like you.

wolfman

Hasn't gone very far. Still there in front of her. Just straightening up a bit, the heavy curve of those shoulders rearranging; spine extending. Stands there looking at her, wolf with his stormy brow and his animal eyes.

Girl wants him to not stop. Wolf isn't even sure what she means, really. Don't stop touching her like that. Don't stop looking at her like that. Don't stop feeling about her the way he does, maybe. Wolf can't piece it together, so wolf puts his hands on her face again, like maybe the key to the puzzle is writ in the texture of her skin. Touch of her lips. Taste of her mouth.

And now he's kissing her, pressing the small of her back to the bathroom counter. Kissing her with his hands on her face, and then smoothing down her arms. And then holding her by the waist, by the sides. Hands gripping on her body, gentle-firm. Pulls her away from the counter and picks her up, swift and easy. Come to bed, he'd said. Takes her there now.

witch

Don't stop touching her like that: brushing against her sides, her stomach, tugging at her shirt. Don't stop looking at her, close and intent and unconcerned about all this nonsense talking. Don't stop, or move away, which she thinks he might, even when he says come to bed like he does. Different kinds of moving away. Doesn't want any of them, really.

The intimacy of his hands on her face makes her shiver a little, unnerved. She already feels so raw. She already feels so perilously exposed, even though in truth she's told him very little that he didn't already know. She likes him. She does like him. This time she didn't cut it down to percentages, at least.

Her eyes do fall closed. Her lips do open, slowly. She does sigh, softly. All these markers, these little signals, that mean something. Or could.

And she reaches up to him. Her hands smoothing over his jaw, lacing behind his neck, pushing into his hair, while his are smoothing down her arms, wrapping around her waist, pulling her closer. This could mean something. Does mean something. Don't ask her what. Don't ask her to name it, or explain it.

There's a little sound, when his hands go under her ass to hold her on him, after she's stepped off the floor and wrapped her legs around him. Those coy little knickers, something softer than pure cotton, translating the heat from his hands and his body right to her skin. She rubs against him, the ridges of his abdomen between her legs. She's kissing him hungrily now, more fiercely. Doesn't stop even when her back touches the bedspread, rumpled as it is, and certainly not when he lays down over her, heavy against her, her thighs guarding him to either side.

wolfman

Could mean something. Wolf thought they did mean something. Maybe still thinks they mean something. But now he's cautious. Truth of it. He's an animal, and animals are not foolhardy. Need to know not to make the same mistake twice, because that's how you get hurt. Or killed.

Still.

Still: is drawn to her. Still picks her up. Still kisses her as hungrily as she kisses him. Mouth open, breath rushing. Broad palms encompassing the sweet little curves of her ass; thumbs sweeping the dimples in her back. She rubs on him and he topples her onto the bed. They land together, heavily, weight of him driving half a breath out of her. Wolf pushes up on an elbow and sweeps her tank top up with the other hand, palm pushing and fingers grasping, tugs it up over her head and tosses it aside.

Their passports still on the bedcovers. His new and crisp; hers well-worn. Wolf grabs them and tosses them onto the nightstand, where one skids against the lamp and the other against the clock radio. Comes back to her, then, sinking down over her. Her thighs hug his sides. His hands push her hair off her face, weave behind her head. Wolf kisses her with a short, rough, hungry sound.

Touches her the same way. Rough and hungry, his palm wandering to her breast. His hand squeezing, grasping, rubbing. Loves the feel of her, the weight, the give; the lift of her breast over the fragile arches of her bones.

witch

There must be something there. This isn't startling her. He isn't making her wary with the way they fall to the bed, panting. That breath tearing out of her when they thump down makes her laugh, airily and gasping. He's rising up over her but she's pulling at him, hands on his shoulders, his arms, trying to get him to come closer again, this loose little smile on her lips. Kisses him as his hand is going up her shirt, fabric bunching at his wrist, makes him stop there for a while.

Maybe kissing her, lying between her legs, hand up her shirt, feeling her writhe, encourages him to linger.

Not that the swiftness is bothering her, this time. Not that the way he lifted her up and brought her to bed is making her flinch. Not that his hunger, evident and sudden, is making her shy. But she likes this feeling. She likes this kissing him on the bed, wearing the clothes she was going to sleep in anyway, his hand sneaking up under the fabric, his body pressed down between her thighs. Of course she finds some way to make him pause there. Even if only for a moment.

They strip her of her shirt together, though. She lets him lift up. Lets him tug it off, toss it away. He flicks passports aside as well, and they skid and slide with little rushing noises, give a papery rustle when they stop. Sounds a lot like her breathing, she realizes, and forgets a moment later. Holds him with her body, lifts her head a little from the mattress to meet that kiss. The sound he make sounds like desperation to her, she realizes,

and forgets that a moment later, too.

--

He's feeling her up now. Kissing her, and if he's not grinding against her well: no matter. She is grinding against him, rubbing herself against him through those soft panties she wore specifically because of how soft they are and which, also, she wore specifically because of that damn little bow in the back and through whatever he's still wearing. Kisses him like she knows how,

and she does. She really, really does.

He's being rough with her breast. She pants a little, half-laughingly, at some overeager squeeze, some hungry rub of his hand. "Softer, there," she murmurs to him, her hand trailing to his wrist, a hint of what needs to be softer. That hand. That hand on her body. That hungry, ferocious touch. Which she likes.

She likes him. She does. Even if she doesn't always understand him. Even if he doesn't always understand her.

--

Moments pass. Devon stops kissing him, for a breath. Her cheeks are flushed. Her breasts, too, if he looks at her there. Lips are red. Her thighs are pink. She's so fair it all shows, all that rushing blood beneath the surface. Looks at him, panting softly.

Lifts her head up from the bed and kisses him again, firm, groaning a little with it. But she's on her elbows. She's also sliding away from him.

Not very far.

She's twisting, and she's reaching for one of those pillows, and she's turning over it, not in some mad rush but rather thoughtfully, deliberately, turning until

she is laying on her stomach, her hips lifted by that pillow, that fucking bow smirking at him above her ass. Devon stretches her arms upward, a diamond shape when her hands meet, laying out rather languidly. Her foot rubs tenderly against his thigh. She looks at him over her shoulder, out of the corner of those very,

very,

blue eyes.

wolfman

Likes how she flushes like that. Liked it even when he met her. Girl standing in the shadow of some unsavory alley. Cold and nicotine putting pink in her cheeks. Likes it when she comes out of a shower flush-cheeked; likes how her skin is so pale and translucent it shows the rush of blood like that.

Reminds him that there's blood in her. Beating and alive. Reminds him she's alive, present, real, here. Even if he can't smell her.

Even if she draws away. Wolf stops when she does that. Pushes up on his hands and looks at her with those feral, alert eyes. Tries to figure out what she's doing, if they're stopping, what, and meanwhile she's sliding backwards on the bed. He can see the tendons in her wrist when she grips that pillow and twists it around. Twists herself around. Something in his eyes then. Pupils widening, heat flaring. Wolf sits up on his heels and pushes his shorts down. He wears shorts all the time down here. Too hot for anything else. These are longish, soft, board shorts that he can wear into the water, and has. Wolf can swim. Doesn't very much, but he can.

Nevermind that. He gets rid of the shorts. Wasn't wearing underwear anyway. So now he's naked on the bed, sitting on his heels. Skin a uniform tan except for where he wears his shorts, where he wears his shoes: still pale there. Dick's in his hand and he's stroking off absently, staring at her, two passes forehand and then one backhand while girl's laying herself out for him.

Look over her shoulder's a blatant invitation. Even the wolf isn't so obtuse that he misses it. Rises up on his knees, leans forward on his hand. Still stroking himself with the other, a steady hard rhythm that has its echoes in his bicep, his shoulder. He leans over her and comes down to her. Presses against her ass and grinds there, hard hot length of his cock sliding between her ass cheeks. Rough bristly side of his jaw rubbing over her temple, too: he rubs his face against hers like a big cat, like the beast he is. Opens his mouth and bites at her when he can't take not biting her anymore. Teeth scrape her cheek, her neck. Wolf's growling his pleasure and his want, snarling softly at her while he rubs himself against her. It's not a threatening sound. Could be mistaken for one, but it isn't.

witch

A shame she doesn't get to see him undress. Take it out. Show him her body. So when he does bare himself, and she turns her head a little to look at him, she ends up twisting her body around more, lifted up, looking at him more clearly. Because she likes to see him. Look at him. Naked, or half-bared like he often is down here.

She bites her lip, looking at him. Watching him, propped on one elbow and torso twisted, her free arm draped over her hip, as he strokes his cock for her.

Probably not really for her. But that's how she chooses to see it. Her teeth let go of her lip. She exhales a little, as he leans forward, shadowing her entire body. Her head tips back, and her hand strokes up his middle, the backs of her knuckles brushing over his stomach, his chest, before she smooths out. Lays out again. Untwists, licking her lips as he presses closer to her. Feels his hand against her ass before she feels his cock rubbing against those panties of hers, pressing against her through the not-cotton.

Gasps, lifting her hips to press a little harder against him. He's heavy against her, hot, even where his face rubs against hers. She tugs away from the bristle. She huffs a laugh at that. Stops laughing, when he lowers his head and opens his mouth and rakes his teeth over her skin. She bares her neck a little more, thick hair falling to one side.

She thinks he's purring, a bit. Wouldn't call it that. It's a canine sound, low and comforted but not content. Too hungry for contentment.

Devon lets him grind against her for a bit, and then she slides her arms down to her sides and presses her hips up, up, forces him up a bit.

Her thumbs hook into the sides of her panties. She eases them down. But slowly. And only about halfway, at first.

Noise she makes, resting on her chest, head turned, cheek to the mattress, is absolutely a purr.

Slides them down a little further, winding her hips to gently, gently rub herself against the pillow beneath her. Leaves the fabric right where it is, stretched across her thighs just under her ass. Her hands run back up her own body, around to cup her own breasts against the bed for a moment, stretch upward again, palms spreading over the fitted sheet.

wolfman

Pauses when girl pushes up. Bucks him off, really. But slowly. So he lifts up. He lowers his head, and if she looks now she can see him staring. At her. While she eases those soft, soft, soft panties down. Wolf's so hard his cock's up almost against his stomach, like it's got its own laws of gravity now. Jerks, visibly, when wolf sees girl leaving her panties right there. Like a frame. Like a goddamn push-up bra for her ass.

Wolf's hand in her hair pulls her face around. He kisses her, savagely, and a beat later lets go her hair. Mutters sorry as that big brutish paw of his combs through the strands; a second wordless apology. Kisses her again, softer this time, murmuring some low noise against her mouth as he

rubs himself against her again. Skin on hot skin this time. Tears that kiss apart, makes him pant a breath.

Makes him rub his face against hers. Her cheek but then she pulls away; his jaw too scratchy. So he rubs his face against her shoulder instead. And her back. Nips at her shoulderblade, licks the dip of her spine. Obsesses over those dimples at the small of her back, hands all over her ass, gripping, squeezing, coveting, until he can't contain himself. Bites her again, not the first time he's done it, just as savage as the first. Sinks his teeth into the muscle and growls.

Grabs her by the hips a second later. Hauls her up. His strength could be terrifying; pulls her up so easily. Up on her knees. Ass in the air. Yanks those panties down til they're just above her knees. Hands on her ass again, hands on the backs of her thighs. Thumbs parting the delicate folds of her cunt, pulls a little too hard probably. Certainly pushes his mouth against her too hard, rubbing his face on her, his entire fucking face, his brow and the bridge of his nose and the tip of his nose and his mouth, his mouth, his hot hungering mouth. He eats at her pussy, furiously, probably makes her buck and squirm and pull away; too much.

witch

Not looking at him. Not right now, at least. Not while she's easing her panties down. Not while she's touching her own body, licking her lips. She's so languid. He's so --

Devon yelps, unhappily, when he grabs her by the hair like that and pulls her head around. She's not kissing him back. She's looking at him, with some unease, when he lets her go. Her forehead is furrowed, eyes wary, and he's giving that rough, quiet apology. Pets her hair like she's an animal. Like he is. They both are. She eases a little. Relaxes again, lets him kiss her again. Kisses him back this time. Kisses him slowly, twisted as she is, until he's rubbing himself against her skin. She likes that; exhales a round-feeling breath againt his jawline when that kiss breaks. It makes them both pant a little. That's all right.

Yes, she pulls away when he rubs on her. Whispers something about scratchy but doesn't jerk away from him, doesn't reject. Still too scratchy on her shoulder but she laughs a little at that instead, wriggling. He nips at her. Licks her skin. She smiles to herself; she melts a little more. Makes a murmuring, happy little sound, as he nuzzles the small of her back and caresses her ass. Firmly. Plays with her. She even moans a little, some of her interrupted lust renewed, making her lazy again, winding again. He bites her and she pants a breath.

Doesn't tell him ow this time, though it is right on the edge of hurting. Doesn't tell him not to bite her again until he's coming, this time. She just pants like that, against the bed, waiting for his tongue, waiting for his cock, waiting for him to sample and feel that wetness between her legs that is just a little bit hidden right now, a little bit barred to him by a stretched scrap of fabric.

His strength doesn't terrify her right now. But it does surprise her. He goes from growling against her ass to hauling her up; there's a momentary awkwardness and discomfort in her frame as she readjusts, gets her arms under her body so that extra angle, that weight, isn't on her chest, her neck, her turned head. Wariness shivers through her again but truth be told: she wants to give him the chance to stop, to slow down, to realize -- like he did when he grabbed her hair -- that he's going too fast, he's being too rough, it doesn't feel good.

Look at him. The way he stroked her hair. Pawed at her, kissed her. Sorry, sorry. It made her ache. It made her melt again.

This time he doesn't realize he's hauling her around like a rag doll. Yanks down her panties and plants his hands on her legs to spread them a bit, thumbs on her --

"Hey, ow!" Devon says, very sudden, very sharp, with what is genuine anger more than fear in her tone.

Yes. He pulled too hard. On her fucking labia. And the hey isn't even completely out of her mouth before she's pulling her whole body away, jerking away from him, riled as a cat whose tail has been stepped on. She's turned to look at him, her lower body clenching up, closing up, refusing. Is scowling at him, her shoulder to the headboard.

wolfman

Wolf jerks back when girl recoils. Almost as surprised as she is. Has this look of startlement, borderline shock. She retreats, all the way to the headboard. He sits back on his heels.

Stares at her. Eyes wide and feral. Has this look of dumb animal incomprehension. Lifts back of his sturdy wrist to his mouth, wipes his parted lips. Never had a chance to put his mouth where he wanted to, but god: salivating already.

Broad shoulders, broad chest, broad span of those ribs. All of them moving in symphony, breath for breath. Wolf pants in these deep, long, silent pulls. Until his breath settles enough that he closes his mouth. Then his nostrils are flaring. He's still staring at her. He's still got one hand on his cock, half-conscious at best. Gives himself this one halfminded stroke.

Rises up on his knees a little. Dents the bedsheets, rumples them up ahead of himself as he slides one knee, then the other. Scoots closer to her, mute as if he'd forgotten his words. Touches her ankle, runs his hand up to her knee.

Pulls at her, gently and cautiously. It's not an insistence. It's a question. She can allow herself to be brought closer if she wants. Or she can pull away again, and he won't follow a second time.

witch

Something about the way he's looking at her, and the way he's salivating, and his teeth, and how close he was --

right now it twists her stomach. It makes her look at him strangely, that wariness close enough to the surface to hurt a little. And at the same time it arouses her. The thought of his mouth, wet, between her legs, wanting to taste her. The dissonance between the two reactions can't be helped, and she can't help being confused by it. Worried.

Her panties are still around her knees, but no longer stretched. They rumple, her knees close together now. And like that, for a few seconds, they both just watch each other, breathing. The scowl has left her face. Something more vulnerable in its wake. He closes his mouth.

His hand strokes and her eyes flick there; she tugs away a little, though there's no place behind her to go.

Half-conscious at best.

--

Rafael comes closer. And Devon doesn't move. He touches her ankle, and up her leg to her knee, and pulls. She resists, staring at him, both of them mute. For a heartbeat longer. Because this is all there is right now: she opens up, is drawn closer, and they will be close again. Or she will resist, and he won't follow. He'll leave. She can't see anything between the two, if he doesn't --

"Say something," she whispers, her brow furrowed still but not in a glare anymore. Shakes her head a little: "Ask me if I'm okay. Say you're sorry. Something." Her throat moves as she swallows. "Feel far away, when you just stare at me like that. After --" but she stops there. Means after he hurts her, or scares her. After he's been rough and she pulls away. That staring. That silence.

wolfman

A breath escapes him. Rounds his shoulders down a little. Wolf's hand loosens: just his palm on her shin now. Rubs a little, gentle, an inadequate little gesture. Easier to get blood from a stone than words from a wolf, at least when he's like this. Mind so animal, body so aroused.

Manages, though. Dredges it up from somewhere. Quiet and rough and low:

"Sorry."

Just a whisper, really. He rubs her leg again, like he's warming her. Hand passing up her shin to her knee, and back down.

"Didn't mean to hurt you. Just wanted to ... "

He doesn't even have words for it. Nothing that doesn't sound insane, carnivorous, terrifying. Bite you. Taste you. Eat you up. Wolf swallows and his throat moves. Looks at her again, eyes meeting eyes, green meeting blue.

"Come back," he whispers. "I'll be gentle. I'll be good to you."

witch

Like before, he gets the word out. Sorry. And you'd think she might scoff. Look away, unsatisfied. Not good enough, not if she has to tell him. But he says it, and she believes him, and he's still touching her and she thinks it's partly just so he can keep touching her, because she's far away and he can't come closer because she might claw his eyes out or run or who knows what and she might never let him touch her again. She wonders if that's how he sees it. If that's how he feels. Mostly she just thinks: he touches her because he needs to.

Didn't mean. Just wanted.

"I know what you wanted," she says quietly, as he trails off. "Was hoping you'd find your way there eventually."

Might be teasing. Might just be the truth. Look at her eyes, hear her voice: it sounds so coy but no. It's just the honest truth. She was hoping. She knew: eventually. He'd find his way there. And maybe the words in his mind are horrifying, but there's some truth there, too. What it's like. What it's for. To taste. To devour. To indulge, hungrily and entirely.

She's looking at him when he looks at her. Whispers all that. Asks for what he does, and promises what he does. It sort of breaks her heart and it's so stupid. How earnest he is and how quickly she snaps in two for it. Gentle. Good to you. If he really were as cruel as he once tried to pretend, if he were harsher, more manipulative, she wouldn't even begin to believe a word of it.

But she knows he means it. And her whole heart aches for him. She slides closer to him, unfolding a little, running her hands up his arms and tucking herself closer to his chest.

"All right," she murmurs. Her hand touches his face, palm stroking lightly over his bristle. She's close now. Close enough that he can see light hitting her eyes, making them faceted, gemlike. "If you want to kiss me there you have to shave, though," Devon says. May as well, since she has him in a semi-lucid moment. Capable of using words, understanding them. May as well let him know that as appealing as the scruff on his face makes him look, it's like a scouring pad to her skin sometimes. Her nails curl slightly, scritch gently, gently along his jawline, like she's giving some fond caress to an animal.

Which she is.

Kisses his lower lip, very softly.

No, not soft:

tender.

Draws back, opening her eyes from where they fell half-closed in that kiss, and looks at him. "If you want to lick my pussy," she whispers, and lowers her hand, slipping it between her thighs, her fingers hidden but their goal obvious from the way she gasps a little when she finds herself. The way her eyes flicker and light up when her hand moves into the shadow her body makes. The way she murmurs, the words burning:

"If you want to fuck me with your mouth."

wolfman

Almost no give in his arms, there beneath her fingers. Skin over muscle and bone; like cloth over iron. His biceps contract as her palms pass over them. His hands on her waist welcome her. Bring her in. Astride his lap; face to face.

Wolf's almost lucid right now. Lucid enough to hear what she says. He has to shave. Hears what she means, too:

tender, yeah?

be gentle.

Wolf's eyes close when girl kisses him. Lips parting again, tiny huff of a breath escaping. His eyes flicker open. He's holding her by the waist, and his hands tighten when she snakes her hand down. Back of her wrist brushes the underside of his cock. Makes him gasp almost as she does. Quick sip of an inhale.

And then, miraculously: a laugh. Low, and a little dark. He leans forward. Kisses her, sudden and rough, yes, but not untender.

"Can't 'til I shave." Wolf lifts her up. Wolf tumbles her back. Wolf lays her down, and lays down atop her. Heavy over her, that great hard monument of a body shadowing hers. "Not gonna shave right now."

His hand joins hers. Finds her. He watches her eyes as he shucks her fingers gently aside. Touches her. Little circles. See: he remembers. Kisses her like he's drinking something from her lips.

"Turn over," he murmurs. Coaxing, almost. Promises it again, "I'll be gentle."

witch

Welcomed, yes, and closer, but not astride him. Not yet. She touches herself, and resists being pulled forward, opening her thighs for him, straddling him. Knickers still around her knees anyway. His hands flex on her waist. Leaves him watching, then he leans into her, kisses her, and she closes her eyes, letting him. Tastes his mouth, sighing a little. Her hand doesn't stop moving.

They tumble down again. And she doesn't resist this. Lays back, slides her knees downward, works her panties off her legs, kicks them idly to the side. Her hands are on his chest and he's reminding her of the rule she just told him, saying not right now, not leaving now, not going to try and manipulate a razor right now.

She wonders if he ever even shaves himself, or if he just gets scruffier and scruffier until his butler brings a barber to the house before some event or another.

When he reaches down to her, he doesn't have to argue with her hand. Her palms are on his chest. His palm covers her cunt, and his fingers stroke. Finds her wet, still, or again. Strokes in those little, gentle circles. Kisses her and she sighs. Her body is still closed. Not entirely, not ironclad, but she's not languid the way she was at first, no longer lazy and laid out and just waiting for him. Shoulders are just a little drawn inward though, legs are still mostly together but for his permitted hand between them.

That's why she opens her eyes to his again, even though his hand on her pussy keeps making them want to close, makes her want to lose herself. She looks at him, panting quietly, and gives a tiny shake of her head. Her brow tries to furrow and his fingertip slides over her opening and that brow smooths. Refurrows, differently, wrinkling in another expression. She tries to hold on to a thought, and swallows, wetting her lips, her throat. That little shake again, like she has to remind herself: "I can't," she whispers, trying to hold his eyes, look at him.

Almost seems like an apology, the way she says it. Can't be. Maybe shouldn't be. But there you are.

"Not right now," also whispered. "Rafa, I --"

she doesn't say anything. Gasps, and holds his arms, working her hips, rubbing herself against his touch. "But I can't right now," she pants, like she's finishing a sentence, like she's contradicting something she didn't just say.

wolfman

Something moves in his eyes. Stirs in his chest. Tastes, smells, feels a little like regret. Not that she won't turn over for him. That she was going to. Trusted him enough. And then he hurt her.

"Okay." Still a whisper. Just a murmur, a rough burr at the edges. Wolf kisses her. Her mouth. Her neck. Nuzzles her, bites at her with his lips. "It's okay."

Touches her all the while. Pads of his fingers. Sliding, rubbing, gentle now. Girl can see him watching her, intent the way he gets. Focused down and focused in, like she's something quite new to him. A puzzle and a mystery. A pandora's box locked up tight, and at the same time: something vulnerable, something soft, something to be treated gently and defended.

witch

He doesn't question, and he doesn't press, and her heart rises up and throws itself against he rocks like a wave breaking. Just that murmured okay. And the way he kisses her, nuzzles her, says it's okay like he's telling himself, too, and she wants to echo to him that it's true. That it's all right. Really. She still likes him.

He wanted her to turn back over, like before, when she rolled over and just... offered herself to him like that. And she doesn't. Says can't. But it's all right, it's okay, and she thinks he'll wait for her to relax further, open to him, and settle between her legs, press into her like he has so, so many times before.

Which is all right. Okay.

She doesn't expect him to keep touching her for so long. She isn't even chasing orgasm right now, thinking about it. She's just enjoying the way he's touching her, working herself back up. Doesn't see much at all, the way her eyes close, the way her head tips back. She writhes a little, gently, atop the bed they're sharing.

They've shared a lot of beds, on this trip. Even some they haven't fucked in.

But Rafael keeps stroking her. Feels her opening against his fingers, feels the ineffable changes in her body. How wet she gets. How lazy her body becomes, how soft she gets. How tender. How fucking sensitive. By the time Devon realizes that he isn't stopping she is already slightly dizzy, whimpering every so often, biting the inside of her lower lip. And she can't -- doesn't want to -- stop to think, to ask him, to wonder aloud. One of those whimpers descends, hard, into a shivering groan. Her hands tighten on his arms.

The truth is, though, it takes time. He's still learning her. He's never -- not like this. Not with this sort of dedication, this patience that she so rarely sees in him but knows he's has in him. He's never sought to give her something like this before. Which isn't fair: it's not like she's wanted it and he's denied her. It's not like both of them aren't pulling clothes off each other, fucking like they're starved for it. But this is different, and it's softer and gentler and it takes time and yet he can see -- feel -- every change in her. The way her cunt feels. The way her thighs and her breasts and her cheeks begin to flush again. The hardness of her nipples. The tiny shifts in the tone of her voice as she whimpers, and as she gasps, and as she moans.

Then, when she groans, and begs him -- for that's how her voice sounds -- to slide his fingers into her, well and truly fuck her with his hand. And when she starts riding his hand a little, grinding off on him. The way she looks, half-turned into his body, trapping his hand where it is, fucking him back, losing control of the sounds she's making, the way she's moving, if only she can get off, if only, she'll do anything, give anything,

or at least she looks that way. Feels that way, under his touch and against him.

When Devon comes, her face is against his chest. She's opened her mouth and she's moaning, little hairs stuck in curls to her brow and her temples from sweat, her expression lost, lost, to some distant place. But still tethered to him, so she won't float way. He can feel it as it takes her: the way she bucks her hips a little, the little bounce of her body for this entirely different sensation, every second a new one. Gets to see, for the first time, what usually he's too far gone himself to pay attention to.

How fucking long it goes on. How it overtakes her, pulls her under, like the sea she loves so much.

wolfman

Never happened like this before. And it's true: not like she asked him for this and he denied her. But truth is also he never offered. Never tried to. Never even thought to get her off, and just her.

Just like he never thought to put his mouth on her.

Just like, even when he was going to put his mouth on her not so long ago, it was because of his own hunger. His own desire.

--

Something different, this. Wolf's focus centered on her. Wolf's body over hers, like he's the sky keeping her world contained. Wolf's arm around her, strong and hot and iron-hard, holding her close to his chest as his other hand finds her. Touches her. Pleasures her in a way he doesn't even really know. Has to learn anew, move by move, stroke by stroke.

Has his fingers deep inside her near the end. Has his fingers inside her, his thumb on her clit. Rubbing and stroking, fucking her. A sort of steady, rhythmic pressure, but controlled. He has to be controlled. He has to be careful. She's a tender, fragile thing sometimes.

Never feels more like it than when she turns her face to his chest like that. Like he could protect her from her own pleasure. Like he, author of that very commotion shaking her apart, could simultaneously keep her together. Wolf's arm is so steady and tight around her then, holding her fast to his side, his chest, the unshakeable strength of his body.

She comes apart at the seams.

He's never had the pleasure of just watching, before.

--

And afterward:

a long, long afterward. Those little quakes going through her. That tight, hot pussy of hers still quivering against his fingers for such a long while. Wetness between his fingers, wetness on his palm. Wolf presses his lips -- scratchy stubble and all -- against her sweat-damp temple as she comes down. Waits until the tension floods out of her. Waits until her limbs are limp and askew, laid out, drained.

Draws his fingers out of her, then. Slow and gentle. Tries not to hurt her. Draws out of her and rolls onto his back beside her. Slickness on his fingers sheens in the light. He looks at his hand for a moment, like he's never seen such a thing before.

Still has his arm around her when he starts stroking himself. Still has his arm around her, tightening reflexively, when he jerks himself off.

--

Comes in about thirty seconds.

Not going for a marathon here.

Comes suddenly and comes hard, panting and shuddering, every muscle tight on itself; hips lifting off the bed in a hard arc of flexion. Spills his cum with the last few ferocious slides of his clenched fist: onto his abdomen, onto his chest. Collapses beside her immediately after, a storm-battered shipwreck of a wolf, eyes closed, panting, filthy. Literal definition of a hot mess.

Still has her clasped to his side. Sweat on his ribs, sweat on his chest. Opens his eyes a little later and stares at the ceiling, saying nothing, catching his breath.

witch

Almost expects him to tackle her, right when her mind starts to reform. Right when her body lets go of those last clenches. Pin her down and fuck her, needfully, holding her in his teeth. Oh, she hopes he won't. She can't form any other thoughts right now but she doesn't want that right now.

And he doesn't. Doesn't even slip his hand away from her. Holds her, right where she landed against his chest, his hand still, his mouth touching her temple. While she comes back to herself. While the light she was made up of not so long ago gentles, fades, eases into molten humanity once again. She closes her eyes, drowsily resting her brow on his body, joints and muscles relaxing at turns.

Gently, slowly, he withdraws. She smiles a little to herself, eyes closed, and then opens them as he rolls away. Doesn't mind that. He's so hot. She's sweating and warm all over. She is smiling at him, almost a smirk, while he lays himself out. She looks down his body at his cock. Sticking right up, the picture of what they mean when they say a hard-on is raging. She thinks of touching him. Sliding her hand down his body and stroking that head, comparable to velvet, comparable to silk. His fucking cock is wet at the tip with precum and she wants to lick it off of him. She wants to, but he's looking at his hand, and then he's reaching down, wrapping the hand wet from her pussy around himself.

There's no gradual build-up, here. No teasing himself. No mindless stroking. He holds her, firmly, and just... jerks off. Devon huffs a breath beside him, but not a mocking one. She stares at him, watches intently, lips parted, for all thirty of those seconds. Feels his body shuddering, his breath ragged, feels him go very still just a moment before he comes. The way he lifts up. The way he growls without knowing it, making a mess of himself, jesus. Devon just watches him, curled up alongside him, as he goes limp again, panting for air.

He opens his eyes. She's already tucked herself close again, laid her head on his shoulder. Her arm goes over his chest, above his cum, and she rests her face close to his neck, brow to his temple.

"Like you," she whispers,

after a long time.

wolfman

Means something that she doesn't pull away.

Never really thought she would. Never really thought she'd be bored or disgusted or just plain done, got hers, thank you very much. Never thought any of that, but still. Means something to him, that she doesn't pull away.

Stays there. Stays with him. Before, during, after. Puts her head on his shoulder, wraps one of those long arms around him.

Wolf opens his eyes. Stares at the ceiling. Blinks slowly while his heart rages in his chest. Settles. Slows. Raises that filthy hand of his and wraps it gently over her forearm, holds her arm against his heartbeat.

Girl tells him a little secret. Told him that already, but still feels like a secret. Something just for him to hold on to. Tuck away. Keep. Quiet little smile passes over his mouth, moving one corner up. Settling it back down.

Wolf thinks to himself they ought to get up. Get clean. Wolf thinks he ought to shower and brush his teeth; ought to tuck girl under the sheets, under the covers. Close to him. Skin to skin. When did they start spending the night together? When did it start feeling right?

Wolf doesn't move. Wolf can't even be fucked to summon up words. Just closes his eyes. Drops into that uncomplicated, deep sleep of animals, innocents, and post-coitals.