recife.

witch

All she has to do is ask for what she wants. This has been her way for a long time. Anytime she's on the road. Anytime she's with mortals who believe in what she can do. She knows he doesn't care about his money; she doesn't, either. May as well use it. May as well enjoy it while they're here. While he's sane and she's with him. While they're alive. So she doesn't shy from telling him: fly. hotel. massages. beach.

No more than she shies away from suggesting, albeit in the sidelong fashion she has, that he go down on her. Kiss her there. Lick her pussy. Fuck her with his mouth.

He touches her face and she smirks a little, eyes half-closing in response to both the thought of closeness and the real closeness she feels now. The water sloshes and drips around them as she gets on her toes for that second kiss. Is held by him, and holds onto him.

"Head back," she confirms, nodding a little.

--

But they don't head back right away. They stand where they are, arms around each other, for just a while longer. They are standing in the Amazon River. The waxing moon shines down on both of them. They kiss instead. They kiss until it becomes evident that they should head back, and then they do.

As before, they walk, or they drive. They hold hands this time, if they walk.

Back at the Hotel do Forte they shower. They stay together: he can see her bruises, how dim the discoloration is now. Still tender, though. They scrub sweat and river water off their bodies, wash the long drive of the day out of their hair. Wash away, perhaps, the fighting and anxiety they've carried with them. It's not until they're safely under the covers, clean and soft-skinned, that one of them reaches for the other. Or they roll together, not meaning to, and find themselves kissing again. Touching again. Coming together, wet and slow, with her hands on his back, his mouth at her shoulder.

--

Morning comes and they have to make arrangements. Get a flight out. Figure out what to do with the car they've driven all this way. But they do find a flight, late in the afternoon, almost evening. In the meantime they sort out something with the car, whether selling it or storing it. They send their laundry out, comes back to them clean and fresh and folded with the sort of bill attached that looks exorbitant to both of them but isn't, really, in the face of his wealth. They eat something between breakfast and lunch, refusing to call it brunch. They eat street food for a meal between lunch and dinner before their flight, sitting out along the path that overlooks the river, side by side on a bench in the shade. She plays footsie with him, her bare foot stroking his ankle.

This is the first leg of the trip they've flown. They take her suitcase and her backpack, his duffle bag. Hardly look like they belong in the up-front seats with more leg room but that's where they are. It's sweltering at first, but then cools off rapidly. She curls up against him,under a thin blanket from a plastic bag. Doesn't fall asleep; as much as she's flown in her life she still likes it, isn't jaded to it. Leans on him but peers out the window. Holds his hand. Doesn't mention anything about it. Neither does he, more than likely.

--

It's a long flight. They're given a meal on the plane, even. Devon gets tiny bottles and mixes herself a cocktail to go with hers. She fiddles with her phone. Eventually gets out some paper from her backpack and starts writing what looks to be a letter.

In Portuguese. So that tells him who it's for, anyway. Halfway through the letter she gets bored and decides to start teaching him the language.

Desculpe, eu não falo português.

Onde é o banheiro?

Quanto custa?

She teaches him some choice swear words, too.

--

When she is too bored to do anything else, Devon finally takes a nap. And when they land, it is dark in Recife. Dark and late. It's a large city though, one of the largest in Brazil, and it's easy for them to find a taxicab to the hotel that Rafael booked when they woke that morning. Devon is buzzed from travel, wired, and when they check in to their room she actually jumps on the bed in her torn-up jeans and the t-shirt that winks at onlookers. Won't stop prattling in the local language, perhaps because she is pretty excited to get to use it outside of conversations with her mum. At least she tells him what she's saying when he asks.

Jumps off the bed and right onto him, eventually, hanging off of him by arms and legs like a koala.

"Let's go out," she says, breathless, cheeks pink. "Let's run around. Get you drunk."

wolfman

They sell the car. Or rather: wolf drives it to some used-car lot and girl translates for him. He gets an offer. It's ridiculously low. Shouldn't matter to him -- he's rich enough now that it doesn't matter -- but he's angry; it's the principle of the thing. Wolf snarls about it; girl doesn't even have to translate. They get a fairer offer. Less than the car is worth, but then: they're doing this pretty last-minute.

Take a taxi back to their hotel. Get their stuff, check out. Girl has to make the flight arrangements. Or else his people do. Wolf has no idea how, and it can't take long for girl to realize he's never flown before. Has no idea about airport security or what is or isn't allowed or what's wrong with a middle seat or what's so special about being up front in those big, first-class seats. Sits there frowning, learning, absorbing it all in silence. Doesn't want to admit he knows nothing, but it's so obvious he doesn't need to.

He ends up with the window seat. Girl gets the aisle, but leans against him. Wolf is quietly tense as they taxi, his inner ears unused to the strange vertigo of the plane's movements. Holds her hand when they take off, his grip tight as the engines roar them into the sky.

Dinner on the plane. Drinks on the plane. Girl so used to flying she's not nervous at all; lounges in that big leatherish seat playing on her phone. Writing a letter. Wolf relaxes too, after a while. Hand on hers loosens. He figures out how to recline his seat and how to put the footrest up; figures out how to swing out the entertainment system. Watches some movie full of explosions. Falls asleep halfway through it.

--

Dark when they land. Still hot. Still humid. Not quite so smotheringly so as the heart of the amazon, but close enough: they're still within a few degrees of the equator, after all.

Check into a swanky hotel this time. Penthouse suite, view of the ocean. Wolf's never spent so much on a room before; is a little amazed at the number. A porter carries their things up and wolf doesn't even know what to do with himself. Stands there brooding and quiet, not understanding a word the girl and the porter say to each other. Barely remembers to tip.

Then girl's bouncing on the bed. Wolf is unpacking a bit, then stuffing their bags in a closet. They've got a whole apartment up here. A terrace with french doors, loungers under the stars; a dining table, a kitchenette, a sprawling couch in front of a huge tv, an enormous bed, an enormous garden tub with jets. Wolf stalks around investigating everything until suddenly

girl lands on his back, wrapped around him, telling him they should go out. Get him drunk.

"Not getting in another drinking contest with you," he admonishes. "Know how that goes. Pick the place and I'll go with you, though."

witch

Devon translates rapidly. She widens her eyes; her conversation with the salesman indicates that the man with her sometimes gets angry. Rafael can't tell. She uses his rage to their advantage. It's a shitty little thing to do, opportunistic and a bit cruel, but dude: the guy's first offer was insulting.

At the hotel, she's a bit surprised when she tells him they should get the flight sorted out and he looks like he's drawing a blank. Watches, overhearing, as he calls one of his people in the States and they work it out, the servant cradling the phone while setting things up online. For her part, Devon just packs. She sees Rafael tossing things in and quietly helps him re-pack a bit. What can be taken with them. Doesn't question him. Just shows him.

On the flight she is surprised when he holds her hand like that. Tight. She looks at him, and then swings his arm around her shoulders, tucking herself close. Their stomachs flip-flop when the plane finally lifts from the ground and she hears him take a little breath that he may not be aware of. Her hand squeezes his. Come back.

But she stays close, and she makes him a drink too if he wants it, or he gets a beer. They fly. He gets used to flying. Sort of.

--

At the hotel room -- more of a suite, more of an apartment -- she is thrilled that they got here fast, are going to stay a few days. Stop traveling for a while. She bounces and she has already made a bit of a mess, taking things at random out of her bag while looking for something else, tossing things about. Doesn't quite look like they've been here a week but give her time.

He's sniffing around and she jumps on him and grins close to his ear, breathless and pink and warm.

"Not a contest," she assures him. Kisses his cheek from behind. "You're cute when you're drunk," she informs him, having seen this exactly once. Kisses him again but keeps her face close there, inhaling his scent right from his cheekbone. "Cute when you're nervous about flying. Cute when you're trying to make me happy."

Turns her face closer, nose pressed against his temple, lips against his skin. Is smiling, eyes closed. "Sexy when you're cute."

wolfman

"Wasn't nervous," wolf says automatically. Just as automatic, his hands wrapping under her thighs, piggybacking her. He's nuzzled. He's kissed, or smooched, or at the least: her lips press to his temple. Thinnest part of the skull. Seat of memory just beneath. Wolf tilts his head a little, eyes closing.

"Just a little nervous," he amends. Admits. "Never flew before. Least not that I remember."

Hand covers her entwining arms. Gives her a little squeeze. "Lemme take a shower and change my shirt. Then we'll go out."

witch

Rafael is lying but she is ignoring him. Kissing him. Telling him all the things about him that are cute, and how that is sexy. He keeps a hold on her and she grins and grins and grins against his ear. Opens her mouth and bites gently on his earlobe.

Shower. Shirt. She wiggles against him and then hops down, ass bouncing onto the bed. He heads off, and she doesn't ask to join him, or join him by surprise.

--

When he's out, she's standing in front of the mirror, fixing her eye makeup. The heavy, smoky-dark lids. The thick mascara. The wings at the corners of her eyes. Overdone by half. Looks fantastic on her. Wearing that blue-grey dress he saw her in once, at the Green Russell. Second, maybe third time he ever saw her. Wearing fishnets with it again, and those sparkling boyshort panties underneath. Hasn't put on shoes yet but they're already out, sitting on the ground akimbo: black combat boots with black laces. The black laces have silver threads of glitter through them.

Her hair isn't straightened, hasn't been for this whole trip. She does have a headband in, though, the one with the metal studs that look like little pyramids, somewhere between a crown and a spiked collar on top of her head.

Looks over at him. She's putting on lipgloss, shiny and pale with a gold tint to the natural pink of her lips. Starts stacking bracelets on her wrist. Didn't pack enough random jewelry to wear sixteen thousand necklaces though. Only has four: a chain, a strand of pearls that are probably fake, another chain in a different metal, a necklace made of big loops woven with a sheer ribbon.

Smirks at him, head tipped to the side.

wolfman

Short shower. Water goes on. Shower goes on. Wolf in the spray for five, ten minutes. Comes out in a towel, steam rising off his skin. Watches her from across the room as she touches up her eyes.

Watches her while he gropes a shirt (grey) and a pair of jeans (blue) out of his duffle. Long pants for the first time in days, and probably only because girl looks so fucking good. Watches her while he steps into the jeans. Watches her while he tugs shirt on his arms, flips it over his head. Rolls the hem down to his hips, coming across the room in bare feet, wrapping his arm around her waist from behind and leaning in to kiss her neck. Fake pearls roll under his lips. Wolf has half a mind to buy her a string of real ones. Six feet long, so she can wind it around her neck, her waist, her arms, whatever the hell she wants. Wear nothing but pearls, maybe, rolling on her sweaty skin while they fuck.

Girl's smirking at him then. Sends a flash of heat down his spine. Wolf kisses her again, angle of her jaw this time.

"Like that dress," he says. Hand at her waist pulls at the fabric; pleats the hem up an inch. Wolf's staring at that extra inch of thigh. "Fucking hot," he comments,

kisses her again, a little savagely this time, an edge of teeth behind the lips. Lets her go, then, reluctantly, hand sliding around her waist to find her hand.

"Where we going?"

witch

She's standing, eyeing him, watching him go from naked and towel-wearing to dressed as she leans against the vanity, finishing her lip gloss. Adding her jewelry. Is still standing there when he comes over to her, suddenly amorous, wrapping her up so close it leans her backward.

He thinks about pearls. She can't read his thoughts; just smirks at him, with those glossed and gleaming lips. He tugs at the fabric and she breathes in, smirk faltering a little. Looks down at her, thigh in between wide diamonds of fishnet hose. And then he ruins her lip gloss. Can taste it, something honeyed, pressing against her.

Devon lifts her hips, holding herself against his body. Her bracelets jangle and rattle on her wrist as she lifts her hand to touch his face.

But he stops kissing her. She's looking at him, a smear of something glistening on her lip. And on his, frankly. She huffs a breath. "Place called NOX," she says, lifting up her phone from the counter and waggling it. "Sounds like what I want."

wolfman

Wolf's still close to her. Holding her hand now, but their legs cross one another; their bodies are pressed together. Wolf licks his lips. Tastes her gloss. Eyes flick sideways at her waggling phone. Screen is dark anyway.

Not sure quite what she means, anyway. If she wants to get high, or if she thinks that place sounds right for her. Wolf just threads his fingers through hers. Steps back, pulls her up from where she leaned on that vanity, doing her eyes. Stacking her bracelets. Fuck knows why that turned him on so much, anyway.

"Come on. We'll get a cab."

witch

Devon grins. And grabs his hand. And off they go.

Well. She has to shove her feet into boots and stick her phone and a couple other items into her shoulder-bag and then they're off. And out to a taxicab to go to this nightclub, one of the most modern in the city. All darkness and lines and pulsing bass, flashing lights. Her kind of place.

Sort of.

Not really his.

wolfman

Less than twenty-four hours ago they stood in the waters of the most untamed river in the world. Now they're walking out of a fancy hotel suite, taking the elevator down, hailing a cab, driving off to one of the most modern clubs in the city. Contrast so extreme it jars the wolf. He's quiet on the trip over, a hulking beast clothed like a man. Sitting in the back seat making the driver nervous.

Club's a futuristic square on the street corner. No windows. Just blank concrete covered in steel plates, except for the bar of translucent, lit glass at the top. Line snakes across a crowded drop-off area, onto the sidewalk. Bass rumbles out from window, the details of the music lost; nothing left but primitive, rolling, thunderous rhythm.

Wolf climbs out of the cab. Holds girl's hand. She steps out after him in those boots, those fucking boots, those fucking fishnets, that fucking skirt. Wolf's eyes flash, aggressive, at anyone who looks her way. Which is ironic, because at the same time: he loves that she looks so good. Stupidly proud of it, because she looks so good and she's here with him. Chose him, didn't she. Brought him to this place, even if it's not really his kind of place. Him, and no one else

--

Bass opens up into driving, pounding, thudding music as they enter that concrete bunker of sound. Inside's covered in rippling, glowing waves: colors change with the music, cast a ghostly ambient light on everyone. Just enough so everyone looks good, looks hot, looks so fucking gorgeous. Athletic young bartenders behind the bar doing acrobatics with bottles and glasses. Couches piled full of semi-inebriated clubbers. New Year around the corner. Pre-Carnivale already going strong. Every city has its hedonists; here's where they find Recife's.

witch

Maybe she's a celebrity and maybe he's her bodyguard. She has no entourage though. She has no retinue. No cameras follow her. She is grinning as they go inside. They do eventually go inside. She bums a smoke from someone while they stand in line. He may not like that.

Inside it's so loud, and it's dark but for the slashes of colored light that cut through, too fast to follow. She keeps hold of Rafael's hand as they weave inward, head for the bar, get her something in a tall glass with too much ice and bright pink something. Whatever he wants.

She sips her drink through a straw, out of the way of the bar, one arm looped around his neck, her body stretched out against his. She toys with his hair. Mouths something at him. Is yelling it, just about, but hard to hear.

Dance,

she wants to know.

wolfman

No, wolf doesn't really like it when she bums a smoke off someone else. Particularly if it's a male someone else. At least wolf isn't a total dick about it this time. Doesn't get all passive-aggressive, doesn't snarl at the other. Doesn't swat the cigarette out of her hand either.

Frowns a little. Tries to look like he doesn't care. But maybe she notices, or maybe she doesn't, and at any rate: girl's with him. Girl keeps hold of his hand, even while she smokes with the other, and after a while he bums a drag.

Then they're at the door anyway. Show their IDs and pay their covers. Go into the roaring darkness, those futuristic lights. Girl takes him to the bar and he buys her a drink. Gets himself something else, boring, a shot of vodka or something. Girl's keeping so close to him, her long lean body and her arm around his neck. Wolf has an arm around her waist too, casual and loose; maybe a little territorial. Drinks his drink while she says something he doesn't hear, so he raises an eyebrow at her.

She mouths it again.

Dance.

--

No, wolf doesn't want to dance. Wolf can't dance. Wolf remembers the gala, though, remembers how disappointed she was. Truth is wolf wants to make her happy. So wolf grumbles about it and frowns about it, but wolf picks himself up off that barstool. Empties his shot -- maybe for courage -- and follows her out onto the floor.

Fucking terrible dancer. Looks stiff and stupid, but then people don't really look at him when she's there. Dancing. They look at her. He looks at her. Begs off after one dance but doesn't go stalking outside. Gets himself another drink, a double, leans against a wall while she dances in front of him.

Watches her, faint little smile quirking his mouth. Gets drunk.

--

Later on music's slower, heavier. Wolf's drunker, looser. Girl's leaning against him, moving to the rhythm, and wolf lets himself be persuaded away from the wall.

Wolf dances with her: hand on her hip, brow almost touching hers. Touching hers, sometimes. Kissing her, sometimes. Wolf's mouth tastes like his drinks: the vodka, and then something milky-white, and then something mocha-brown, and then something livid orange. Girl's the one ordering drinks for him after that first one, clearly. Wolf is quite drunk by now, quite loose, and has a sense of rhythm after all.

Still not a great dancer. But better.

--

Closing club kicks them out onto the street. So fucking hot outside. They stand on the curb; wolf's more unsteady than girl is. Arm heavy around her shoulders. Leaning on her a bit, truth be told. Hail a cab and pile in, wolf laughing under his breath. Girl leans against him and it takes both of them to tell the cabbie where to go because neither of them remember the name of the hotel and only she speaks Portuguese but he's the one describing the building, the street.

Wolf pulls her leg over his knee on the way back. Legs stacked and crisscrossing. His head back against the rest, watching the street go by. His hand covering her knee, though; strands of her fishnets tangible under his fingers.

Starts kissing her halfway to the hotel. Still tastes like alcohol. Still tastes like lust. Her hand is in his hair by the time they arrive. His hand is rucking up the edge of that short, short skirt. Hotel doorman opens the door and they pull apart. Wolf pays the bill. Follows her in, and most men get silly or belligerent or stupid when they're drunk, but he's not a man. He's a wolf. Gets more feral when he's drunk. Prowls the lobby, has eyes only for her. Gets on the elevator and stands close to her, breathing in deep, measured pulls. Watches the numbers move. Doesn't want to paw at her in the lift. Security cameras in here and he doesn't want anyone else seeing.

Down the hall. In the door. Lights turned themselves off when they removed the keycard. Wolf forgets to put the keycard back in. Pulls off his shirt the minute they're in the door, anyway. Kicks his shoes off and starts to shed his jeans.

wolfman

[kai be look at aim! :D]

witch

Devon hasn't the faintest what his problem is while she's smoking. It's some girl about her height, about her age, someone else who speaks Portuguese. They chatter a bit. He looms, darkly. And they share a few smokes. And she grins at him. Is noticing how close he stays, and figures it's the strange place, the unfamiliar territory. The crowd. Haven't been around crowds this whole trip. They're both a touch introverted, but he more than she: Devon is craving the people, the contact, the sight of other faces, new voices. She is grinning at him though, while they drink, asking him to dance.

Isn't thinking about the gala. About him disappointing her. Then leaving her. Or about anything. She's on her feet between his legs at the bar, and then he's downing the shot and she's finishing that drink -- not much actual liquid in with all that ice -- and gleefully going out into the dark with him.

Tell the truth, even Devon isn't really looking at him, gauging him. The music is fast, and she's so relaxed. She puts her back against him and winds his arms around her so he can feel her move and frankly if he just wants to stand there it's fine, it's all right. Tries to pull him back when he begs off, her brows furrowed. Not wary, not upset, but wants him with her. Keeps an eye on him,

actually is a little wary, honestly.

--

Comes back after a song or two. Chugs water. Does a shot of vodka with him, and kisses him, tasting of liquor and trying to get him to come back with her. They're a few steps from the bar before he realizes, mid-kiss, that she's tricking him. He goes back and she just grins, goes to dance again.

More.

--

Later still: taking a break. Leaning against him, arms around her waist from behind, swaying. She made suggestions; he followed them. So many things he's never tried. He's getting quite smashed. He's so relaxed now, and she's shockingly alert -- or perhaps not, considering that the last time they drank together she literally drank him under the table. He forgets to think about anyone watching him. Forgets to think at all. The lights help. The base. Her body, up against his. The way she kisses him.

Outside he has his arm around her but he's so heavy. She's laughing, swaying on her booted feet, long legs not wobbling though. Climb into a cab. Rafael has his head back, drowsy, eyes closed because the cab is spinning, describes their hotel. Devon grins and talks to the driver who does not take them to the hotel but Rafael doesn't notice. He's kissing her, touching her legs. She spreads her fingers through his hair. He touches her hip through her panties, velvety black, studded with those little rhinestones.

Driver takes them to the beach. Devon pulls back, cheeks flushed, grinning at him. "Venha comigo, gato," she murmurs, calling him that name again. Tugs on his shirt, tumbles out of the cab with him again. Truth be told, they're not that far from their hotel. Within stumbling distance. She keeps her boots on at first, then leans over and unties them enough to yank her feet out, carrying them by the laces. Murmurs to him that he should take his shirt off, and perhaps he drunkenly obeys. It's so hot, after all, and it's so late now, it's the next day. Hard to believe that twelve hours or so ago they were sitting on a bench overlooking not the Atlantic, but the Amazon. Eating street tacos.

Now they're walking on a beach in the middle of the night in Brazil. In her fishnets and little dress. In his jeans. She has her hand under his shirt anyway, resting on his lower back, heading a bit closer to the water before she decides to just plop down in the sand, pulling him with her. Putting her hands on his face in a way that would be awkward if they were sober but currently is just pawing, fond, aimless. Kisses him there, one leg over his lap as it was in the cab.

Waves roll in and slide out, with their shushing, endless chant.

wolfman

Wolf's eyes open when the cab stops. Narrow and green and glassy from drink. Looks at the sea. Looks at the beach.

"This isn't the hotel," wolf points out, as if girl's didn't have two gorgeous eyes to look through. Meanwhile cabbie's waiting for money. Wolf arches his hips and pulls out his wallet and fumbles out some money. Girl counts out the proper amount under the ceiling light. Pays, smiling the way she does, brilliant eyes and secret-garden smile.

Wolf's looking at her when she looks at him. Has this look in his eyes. Girl takes his hand and he heaves himself up from the seat, climbs out of the back seat. Waves sussurating in the distance. Smell of the ocean, unmistakable.

Cab drives off or disappears into thin air or whatever it does. Wolf and girl go down to the sea. He stands still for her, lets her lean on his shoulder, while she tugs her boots off. Kicks his shoes off too a moment after, tying them together by the laces and slinging them around his neck. She wants his shirt off. He obliges, tugging it lazily and messily off. Hair rumpled afterward. Weeks since his last professional trim at this point. Shoes bounce against his ribs. Shirt flutters from his hand.

Goes down in the sand with her. Sprawls on his back, stars wheeling overhead. Girl is kissing him and he puts his hands on her waist, shifts her atop, rucks her skirt up. Rhinestones on her panties. He marvels at such a thing, such a decadent, wasteful thing. Slides his hands under her panties, rubbing her ass.

While they kiss. While they make out. While he sobers, gradually, little by little.

--

Tide's coming in, wave by wave. Highest waves are brushing their toes. Girl's head rests on his shoulder; arm over his middle. Wolf's watching the stars. Draws a knee up as the water wets the cuff of his jeans.

"Should go back," he whispers.

So they do. So they get up. Discover his shirt, dropped and forgotten, has been caught by the breeze; blown off somewhere unseen. Discover their shoes are wet. Wolf holds girl's hand as they walk up the beach -- fingers intertwined, grip loose. Their hotel isn't so far away, and there's no need for another cab. They walk. Show up in the lobby smelling like the sea wind, wolf still barefoot, barechested as well now. Resort town so no one really cares, and besides: money speaks for itself. Wolf's learning that.

Up the elevator.

Down the hall.

Into their room.

Lights stay off. Wolf sheds the rest of his clothes. Methodically, silently. Girl watches or girl participates or girl reciprocates; either way, wolf picks her up when he's done. Lifts her with his hands at her sides, a smooth upward motion. And he says he can't dance. Girl's hands on his face when they kiss. They always kiss. Don't ever get sick of it.

Windows open, curtains billowing ghostlike in the breeze. Bed too fine and heavy to creak this time. Wolf lands on his back, girl atop him. Wolf pushes those glittery panties down and she kicks them off. Wolf's hands running up her legs, up her long arms. Cradling her face as he leans up to kiss her

while she reaches down to stroke him

while he pants a breath

while she guides him inside.

Slow easy fuck. Gentle as the tide. Girl riding him in lazy pulses; his hands smoothing up her sides, cradling her breasts, tracing her shoulderblades and her spine. Girl's hands on his shoulders when she starts to go a little harder. Wolf lacing his hands behind his head, watching her, enjoying her, letting her have her way. Until she tells him she wants his hands on her, anyway. Until he puts his hands on her. Turns her under him. Fucks her into the mattress, emphatic, powerful, unrefined.

Girl's legs so tight around him. Girl's arms wrapped around his neck, hands gripping his shoulders, his back. Wolf bites her when he comes, grinding, frankly bouncing her against the mattress, growling.

--

Takes him a while to roll aside. Too hot for covers, too lazy to move. Night breeze leaches heat from his skin. Sweat from his body. Wolf still has a hand on her thigh, wrapped around the inside where her skin's so soft. Closes his eyes, saying nothing; asleep in moments if she doesn't stop him.

witch

While he's drunk he must murmur something to her. Nothing that makes sense. He's laid out on a beach and she's on top of him, kissing him, reminding him every so often with a hushed laugh and a gentle push of his hands that they're still on the beach. Like she's shy, suddenly. Or something. She's kissing him so gently, lazily, as time goes by. Water sloshes up against his feet and he makes some noise; she tugs her legs up suddenly, sitting up beside him, alert as a little gopher popping out of the earth.

He says they should go back. She laughs under her breath, kisses him again. Shakes sand out of her dress when they get up. Murmurs that same thing to him in Portuguese that she said when they got out of the cab: come with me, cat. Her boots, dropped a few inches from his head, are dry. She doesn't bother putting them on until they're at the edge of the sand, and she's brushed her feet off as much as she can. He goes barefoot. She doesn't bother lacing her boots up. They walk into the lobby and her hair is mess; she lost her headband somewhere in the club, or it's sitting on the floor of the cab. She's close to him, arm over his middle, as they go up the elevator.

Where he doesn't want to be mauling her: cameras, privacy. Where he holds her, and she leans against him, and she hears music in her head.

He might be surprised to know that it's the Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairy. He might not be surprised at all.

He might not know it.

--

They don't turn on the lights. The song changes to earlier in the ballet. Coffee, it's called. The Arabian Dance, more regularly. The door clicks shut behind them, and his arm slips from hers as he undresses. She is behind him, dripping bracelets and necklaces. Stepping out of boots as she follows him. Doesn't undress because he's been tugging up her dress all night: she peels off the fishnets, though, her only concession. But by then he's turning to her, hands up under that shocking hemline, onto her waist, lifting her up onto him. Bare legs fold around him, slender arms. It's cool inside their room, the air dried from all its conditioning. She can taste all their other kisses on his mouth when he breathes into her.

Gravity, then. He falls back and she onto him: he pushes at the fabric and she helps him then, lifting the layers up and off, tossing the dress aside. Unhooks her bra in the dark and loses that, too, leaning over him to kiss him again. His hands go into her knickers. Her legs stretch out as he pushes them down, down, off. He's hard against her, pressed to her belly, rubbing slightly against her. She starts to gasp. And slides down his body. Never done this before. Isn't even kissing his neck, his chest, isn't slow about it, isn't disguising anything. She touches his cock, and she slides her tongue along the underside of it, engulfs him with a moan. Tastes him like that, gives him this hungry, groaning suck before licking him again, climbing up his body again and guiding him, with just as much certainty, into her.

Folds herself over him as she sinks down, slowly, rocking on him, inch by inch. Kisses him again, unless he jerks away. Truthfully she wouldn't blame him: sometimes she gets the feeling he's new to so much. Sometimes she forgets, but now is one of those time she remembers. And if he is wary to kiss her after her mouth has been on his cock, she isnt hurt.

She does ride him, though, after a while. After she's been close, her breasts on his chest, his arms around her as she takes him a little deeper with each roll of her hips. She slowly lifts herself up, hair draped down one shoulder, hands on his chest. Watches him, eyes adjusting to the dark, fucks him like that's what he's here for. Which isn't always true. Which may be very true, at the moment. His hands on her -- she breathes into those touches, in time with them, sometimes shivering, sometimes holding a breath back until his palm covers her breast and she exhales a hot rush of a sigh, leaning into it. She isn't thinking by the time her hands press on his shoulders, clutch him there. Isn't thinking when she begins to ride him in earnest, faster, whimpering those aching little noises that must remind him, every time, of the first time, the way she made such little outcries with each thrust he made into her, on top of a mass of clothes he'd torn off of her, out at the top of his stairs.

Mostly has sex with her in beds, now. Nearly always but not entirely. So often simply, though: like they don't need acrobatics, or exotic locales, or even words. Just to be like this. Just to kiss, the way they always seem to. Always do.

Her eyes open to see him like that, arms back, watching her, a smile on his face but for the flickers and spasms of pleasure that disrupt his expression. She laughs, softly, but it tatters into a moan: she leans over him again, kisses him, begs him to touch her. touch me, rafa, she's whimpering. come in me, like she doesn't want to get there alone.

Must have sobered up. The way he wraps his hands around her hips and his arm under her and turns them on the bed, starts to fuck her like she's been fucking him all this time but harder. A little rougher. The way she likes it, right now. Needs it, at the moment. The way that gets her off, right at the end, with her nails digging into his skin and her head thrown back. She can't even notice him biting her when it hits her, can't hear him growling. Just squirms and grinds and makes those noises like little whines that open up and rise up and burst open into gasps like laughter, little shrieks of exultation.

Panting when they're done. Dizzy, when they're done. When he's slumped over her, barely able to move. When they're becoming aware of all their sweat. When he's rolling over, catching his breath, motionless. She pushes her palms up her brow, into her hair, pushing it off her face, pushing it back, looking at the ceiling. Somewhere in there, when her breath comes back to her, she becomes aware that he's asleep. Passed out, more like. Laughs to herself and slips away, then. Goes to the bathroom. Decides, because of the flight and the nightclub and the beach and the sex, to take a shower. It's short, but it's wonderful. She comes back to the bed in her little shorts, her little tank top, those soft grey things with the pink lace. Nevermind how filthy he is, how wet her hair is. She wrung it out and scuffed it with a towel and combed it and put some of her oil or whatsit in her hair, brushed her teeth. Never turned on the lights. Did things quiet-like.

Comes to bed, and actually gets under the covers, out of the air conditioning. Scoots close to him all the same, in between clean sheets under a mussed-up bedspread. Tucks herself in under his arm, against his chest, her arm over him. Legs touch his though layers of bedclothes.

Maybe he stirs. Grunts. Hugs her close. Does what men do in post-coital sleepiness. Does what an animal does when bedded down.

Devon keeps herself close to him.

--

Morning comes, light filtering through one set of curtains but not the others. The morning drags on, neither of them willing to wake to it, til someone knocks on the door. Housekeeping.

Devon jerks awake, groggily, and glares at the door. "Vá embora! she calls out, and then buries herself against Rafael again, grumpy and possessive.