doesn't have to be so brutal. He doesn't have to be so rough. Pushes into her but she's yielding and sweet, clutching and hot. Wolf raises his head. Kisses her mouth, eyes open.

Still has his arm wrapped around her. Almost always seems to fuck her like this, holding her close, keeping her close. Like maybe that proximity will make up for all the times she's far away, and he can't see her. Can't smell her. Like maybe if he tattoos her into his bones, and himself into hers, then he'll hold onto her memory when he's apart from her.

Never asks himself why that's so important. Remembering her. Knowing her. Never tries to define that, either. It is what it is.

witch

Some of the unintentional things Rafael has done to her are better than others. Like this, right now: he doesn't mean to make her beg but she does, and she doesn't mind, and she thinks he's torturing her on purpose because she can't keep her eyes open, and can't see the way he's looking at her. Fucking transfixed. She can't guess that the difference between trying to take his time and trying to make her lose her mind is her. The way she's whimpering. The way she's molten and pale enough to be luminescent on his bed. All she knows is the way he's touching her, and the way his tongue feels on its slow tracks up her body, and the way that simply being close to him affects her. All she knows is that it's been weeks since she saw him, much less since she was like this with him.

Naked. Warm. Feeling each other in the darkness. Finding each other, somehow.

Devon is tired. She's jetlagged, and she's sleepy, and the angles of her body feel askew from travel. She feels disoriented, and uncertain of the time, all her rhythms disrupted. All of that is falling away, though. Fell away after those hushed words of his when he laid her down: those words surprised her with their tenderness, made her ache suddenly and fiercely with lust. She's not thinking of the discomfort on the plane or the long, bored hours of doing nothing, or the stiffness in her joints or the sleepiness that wants to drag her away. All she can think about is the way he feels, and,

perilously,

the way she feels about him. So she still tries to touch him. Pushes her fingers through his hair. Strokes her fingertips down his jaw, his neck. Runs her palms over his shoulders, his back, his beautiful arms, the slope of his waist, the meat of his ass, the relative delicacy of his hip which is still a brutal, rough thing when compared to her own. Her fingers curl, her nails raking lightly, with terrible gentleness, up his ass, up his back. Halfway up her hands turn, her palms stroke, her grip comes to his shoulderblades. Holding him. Folding him in.

Because he is kissing her as she's touching him, and he's secretly and darkly pleased to hear her begging like that, and he's growling too, and it makes her wet. Bites her, which makes her feel briefly and strangely protected. Rubs his hand on her, which drives every other thought and feeling out of her mind. Drives her out of her mind. Makes her cry out, pressing herself into his touch, panting for it. Her lips purse as he draws back; her body and thus her mouth want to say no, no, please, want to follow him, but no sounds come out but a longing little protest.

Eyes snap up to his, flaring as he pushes himself up. Her hands had to slide down his body; they hold his sides. She hasn't opened her eyes for some time. As soon as his body begins to leave hers they do; it's not even conscious. But they flare, sharp and hungry, at the look of him. At what it means, seeing him like that. They roll back at that first heavy, hot stroke of his cock against her; Devon's head tips back, her body constricting with longing. The second time, he pushes into her, and it pulls a moan from deep inside of her. A short, needful sound; and her body just accepts him. He slides into her so easily now; he's so welcomed, so embraced. Even her hands tighten on him, pull him closer.

Arms wrap back around him as he falls into her. Holds him as he goes for her mouth and as she searches blindly to greet him. Gasps when he kisses her,

and whimpers a little,

and long before she thinks she's ready, long before she can even consider if he's ready, she presses her hand on his lower back, his hip, his ass, her own body rolling against his. Starts fucking him, albeit with agonizing slowness,

and moans.

wolfman

Tempted to use superlatives. Slowest it's ever been. Sweetest it's ever been. Best it's ever been. But truth is when they're together wolf can't even remember how it was last time, or the time before. Can't remember what it's like not to be with her. Within her. The experience eclipses everything else. None of the comparisons hold true, because it just doesn't compare. Nothing compares to this.

Girl lets out that long moan. Wolf eats it up. Laps it off her lips, kisses it off her tongue. Wolf's got a hand on her body, broad palm covering her side. Can feel her ribcage under her skin. The expansion when she breathes. He slides his hand up. Cups her breast, holds it in his hand as she rolls her body, works her hips. For a while she's the one fucking him. She's the one moving under him, tidal, drawing him in and washing him up.

Then wolf shifts. Hand slides up over her upper chest, her shoulder. He wraps both arms around her, under her. Biceps against the outsides of her breasts. Forearms under her shoulderblades. Hands over the curve of her shoulder. Aligned to her now, and atop her. First time he thrusts he takes her to the bed, pins her there with the pressure of his body to hers.

Can feel her hands on his back. Nails, gripping fingers. Sliding palms.

Wolf moves again. Slides into her firm and sure. Echoes the roll of her body in the flexion of his own. Dark in his room and they're not under the covers. She'd be cold if he weren't covering her like this, surrounding her, suffusing her with his heat from the outside in, the inside out.

witch

She's missed this. She's missed him. And it's so terrible, and encompassing, and it aches so deeply that it frightens her. Makes her shake. She's weary enough, perhaps, to let herself feel it. She's weak enough, right now, to let herself feel it. And fucks him, and is fucked by him, and tears spring strangely to her eyes, but not from pain or any emotion she can readily name.

It feels so good. Even the heat of her tears behind her eyelids feels good. Feels right. Feels like relief. Her fingers run into his hair and she loves his fucking stupid hair and how thick and dark it is and how it gets a little too long and she clutches at it, probably a little too hard, because she just really,

really,

really doesn't want him to stop kissing her. Not for a second. Not for a breath.

His body presses her body into the mattress. Slow as a tide. As forceful. As eternal, she thinks, for a moment, forgetting that all these things end. Eventually. Even tides.

Just makes her hold him closer. Urge him, with her thighs around him and her hands on him, to fuck her harder. As slow as it is, as sweet, as good: harder, her body says, aching. Harder, and more.

wolfman

Probably best that the wolf doesn't notice the tears in her eyes. Wouldn't understand them. Would think he was hurting her terribly and stop. Wouldn't understand that he was hurting her, but not physically, and not directly, and not in a way that's necessarily bad. Not really pain.

Just ache. Bone-deep. Like the ache of growing bones, strengthening muscles. Beating heart. Not bad at all, but there all the same.

But it's dark. It's dark and they're so close and he doesn't see. Her eyes are closed anyway. Her body keeps pulling him closer. Thighs, hands. Cunt. He keeps moving closer, his chest pressed to hers, his abdomen flexing against hers. His cock inside her, fucking her the way he wanted to the moment he saw her. Standing in that alleyway. Smoking that cigarette. Alone, thin, pale, standoffish and alluring all at once. Her thick hair and her almost-gothic makeup.

Girl's face is so bare. Just a touch of eye makeup. Lip gloss that he's probably licked off by now. Girl looks so bare, so naked, so genuine. Urges him on and he responds, his back rising under her hands as he lifts up on his palms. Body working hers now, those deep origins of motion -- base of the spine, pit of the stomach. Breathing harsh in the dark. Sweat light across his shoulders, chest. Eyes still watching her face. Her hands grip his biceps. Her hands pull him back. He comes back to her, folding over her, fucking her in these solid, forceful strokes. Pushing her into the bed. Holding her there, captivated, pinned to the rise of those treacherous, inconvenient emotions; his shoulders over her then, his mouth on hers.

Wolf kisses her, silent and panting, gripping a handful of her hair before he remembers. Lets go. Turns his hand over and grabs a handful of sheets instead. Grabs a mouthful of her, teeth against the side of her neck. She's so good. Smells like nothing. Feels like the center of the universe. Something a little wild about him now, the way he pounds into her. Their bodies collide; audible little shockwaves, hard and still slow, still. Wolf reaches a hand down. Feels himself close to some precipice. Wants her with him. Brings her with him the one way he knows how, with his hand, with his body, with his cock stroking fast and hard into her, with his thumb caressing that secret nexus of nerves she's shown him; holiest of holies.

witch

Her eyes keep closing. She can't keep them open for long.

Lips taste -- tasted -- like strawberries.

She gasps when he grips her hair. It's not a bad gasp. She whimpers when he grabs her flesh in his teeth; it's not a bad whimper.

He touches her and she can barely stand it: the sensation, the warmth, the fact that it's him and he's such an asshole and she feels like this anyway. She cries. Fuck: she cries, and she kisses him, and he begs him not to stop, because she missed him so much. Didn't know how much she missed him until she felt him again.

wolfman

Girl's face is wet.

Wolf notices. Peripherally. Only distant awarenesses now; the core of his being focused on what is happening between them. Notices the wetness against his cheek; his temple. Notices how she kisses him too, though. Notices, mostly, the way she pulls at him, holds on to him, doesn't want him to stop.

Wolf doesn't stop. Couldn't anyway, even if he tried. Not now. Too close -- too much. Wolf is biting her, holding her in his teeth, bearing her down into the bed. Pounding into her and now it's so heavy, it's so deliberate and then it's fast, a series of concussive strokes rising, hitting a sudden peak. Wolf lets out this sound when he comes, long and low, a snarl. Not much human about him when he's like this. Not much human about him, ever.

Then it's past. Then his climax lets him go, suddenly, leaves him shuddering in the aftermath. He stays with her. Within her. He keeps touching her, letting go with his teeth, raising his head. Watching her now, saying not a word. Rubbing her off with his hand, with his cock buried inside her still pulsing with those last involuntary jolts.

Kisses her when she moans. Kisses her, seeing the shine of tears on her face but not understanding them. Kisses her if, when she comes, breathing her orgasm right off her lips.

witch

It's strange, that she doesn't come. Strange because he made her feel good. Makes her feel so good. How can he miss the way her body and her hands clutch at him, or the way her cunt tightens on him? How can he miss, touching her like he does, how wet she is? How welcoming her body, how hungry her kisses?

She kisses him, and they fuck, and he comes, and she hears him snarl and feels this thrill go up her spine, feeling his orgasm without the distraction of chasing her own. Feels his pleasure, his release, his relief, whatever it is; feels him and is happy for it.

Huffs a laugh, happy and sad and terrified and aching and wonderful, because he wants to keep touching her, he wants to stroke her and fuck her and he wants her to come, he wants to please her and pleasure her and he wants to take care of her like he said. She huffs that laugh as she reaches down, taking his hand, making him be still against her body. She doesn't even care. She's tired. She's tired and overwhelmed and satisfaction is flooding her body even though it isn't her own; she doesn't care. She kisses him, slowly, her eyes

closing again,

her breath a sigh.

wolfman

Girl's hand on his. Their strength isn't even comparable. Still she manages to slow him. Stop him. His fingers falter, uncertain. There's a moment when he's stricken. Thinks she wants him to stop because it wasn't good for her, what he was doing. It was uncomfortable or bad or wrong or --

no. Not that. Girl's laughing, and it's soft, and it's happy but it's also aching. She's kissing him and he dissolves into it, his body weighing against hers, his fingers relaxing.

Remembers, then. She told him at the airport. Okay if she doesn't come. Don't make a big deal of it. All right if she just enjoys the closeness without the orgasm. The rise without the release.

Wolf kisses her again, a few times, each slower than the last. Then wolf wraps his arms around her, slumps to the side. Rubs his face against her shoulder; the curve of her neck. Exhales there, warm and humid, a huff of breath. Smells himself. Smells his sheets. Smells her clothes and the plane and the distance she's come, but not her.

Some time passes. Wolf's breathing slows. His heart stabilizes. His eyes blink slowly in the dark. He kisses her shoulder where it curves close to his lips.

Quiet: "Sure you don't want to come?"

witch

Doesn't even try to hold him, stop him, stay him. Lays her fingertips on his wrist. Presses down, slightly. He feels it, and sweating on her, heated on top of her, pressed into her, he slows. Stops his hand. She's looking at him and there are salt-tracks at the corners of her eyes but nowhere else. The look in those eyes is grateful and enveloping and everything.

Everything.

It's not uncomfortable, or bad, or wrong. She kisses him and it's slow and soft and sweet and lazy as if she were coming down from an orgasm she didn't have. She doesn't care. She's satisfied. She told him at the airport and he remembers, with sudden clarity, what she told him. As long as he didn't fuss over it. He laughed, shrugged it off, either thinking they might not fuck or thinking there was no way they'd fuck without her coming or god knows what he thought, but he laughed it off.

She just wanted to be close to him. Feel him like this. Weirdly: wanted to be a part of what he has, what he needs, what he's missed and been longing. No: not his orgasm, his tight needful release into her. Just to be there with him. For him. To use him for this closeness. Her thoughts spiral; she's not sure if he used her or if she used him. She doesn't think -- she decides this, as he descends and holds her and wraps his arms around her -- they used each other at all. It is what it is. What it is is good.

Their heartbeats slow down. She closes her eyes in the darkness and sighs, wrapped all around him with a strange but pleasant energy that she would not have if she'd had an orgasm. Weird. It's all weird.

He kisses. Whispers. She smiles, all eyes-closed and lips-together. Laughs softly, soundlessly, just air and a vibration in her chest.

"Shut up," she whispers back, turning her face into his shoudler, his neck. Resting her temple against his cheek. Exhaling, heavily, as her body feels weighed down by sleep. Sleepiness. Comfort.

wolfman

Wolf makes this low sound, a laugh, a grunt. Stirs a little. Pulls her closer, loose-jointed and liquid as she is. Turns, turns, turns lazily onto his back, girl a boneless sprawl against him.

Sheets shift. Wolf tugs and pulls, wraps girl up under the comforters. Yanks a pillow out from under the covers. Tucks it under his head.

"Want me to wake you in a few hours? Eat and shower. Then sleep through the night?"

witch

He already fed her. She huffs a soft laugh. It's not bedtime. It's dark, but it's not time to sleep. She strokes his back and she is moved easily into his arms and she curls to his side. His wet cock draws out of her wet pussy;

she makes a noise like this distresses her, momentarily. She covers his thigh with her leg, his chest with her arm, his shoulder with her cheek, her hair. He adjusts a pillow and covers them up and she exhales, closing her eyes, holding him.

"Don't much care," she murmurs, with that softness of accent that comes out, here and there. Sighs again, sweat drying on her skin, her toes tucking under his calf.

"Just stay."

This is whispered. It is best if he does not remark on it. It is secretive. It is a secret.

wolfman

Wolf doesn't remark on it. Probably for the best. Secrets are meant to stay that way. Out of sight. Safe in mind.

Wolf's eyes are open a while, though. He looks down at girl tucked against him. Curled around him like she at once draws heat and strength and protection from him, and gives it back. Wolf wraps an arm around her, keeping her secure and close. Wraps that arm over the covers the way he does, as though to seal in the warmth.

Skinny thing, he thinks, affectionately. Probably freeze to death if he didn't cover her up and keep her warm.

--

Not quite time to sleep yet but he sleeps all the same. Dreams murky dreams, inexact. Wakes some time later -- glances at the clock, sees it's half past twelve. Needs to piss and his mouth tastes bad.

Wolf moves out of bed, quiet and careful as he can. Probably still wakes her. Kisses her temple as he gets up, a warm dark shadow. "Be right back," he tells her. Lights stay off in the en suite. Wolf brushes his teeth by the light slanting in from the street. Uses the toilet. Comes out and considers a moment; decides to take a shower.

Quick one. Quick scrub-down of his head, hair, body, hands. Comes out wet and clean, drying himself on a great big fluffy towel that he leaves slung over the edge of the garden tub. Comes back to bed. Slides his arms under the girl and picks her up, holds her fast against his side. Still a little wet. Drops sliding out of his hair, over his shoulders. Damp-skinned all over.

Pulls the covers back, turns down the sheets. Lays her down between clean sheets, whether she's clean or not. Climbs in with her, wraps her up in his arms, pulls her against his side. Tucks the covers up and closes his eyes.

Stay, he thinks. Thinks she will tonight. Doesn't think she'll go, tonight.