one day i might.

witch

They're so close. On her small but not entirely shitty futon in her friend's downtown loft, on the rumpled sheets, guest pillows. They're both naked, except for her ridiculous (yet warm) pink socks. He already has her wearing a faint sheen of sweat, just from being this close to him, just from being so close to fucking him again. Her hand is on his hip, and her other hand is on his chest, and if she could touch him everywhere else at once she would, she wouldn't even question it, she'd never stop.

His touch on her face keeps making her close her eyes. She shivers slightly, though not from the cold. They open again, her lips parting against his thumb, her breath kissing his fingerprint. She shivers again, lower and achingly, when he leans down to kiss her again. Her legs slide higher up his sides again, wrap him close, her ankles crossing behind him. Her arms wrap around him again, hands running up his back. She thinks that if he doesn't make love to her soon she's going to die.

Wants to tell him she loves him again. Wants to tell him that now she knows he loves her, he'll tell her he loves her, she can hear it in other things, as though he's given her a Rosetta stone. Wants to tell him, somehow, what he means to her, but his chest just feels so incredible against her breasts. And when she lifts her hips to him she feels his cock slide over her pussy and it makes her entire nervous system light up, makes her thighs tremble. So she does it again, and she trembles again, and her hands move over him and she hopes that he -- who doesn't like words anyway -- can understand what she's asking for.

wolfman

It's the contrast between them that arouses him so. It's her softness: all over, her skin, her breasts, her arms, all of her.

It's the look in her eyes that arouses him so. It's the crystalline shine of her irises, and the falling of her lashes. The way she looks at him.

It's the way she kisses his thumb. And kisses his mouth. And puts her hands on him, the flats of her palms sliding over his sides, up and over his shoulders. The way she wraps her arms around him. It's everything, all of it; it's the tremble in her thighs, it's the vulnerability in her, even when she acts so bold. Tromps around in those big boots, smokes those cigarettes, finds her way into the most improbable situations.

And no, she doesn't have to ask aloud. Wolf knows what it is she wants. Girl's got a language all her own and maybe he's got the key now, too. Sometimes, anyway. Puts his hands on her body. Runs his rough hands over her smooth thighs, and up to cover her breasts. Covers her with his body as his arms go around her.

That's how he enters her. Surrounding her as utterly as he can. Enveloping her with his body, his scent, his presence; slow and deliberate, slow, slow. Kissing her mouth when she gasps. Kissing her mouth when her legs tighten around him. Kissing her mouth over and over, endlessly, because --

there's no good reason for it. Because it's what he does. Because it's who he is.

witch

The way she dresses, the way they didn't really like each other, the way he said it was a bad idea, the way a certain set of words in a certain order made him pull her down and pull her clothes off at the top of the stairs, the way they sometimes -- often -- cannot wait.

You'd think they wouldn't fuck like this. That it would always be exploratory and adventurous, but it's only rarely been so. Even the first time, and most times, they stay so close. That doesn't mean it's always or even usually all that gentle, though he is starting to learn that she needs that from him, that she's more vulnerable than she seems. But even so: perhaps you wouldn't expect the way he holds her, the way she wraps herself around him, the way they stay so, so close.

The way they kiss.

--

First time she thought she caught a glimmer of whatever language it is he speaks to her with was when he kissed her. Told him he could bite her, and instead he kissed her. Hard. It told her something, though she wasn't entirely sure what. She kissed him back to tell him something, not expecting him to really understand, because she didn't, either.

Understands him better now, when he kisses her mouth over, and over, and over, panting against her. Thinks he understands her better, as she touches his face, moans into his mouth as he aligns himself to her, enters her, flexes his hips and pushes farther into her body. She moans so deeply.

--

When he isn't kissing her (in between kisses, really), Devon is still moaning. She's never been terribly quiet when they fuck. He can always tell when he's found a rhythm that suits her, that pleasures her, because she starts making these little cries, higher in pitch than her moaning and with breathy brevity, each one keeping pace with his thrusts.

She goes on touching him. Pushes her fingers into his thick dark hair. Holds him tightly there a moment, some grind of his hips making her shudder, making her nearly bite his lip. Runs her palms over his arms, gripping him there, giving a little shiver when his biceps tighten in response to her touch.

Speaking of being aroused by the contrast between their bodies.

Her fingers draw long lines down his sides, over his ribs, to his waist. She holds him by his hips, following the roll and curl of his body as he moves in her. It helps her meet him in counterthrust, in welcome: he runs to her again and again and again, and she greets him with an embrace,

again and again and again.

--

Some time later, the door to the apartment is unlocked and opened and closed. With no lights on and nothing to trip over in the entry, Naomi doesn't think to call out to her new roommate. She moves around in the kitchen, and it's only when Devon starts letting out these particularly eager sounds, these gasping attempts to say Rafael's name, these half-spoken oh gods and oh fucks and oh yeses, that Naomi pauses at the tea kettle and determines that whatever is happening down the hall, her friend is enthusiastically in favor of it continuing.

Naomi decides to be quiet when she walks past Devon's room. Carries her tea to her bedroom and slips in, shutting that door far more quietly than she let the front door swing shut. Puts in her headphones, sips her tea, and wakes up her e-reader while, a couple of rooms away, Devon

--

wraps her legs tight around Rafael's waist, wraps her hands tight around Rafael's arms, and arches her back as though she's trying to squirm away, when she isn't, she isn't, she doesn't want to get away, or stop. She wants, at once, so badly to come and so badly to go on feeling this glorious, incandescent tension. Inevitably (perhaps), the decision is made for her. He kisses her. Or he touches her breast. Or he strokes into her just so, or he pauses and grinds against her cunt, or he dares to tease her with his fingers, and she can't bear it anymore. Her body tightens up, her eyes closed, her mouth open, caught shiveringly on a single point of pleasure for a moment before it shatters her from inside, turning organic, fluid, going through her in waves.

wolfman

Wolf's always liked watching girl come. Even before he knew he liked it. Maybe even before he knew he liked her. Liked watching her eyes close, liked watching her face change. Liked her hands clutching at his body, her cunt clutching at his cock.

Likes the way she tightens up. Likes the way she seems suspended, sometimes, caught on the cusp of some invisible nexus, some center-point of the entire collapsing universe. Likes kissing her right at that moment,

even if she's too far gone to kiss him back, even if she can't even really feel it, process it, acknowledge his mouth on hers, his lips closing over her lower.

Girl ends up moaning against his mouth. Girl ends up crying out like that, coming like that, her fingernails whitened against his shoulders, her thighs shuddering against his hips. Wolf's kissing her mouth and kissing her neck, biting gently and adoringly and fiercely at her shoulder while he grinds, grinds, pounds her so heavily against that little futon. Never was one to relent. Never was one to pause or even slow. Not until she makes him, not until she starts pushing or pulling or curling or arching or -- whatever it is she does to tell him, show him: enough. enough. no more.

Wolf does relent, then. Goes slower for a while, stroking into her so lazy-gentle, watching her face. Watching her come back to herself. Starts kissing her again almost before her eyes open, touching her face, touching her mouth. Has this look about him when she finally meets his eyes: not a smile and not a laugh, certainly not a smirk; but something. Something softer, warmer, curiously satisfied. Wolf likes watching her come. Wolf likes making her come.

Shifts over her, then. Pushes up a little, puts his weight on his hands, his knees. Scoops her up a little with a hand under her waist. Moves her, shifts her, pulls her legs up a little higher. Starts fucking her again, heavier now, a little more forcefully. Watching her to see if she's all right. If this is all right. Watching her to see

if she can see how she makes him feel, if she can see how she takes him apart. Sooner or later she puts her arms around his neck. Sooner or later he gives in, comes back to her. Sooner or later his arms encircle her again, his chest presses to hers, his body flexes and works and churns against hers. Wolf turns his face to the side of hers. Mutters something, words maybe,

love you maybe,

and then bites her to seal it in her skin. Comes like that, plowing her into the futon, pinning her against the thin mattress, grinding into her until it's over, and he's spent, and they're both motionless and loose-limbed, lazy.

--

Girl's roommate came home sometime in the middle of all that. Wolf never even noticed. Opens his eyes only when he hears a soft scuff from down the hall -- Naomi refilling her tea or something. He's alert then, lifting his head, looking in the direction of the sound. Silent, keen.

witch

Takes moments for Devon's eyes to open. Her lids are heavy. Her lashes are dark, dark. She slowly opens them, looking up at him. He's still flexing inside of her, slow now, lazy, and she looks so drowsy. She takes a breath. Lifts her head a little and kisses him. Kisses that satisfied, warm, soft look on his face.

Feels him shifting. Leaning heavily into that kiss. Lifting her hips a little. Devon takes another sip of air, sharp and needful. Too lazy to wrap her legs close around him, she just kisses him, as he starts

fucking her again. He's far away but he doesn't stay gone. Comes back down, sinks into her body and into her arms. She sighs against his mouth as he fucks her again, still. Works back up to this pace, this heavy and quick pace. She shudders as he murmurs against her flesh. She tightens around him, her cunt clenching, as he bites her. Gasps softly as he comes in her.

He slows. They slow. After a while he is still and she is loose-boned. She is sweating. She feels what she would call well and truly fucked but says nothing at all of how she feels. She holds him, warm body to warm body, nuzzling his jaw a little.

Doesn't even think to say anything when she senses, on some level, that Naomi has come home. Gets used to things fast, Devon does. Adapts. But she feels Rafael pause. Knows he's opening his eyes, feels his body go still but alert.

Laying beneath him still, wrapped up in his arms, she opens her eyes. He looks like an animal, his head turned like that. Her lips curve a little in an easy, gentle smile. Her hands begin to move, and run up his sides, urging him to come back, lay back with her, relent, relax. Rest.

"Just Naomi," Devon murmurs. "It's all right."

Her mouth curls a bit more. "Fuck me again," she whispers, just this side of shy, like telling him what she'd like for her birthday. Like the idea of it gives her soft delight. Her fingers scritch tenderly at the nape of his neck, fingertips stroking the sweat-dampened hair there. "And we can get dinner. And talk."

Dinner. Right. Must be only six or so by now. Sun truly set while they were in this room.

wolfman

Just Naomi.

Wolf turns back. Mute, eyes alert and questioning.

It's all right.

He is an animal after all. He's soothed by her touch. Reassured by her word. Takes a deep breath and stretches out beside her, half-atop her. Sweat slickens his back. Makes the air between them humid as that jungle, that ancient river.

Wolf smirks a little, now. Girl has a request. Wolf bites at her, but it's only a kiss in the end. His lips catching hers and holding, releasing. Again, and yet again.

Climbs over her after a while. Levers up, one hand planted -- musculature of his arm wreathed and stone-hard. Heavyhanded, he paws at her breast, her belly. Slips his thumb down to her clit and massages her there, slow and easy, until the sight of her,

sound of her,

feel of her,

but never the smell of her -- until all these things arouse him anew. Make him hard again inside her. He fucks her, then. A little rougher this time; but tender. Heavy, deep strokes as he plays with her, touches her tits, touches her clit, looks at her body against whatever throw or blanket or spread covers the futon. Skinny thing's got such great tits. He loves watching them bounce. Wonders if that's bad, wonders if that's inappropriate or something. Doesn't care if it is; it's true.

witch

They lounge together a while. Devon smiles at him and gently eases off of him as he shifts to lay beside her. She touches his side, strokes him softly, with tender familiarity. In moments, he nips at her, and she grins against his mouth, kissing him. Slowly. She feels so lazy now. As before, she touches his wrist, guides his hand to her breast, perhaps before he even thinks of pawing at her. Holds his hand, showing him how she likes it, how it feels good. Showing him how to weigh her in his hand, slow his fingers. Urges his thumb over her nipple, smiles as she makes it circle,

gasps softly. Slides her hand up his wrist, his arm. Finds herself caressing his chest again, his arms. God, she loves his stupid arms. His ridiculous body. She feels a scar under her fingers and her eyelashes flicker; her touch hesitates, but then goes on. Never has done that before. Never has made notice of it, or comment, even so much as a tremor in her hand while she touches him.

Truth be told, though, tonight she's touched him more consistently, more purposefully, than she ever has before. The way she touched his cock earlier, the way she felt him up while he was inside of her. She can't stop touching him now. She missed him so much.

And he loves her. And perhaps in some way this lets her tell him thank you, when the words would feel strange between them, for both of them.

--

Devon's breath catches when he lifts up over her. Looks at him with lust flaring in her eyes at the way he looks like that, looks down at her. She squirms as he slides his hand between her legs. She's filthy; he doesn't care. She closes her eyes when he finds her clit, her pussy tightening up against his hand, quivering. Her head lifts; she holds his arms for leverage, holding herself suspended between the bed and his body for a few aching moments just so she can kiss him again.

He has to seek her again, find her again, push himself into her again. This is intentional. This is because it feels amazing. Because it makes her gasp when he eases deeply into her cunt, slides deep inside of her again. They're a bit quieter this time: they both know that her roommate is home, and that's not the same as a stranger in another hotel room. Devon whimpers instead of cries out. Devon turns her head on the pillow, trying to find a place to hide her voice, when he really starts fucking her with those firm, languid thrusts.

It flits through her mind to tell him to turn over, she wants to ride him, but she's so lazy. She's worn out from work, she's worn out from missing him, and well: he's so strong. But he's also far away, and even though he's staring at her tits like he's transfixed and it turns her on and she knows it turns him on, she just

misses him.

They can be playful later, she thinks. They can be acrobatic, athletic, eager, whatever -- later. She slides her hands up his body, telling him in a breathy murmur: "Come here. Hold me."

She doesn't tell him she wants to hold him, too. But she does. Wraps her arms around him when he comes closer, if he comes closer, hiding a moan in his mouth when they kiss again. Doesn't mean they slow down. Doesn't mean he stops fucking her like this, eager and a little faster, harder than before, or that she can even keep completely quiet when he really starts working her up. Just means they're close again. Just means that afterward, when she's wrapped her legs tight around his waist and bit her lip as she comes, when he's held her against him and fucked his cum into her with her shoulder in his teeth or his lips on her mouth,

afterward, when his arms are heavy around her and she's curled up against his chest, they are close enough that she can hear and almost feel his heart beating away inside of him, racing still. She nestles closer to him, nuzzling against his chest, tucking herself close to him.

--

Beneath them is a simple fitted sheet, wrapped around the futon mattress. It's soft cotton, fresh white: rather nice, actually. So is the futon itself, not some $100 thing from Wal-Mart. They're low to the ground, but the mattress -- while not some multi-thousand-dollar feathertop -- is reasonably comfortable. The pillows are medium-firm, covered with the same soft white cotton. There's a matching topsheet, and a comforter in a turquoise blue cover, with a couple of throw pillows that have been tossed hither and yon by Devon's sleeping and this evening's fucking. There's an extra throw blanket nearby. Her little stuffed giraffe is slumped over at the foot of the sort-of-bed.

The futon has a couple of nightstands that, while not made to match, were chosen carefully to 'go with' the futon. On the wall opposite the bed is a flatscreen television, not enormous but a nice thing to have. There's a lamp with a porcelain base molded in the shape of an Asian elephant. There are curtains over the window, but they're open. There's a little desk by the window, with a little chair, and that is where Devon has her hot plate, as well as bottles and bags of herbs and drams of oils. Beneath the television is a little dresser, which is only semi-closed: bras and panties and those spangled blue shorts, among other things, are hanging out of drawers. The half-open closet is much the same. And there is a rug on the floor, beneath the futon but extending outward significantly; it has some design on it, probably the same hip-cute style as the rest of the decor. There's even stuff on the walls.

Naomi can't be much older than Devon. But Naomi's dad is loaded with two things -- money and paternal guilt. And Naomi takes at least a couple of credit hours per semester and does not fail. That's their exchange.

So there you go.

--

Devon nuzzles Rafael again. This time she hasn't unwrapped herself from him, hasn't slid off of his body. She reaches for the throw blanket and tugs and pulls it until it's over her, and partly over him, and then she sighs against his skin. Perhaps napping, she thinks. Napping and cuddling and Rafael holding her forever instead of getting dinner, or talking, or saying things that might hurt them both or turn this sideways or break it, break them, break this tender and raw little love between them.

She wants to protect it. Curl around it and keep it close, until it can survive on its own, breathe for itself.

She knows she's anthropomorphizing the feelings between them, and that's silly. But it's how she feels. So she says nothing. She pulls a blanket around them and holds him and holds herself against him and does not let him go.

wolfman

Turns out wolf can be an attentive lover after all. Gentle, even when he's such a rough thing. So unrefined. Sometimes it's hard to believe he's the blood of kings here, and she the woad-painted barbarian. Sometimes it's hard to believe there's anything human in him at all, that she isn't just a mirage or a dream.

But she's not a figment of someone's imagination. And he's not a monster. And sometimes when they're together they're just

a wolf and a girl,

a man and a woman.

--

He comes back to her when she wraps her arms around him. Pulls him in. His arms slide under her narrow back. Palms open between her shoulderblades, like he's covering her heart, her spine. She hides moans in his mouth. Against his shoulder. He hides growls against her neck. In her ear.

--

Afterward she half-covers them. He stirs a little. Heavy and motionless over her now, a great slumbering beast. Breathes fast and harsh, then deep and slow. Shifts ever so slightly to the side. Nuzzles her shoulder.

Opens his eyes, after a time. Looks around the room. Wonders how many of these things are hers, how many her friend's. Giraffe is hers. Hot plate is hers. All those bottles and vials are hers. TV probably isn't hers, and wolf thinks to himself he should've gotten her one, should've put one in her room, maybe then she wouldn't have left...

Knows that's stupid. Knows it's not about his things, his money, what he could give her. What he could provide.

Inhale and he rolls off her. Onto his back. Arm around her shoulders gathers her against his chest. They trade positions: girl on top now. Wolf bats around lazily until he finds a pillow. Stuffs it under his head. He's leaving his scent on her bed, and on her. Fills that blank space beneath the smell of herbs and oils, above the baseline smell of wood, carpet, drywall.

"You hungry?" he asks quietly.

witch

Cozy, under that blanket. Naked skins, sweat-damp. She wiggles her feet, then uses her toes to get her socks off. That done, she kicks them away and tucks her feet close to his legs, smiling at him. He's looking curiously around her room, so she wraps her arms around him and closes her eyes again, resting on his chest.

Maybe they should nap, she thinks. And put off talking some more.

She realizes, thinking this, that she doesn't... feel bad about it. That it isn't the same as not wanting to talk ever, that what's between them and things they're hurt by can be ignored indefinitely. Just that they can talk later. They don't need to hash it out right now.

Maybe he'll disagree. But she realizes that, and breathes him in, and opens her eyes as she exhales.

Half on top of him, her leg over him, arms around him, using his chest and his arm as pillows. Asks her if she's hungry. She smiles, nods gently. "A little." She leans up, kissing his cheek softly, his jaw. Feels a tremor of desire go through her, despite everything. Huffs a soft laugh against his chin, her face close to his, her lashes against her cheek. "Can't get enough of you," she murmurs, right against his skin. Seals the words there, with a kiss, before she draws back, looks at him more clearly.

"Let's just order something," she says quietly. "Eat in here." Her arm tightens around his chest, drawing her closer to him. "Sleep here with me."

wolfman

Wolf's chest expands against the circle of her arm. He covers her elbow with his hand. Her forearm.

"Yeah, all right."

That's quiet too. He turns his head, hair rustling against her pillow. Wolf's hair is surprisingly thick and soft. Wolf's beard-bristle is still rough and scratchy, though; still hasn't learned to shave before he kisses her. Then again, wasn't expecting to kiss her.

He looks at his jeans. His clothes rumpled on the floor. Draws a breath for motivation, then cranes off the bed. Snags his pants by a leg, hauls it up on the futon. Wallet and phone and keys in there, heavy enough to thump. Onehanded, he fishes out his cell, squinting against the sudden glare as he wakes the screen.

"Thanks for the muffin," he says, remembering. On the little screen, the Grubhub app starts up.

witch

Devon doesn't know how much he's been thinking that she should come home. Come home. She thinks that's done: they fought about it on texts and he's not going to risk telling her again, asking her again. Doesn't know that even as they came down from sex, he was thinking about her, in his home. How much he wants that.

So she doesn't know that it could mean anything, that he doesn't tell her he doesn't want to sleep here, he wants to take her home, he wants her back in that room, he wants her close. Doesn't think to be grateful that it doesn't come up right now, when she is quiet simply glowing from the closeness between them, the warmth, the orgasms.

She grins. Gets kissed, and kisses back. Touches his face again, cupping his jaw in her palm. Lets him go, reluctantly, sliding away from him a bit and snuggling into the blanket while he gets out his phone and starts opening up the app.

He thanks her for the muffin and she just shrugs. Doesn't know how to accept it. Or explain that she's glad he texted her, and came by, and didn't stomp around to drag her out and demand an audience. That he just sat, and waited for her, and she was so happy to see him and didn't know what to do so:

muffin.

"Maybe Thai food," she murmurs, nestling back close to him.

wolfman

"Sure." He's not picky. She knows that. Watched him eat all sorts of terrible food, even though he had a private chef, even though he could've ordered -- and afforded -- filet mignon and lobster every night. But no, instead: stew. Roast. Chili. Hamburger. Fried chicken. Once, she saw him eating tater tots and applesauce for dinner.

Pulls up the nearest Thai place. Hands her the phone. Tosses his pants back on the ground while she scrolled through the options. Watches shadows move on the ceiling: a tree outside, swaying in the wind.

"You gonna stay here now?"

witch

When it comes to food, Devon isn't one to judge. Eats what their is. Sometimes makes stuff -- skillet potatoes, for example. Sausage. He ate tots and applesauce; she ate the tots with him.

Devon taps out her order on the phone, not caring right now that the closest Thai place isn't the better one. She likes that he tosses his pants away like they're unnecessary now. And she taps out her order, glances at him halfway through when he speaks.

"Think so," she says quietly. Hands him his phone a moment or two later, so he can order what he likes.

wolfman

Crushes him a little, that. Wolf keeps a brave face. Which is to say: wolf keeps an impassive face. Shrugs a little.

"Okay."

He gets his phone back. He looks at what she got. Scrolls, finds something meaty. Orders it. Coconut beef or something of the sort. Plus some spicy curry shrimp. Pad thai. Glances at the desserts a bit, ends up getting mango pudding. Two. Figures she might want one.

"Gonna send," he says, and if she has nothing else to add, he does. Gets a text back almost immediately telling him his food was on the way. Wolf turns his phone off and puts it down on the nightstand.

"Could come home if you wanted," he adds after a while. "Wouldn't mind."

witch

Devon is blissful. Doesn't notice that he's crushed, even for a moment. Does notice that he doesn't make eye contact, but it's not exactly his strong suit, acting like People. She just smiles, and nods, when he sends. As soon as he sets his phone down she presses close to him again, thinking on some level that maybe there's enough time to fuck again before the food arrives.

Kisses him soft, and he tells her she could come home. Confusing: she never really thought of it as her home. Not that she adamantly did not, just... it didn't really occur to her.

Devon touches his chest, idle and affectionate. "Think I should stay here," she says quietly. "Want to stay here," she amends, more honestly. Props her head up, watching his features, which are so appealing to her, as she talks to him.

"Felt trapped, whenever we fought." Her brow furrows as she says this. "Not because of you." Not because he trapped her. Held her against her will, beast with his beauty. "We went all backwards."

She slides down in bed a bit, tucking the blanket up over her, looking up at him from the crook of his arm and the swell of her pillow. "It's not that I don't love you," she says, with a touch of ache in her voice. "Not that I don't want to be with you. Just the opposite."

wolfman

Somehow wolf isn't surprised at all. Somehow he knew, even before she told him, even before he asked-but-didn't-ask, even before she'd left, that she wouldn't come back once she was out the door.

Maybe that's why he tried to get her to stay. Certainly it's why there's a weight on his heart now, a low keening echoing through those violent, blood-red chambers. Wolf doesn't look back at her, but he squeezes her a little closer. Frowns.

"I get it," he says. And he does. "But if you ever wanted to... you can." Another small pause. "Like it if you did. Made it feel more like home, having you there."

witch

Won't look at her. Devon's brow furrows. Not going to tell him yes, yes, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry, I'll come back because he's sad, but she aches that he's sad. That he can't look at her. Or won't. She's not mad.

She wraps herself close around him.

"One day I might," she says softly, because it's the truth. "But you're my boyfriend, yeah?" she adds, lifting her head to look at him again. "You stay with me sometimes. I'll stay with you. Some nights we won't. Even when I lived with you, that's how it was."

wolfman

Wolf's hand covers hers. Slides up, wraps around her forearm where it crosses his chest.

"Yeah," he agrees. Confirms. He's her boyfriend. Not just something she tells people so they didn't ask questions. Not just some simple label on a more complex truth. It is the truth now: he's her boyfriend. They've got a thing together.

And: "Yeah," to the rest of it too. His hand squeezes her forearm. Reaches down, pulls the blankets up around them a little more. Cooler, now that the rush of sex is past. Still winter outside. He's quiet after that. Doesn't pull away, though. Doesn't push her away.

Just holds her. Sorts through his thoughts. Picks up his disappointment and his sadness, investigates them, sets them aside. Picks up that scant little shred of hope there,

one day I might,

holds on to that. Holds on to her, too.

--

A little later: "Your roommate wanna eat with us?"

witch

No questioning or hesitating or repeating this time; she calls him her boyfriend, that yeah? on the end just a bit of carryover from her adolescence, and where she spent it. And this time he just says: Yeah. Just like that. Confirms it and answers it even though she wasn't looking -- consciously -- for an answer or a confirmation. Gets it anyway. He gives it. And it makes her smile. Rafael holding her makes her smile. Being here in bed with him, naked and awaiting food, makes her smile. Telling him she's going to stay here and his sad but willing acceptance makes her smile.

Devon kisses him again, softly, on the cheek. Kisses a little trail up to his temple and nuzzles him there as he's covering them up, protecting their sweat-dampened skins from the air. She settles back down, resting against his chest, half-listening for the intercom while she drowses

on her boyfriend.

In her boyfriend's arms.

Smiles to herself, feeling cozy and happy while he sorts through these thoughts of his, no less cozy but sadder, harder to bear, more complicated than her simple bliss. He copes okay. Sets aside everything but the fact that she is here right now, and not gone from him or his life, and may one day come back to live in his den with him.

After a time, he speaks to her again, and she inhales deeply, opening her eyes and twisting a bit to look at him. Likes looking at him quite a lot. She gives a little laugh, breath curling against his chest. "She might," Devon says, her hand curling around his side. "Don't want to share you, though." Says this baldly, without the air of confession such a thing deserves. It's the truth, though: doesn't want to invite anyone else into this time together. Not right now. Not tonight.

Devon climbs gently atop him, arms folded over his chest, chin propped on the backs of her hands. "Some other time, though, yeah," she says, because that's also the truth: would be nice, maybe, for her friends to know her boyfriend. Or know of him, at least. Something.

She's quiet for a while. They still have some time to wait for their meal to arrive. Her feet rub tenderly against his calves, idle and familiar.

"You happy?" she asks quietly.

wolfman

Girl doesn't want to share him. Wolf's perplexed at first. Thinks she means something quite different. Lifts his head, starts to tell her he doesn't think of Naomi that way.

Then she goes on. Some other time. He figures it out: she meant food. Dinner. Okay. Settles, his hand rubbing over her shoulder.

Thinks a moment.

"Yeah. Guess so. Don't know, not really the happy type. Feel pretty good though." Another moment's thought. "Content."

witch

Devon lowers her face to his chest, rubbing her nose over his skin. Inhales him. Has that blessing, that luxury. Licks him softly, catlike, tasting him. He tells her what he does, and she laughs.

"Happy's not a type," she tells him. Wants to call him a fool, so very very fondly, but he doesn't like even the most tenderly intended insult. She doesn't say it. She looks at him a bit, and then slithers up his body somewhat to kiss him

again.

"Well," she mutters. "I'm happy. So, so happy."

Kisses him again, so softly that it's almost chaste. Opens her eyes slowly, looking right at him. Close up. And for a few moments, all Devon does stare at him. Looks at individual eyelashes, the lines of his mouth. Then she breathes in, deeply, and says:

"Going to wash before food gets here," she says. "You want to come with?"

wolfman

Wolf does lift his head now. Watches her rubbing the tip of her nose over his chest; finding his scent on his skin, caught in the light hairs there. His mouth quirks when she licks him. He's reminded of a cat. That lick. That slide up his body. Even that long, fond regard, staring at him until he almost starts to feel self-conscious.

Mutters, "What," but then he already knows. She's looking at him because she's happy. She's looking at him because she loves him.

Inhales, then. Chest rises. Arms stretch. He flexes under her, slow and supple, extending arms and legs, stretching even his fingers out. Relaxes, all at once, big hand falling heavily to the small of her back. He smirks at her.

"Yeah." Palm slides down. Fingers grip her ass. Lazy, fond touch with a hint of possession: as if he had a right to it. "I do."

witch

He stretches his body out. She's on top of him.

Rafael perhaps does not hear or see or recognize the way Devon's breath catches. But he should recognize it: looks at her sometimes and feels like he gets knocked in the chest. Takes the air right out of him.

Devon pants out a breath and presses closer to him when his body relaxes under hers again. Her thighs have parted over his lap as soon as his hips have settled on the bed once more. His hand is on her back and then sliding to her ass but she's opening her mouth against his mouth with a soft groan. Nothing seductive or playful or even conscious about the way she moves on him; it's just want. It's just unabashed, shameless lust.

Doesn't say a word. Doesn't tell him she wants to go again. Doesn't grin and wriggle and tease. Just... attacks him. Just like that.

wolfman

Girl doesn't need to say a word. Doesn't need to tell him she wants to go again. Or grin. Or wriggle. Or tease. Wolf understands it: potently, immediately, viscerally. Lifts his head and meets that kiss, growling into it, his hands gripping at her ass.

Falls back after. Grins at her. Something a little savage about it, teeth bared. Doesn't roll her under. Doesn't say a word. Pulls her up to straddle him, reaches between them to grab his dick, still filthy from the last go-around. Kisses her as she opens to him, takes him in, slides down on him tight and wet and perfect, perfect.

witch

It occurs to her, when she's already starting to get wet, when she's panting in between kisses, when his hands are massaging her ass, that maybe she should ask if, y'know. If he's ready to go again. If he needs a few minutes.

It occurs to her, and then the thought is gone. Not resolved, not answered, not anything. Just gone. She moans in answer to his growling. They've got maybe twenty minutes or so, she thinks. That's all right.

Devon doesn't let him pull very far away. He's starting to grin and she's kissing him again, all but pinning his head down to the pillows, groaning softly. There's not much pulling or arranging to be done with her body; she's already of a mind to ride him. Already wet when he finds her, wet when she rolls her hips and takes him, takes over as his hand falls away from his dick.

She gasps.

They fuck.

--

Again. But also for the first time in weeks. No: count better, Devon. Third time. And like other times when they've gone round and round the bend like this in a short time, she's more exuberant than she is at the start. Her body is loosened up, her arousal has somehow only reached a higher peak after the other orgasms she's had. At first she stays close to him, kissing him over and over, touching his face.

Eventually, though.

Eventually she's riding him well and proper, and if he likes watching her tits bounce then, well. It's a good time had by all. Outside the room Naomi is aware, no matter how quiet they're trying to be, what her roommate and Some Guy are up to in there. Again. She doesn't care much, but she has plans, so she leaves a teasing post-it on Devon's door and slips out of the apartment again, locking up behind her as she goes out to dinner with a group of friends.

Inside the room, on top of that futon, Devon hears the door close and lets out a moan, because she can now. She leans over him, hair falling around his face, holding his jaw in her hand as she kisses him again, gasps something urgent and pleading like fuck me, rafa while their pace kicks up, as she starts riding him toward her own orgasm,

makes those sounds he knows so well by now.

And so they come.

Again.

--

There's only a couple of minutes spent afterward, Devon draped beside him, her skin too hot, her cheeks flushed, sweaty. Filthy. She has rolled away from him a bit, welcoming the cool air that lets her breathe again and makes her nipples stand at attention.

The intercom buzzes down the hall, and she flops her palm over her face, grinning against her hand.

"You go get it," she says, muffled, pushing on his shoulder with her other hand.

wolfman

Has she ever ridden him before? Wolf can't remember. Wolf can't remember his own fucking name, if we're honest. So maybe she has. Maybe she hasn't. Maybe this is the first time anyone has ever ridden anyone else in history, he doesn't know. Maybe this is all there is, the whole world is in this room, the whole world is in her mouth and in her cunt and in those lovely, perky, bouncy tits of hers and

no none of that makes any sense but: he puts his hands on her tits to feel them bounce against his palms. He holds her by the waist while she bounces on his cock. He dissolves into her kiss when she comes down to him, moans into his mouth, and when she rears up and starts riding him in earnest, starts chasing down her orgasm,

she makes him groan aloud. Makes him close his eyes and put his head back and hold on to her hips, hold on to what remains of his sanity.

They come. Again. It's almost simultaneous this time. One trips off the other and it's impossible to tell who's first, who's last. Good thing her roommate is out of the apartment because this time -- such a rare thing, this -- wolf doesn't keep quiet, wolf doesn't just bite her and bury growls in her flesh; wolf throws his head back and yells something, FUCK, bellows it loud enough to reverberate off the walls and the ceiling. Pants it a few more tattered times as she's grinding, grinding, riding it out on him.

He has to stop her at the end. Has to pull her down and wrap her in his arms and make her stop, stop it, stop. She's pink and panting and rolling away and they're both panting, there's a thin river of sweat between his pectorals. Heart's hammering so hard you can almost see his chest wall move.

--

Doorbell buzzes. Wolf's eyes are still closed and there's a hectic flush in his cheeks, he's still panting through his mouth. Girl pushes him and he opens his eyes. Go get it. He doesn't know what the fuck she means and meanwhile the intercom buzzes again and he figures it out.

Food. Delivery boy's here. Fine. Wolf grumbles, rolls out of bed, lurches to his feet sweaty and disheveled. Sweat on his back, sweat on his temples, sweat on his chest, wetness and cum on his half-hard dick. What we're trying to say is: he's a hot mess, quite literally, and he yanks the bedroom door open (a stickynote flutters to the floor) and thuds across the living room and yanks open the front door, too. Stark naked, quite obviously post- or possibly mid-coitus; takes the bags of delivery food from the thunderstruck deliveryman, shuts the door again and comes back.

Sets the bag on the rumpled, tousled, wrinkle-sheeted bed. Drops down next to it, pawing through his clothes on the floor. Picks up his boxers, but not to put them on. Uses them to wipe himself off, carelessly and messily and shamelessly; drops them back on the ground.

"You guys got a washer?" And he starts unpacking their food atop the bed.

witch

Oh, she's ridden him. Ask her. Ask her what her top five Rafa Fuckings have been. She may have a list. She may not. Right now she just pants, sweating, coming down. She almost couldn't take it there at the end, the way he was swearing, yelling, grinding his cock into her. Made her come, didn't it? He did.

She pushes on him and he goes. He's filth itself and grabs the food, comes back. Devon just peers up him, still draped naked over the sheets and comforter and tangled throw blanket. Smiles at the sight of him.

Or the food. Him-with-food. She drowsily rolls onto her side, watching him unpack. Well: watching him wipe his dick off, which makes her laugh a little. She hasn't even gotten up to use the bathroom yet, but she's going to. As soon as she's certain her legs will support her.

"Yeah," she says. It's a nice place. "Stackable, end of the hallway." Smirks. "Could just get a servant to bring you a bag."

Quietly, smiling at this, less smirky: "Some stuff to keep here."

wolfman

Pad thai. Curry shrimp. Mango beef. Coconut rice. Whatever she got, too: it all gets laid out on the bed. A mini-feast of sorts. Sometimes wolf's a little surprised at how easily, how quickly he got accustomed to this. Spending without regard for limits. Putting everything on a piece of plastic linked to some nebulous account and being utterly confident it'll all the paid and he'll owe nothing.

There are even paper plates in there. Plastic utensils. Wolf loads one up and starts eating, sitting on the edge of the futon, naked and well-made as renaissance statuary. Glances over at the girl.

"Like a change of clothes in case I sleep over?"

witch

He's got so much food. She laughs, since she got massaman curry and that's it. Maybe he intends to share with her; warms her heart, though she won't be eating that much. Lots of leftovers. She breathes in, watching him, and smiles.

Nods. "Yeah," is all she says, and then finally rolls herself up, kisses his cheek, and slips out. Bathroom. She leaves the door open behind her.

--

Comes back in a few minutes later, a little refreshed: water splashed on face. Hair combed a little. She pulls on a satin robe she has draped over a chair, but doesn't tie it. She curls up beside him on the futon, sticking a post-it on his knee:

DON'T FORGET TO RE-HYDRATE.

There is a smiley face beneath the advice.

Devon picks up a container and some chopsticks, starts feeding herself.

wolfman

Wolf is, indeed, intending to share. Placement of the food probably indicates as much: fact that he leaves all the little boxes and containers unlidded, accessible. Fact that he eats off a plate, onto which he's put some pad thai, a scoop or two of each dish.

He watches her as she gets up. Closes his eyes for the kiss, then opens again. She goes to the bathroom. He's looking at her again when she comes back, though by then he's already finished his first plate of food. Girl doesn't sit across the spread. Sits right next to him, leaning against his solid side.

Sticky note finds its way to his knee. He looks at it. Smirks. Crumples it up in his palm and tosses it into the plastic bag the food came in along with the rest of their trash. "Sound advice," is all he has to say about it.

"She gonna mind if I stay the night sometimes?"

witch

As she gets some food in her, Devon's thoughts turn to Rafael's nudity. And how she likes it. How she likes eating with him, and this companionable feeling between them, and what he might do if she took his plate from his hands and led him to the shower and gave him a blowjob.

Instead of doing any of those things, she leans against his side, eating her dinner while he eats his, and while the city outside comes to life. Still cold at night, but not frigid. Not sub-zero anymore. Spring is finally unfurling in Denver.

And she has a boyfriend. He asks her a question so considerate that it takes her a moment to remember: he wasn't always privileged. He wasn't always rich. She thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. "Don't think so. I'll make sure, but... even if she does, I'll just stay at yours more."

They go on eating.

--

Afterwards, Devon finds herself incredibly full. Achingly so, actually. She lays back and rubs her feet against his feet and tells him about getting the job at Hooked, about the tarot readers group she visited there only to see that they were hiring. She likes it there: no uniform, very laid-back. Mostly younger crowds and not a sports bar. Asks him a bit about what he's been up to, but she's feeling gross after long enough.

They shower. The bathroom isn't adjacent here; Naomi's bedroom has an en suite, but Devon leads Rafael across the hall. She sheds her robe while he heats up the shower, and inside she gets clean quickly but then is playful. Touches him. Keeps hugging him at random. Bites him here and there, gently, til he takes her face in his hands and kisses her. And kisses her,

and lifts her up. And presses her back to the tiled wall.

She gasps something like one more time before he slides into her, which turns out to be because she's so tender now, she's coming close to the edge of soreness but not so close that she doesn't want him again.

She always wants him. Wraps her legs around his waist and holds him between her hands and moans when he kisses her, because... she always wants him.

--

The rest of the night passes. And they do some laundry while he lounges around naked in her bed. They watch t.v., and snack on leftover Thai food. Neither one suggests going out tonight. Neither one initiates some great big discussion about their relationship, their future, their hurts, their confusion. Tonight it's just enough that they're together. Under a blanket. Watching Netflix.