It's summer, and Devon wears very little clothing. With all the rain and all the times he sees her before and at and after her job, and all the hours spent killing time in his house, or in her friend's loft, in air-conditioned rooms, in soft beds, with her snuggling her cold toes against his calves. And then she is wearing pajamas, or work clothes, or -- frequently enough -- nothing at all.
First time summer really showed itself in her dress was that weekend mid-June, with her in those hyper-short cutoffs and the yellow bandeau top and the rainbow suspenders, the rainbow knee socks, the smell of sunblock on her shoulders and her nose, her cheeks, already so freckled. She was already downtown that weekend, and there was the smell of mojitos on her breath when she trekked up to the highlands to, as she put it: fuck your brains out. happy pride.
She was so sweaty. Smelled like nothing at all. Sunblock, mojitos, other people's sweat and nearness and joy and exuberance and sunlight and even the fried cheese curds and ice cream she'd eaten -- but nothing at all of herself. Showered later, after, and smelled like even less. Almost smelled like him: his soap, his hair conditioner, the softener his servants use on the towels. But really: nothing.
Like what she wore, later, after coming to visit him in her rainbow getup: nothing.
--
But it's really most days, now, in the thick of July, that she wears little, even when she's working. Little sundresses, bra straps exposed, those heavy boots. Bare feet and cutoffs and t-shirts that have giant neck-holes and are cropped and hang off her shoulder and every time she lifts her arms he sees her still-pale stomach.
Devon does not turn golden in summer. Devon wears SPF50 and still sometimes has a pink nose, pink cheeks, pink brow or shoulders if she missed a spot or it wore off. Mostly, though, she has the same lily-pale skin she does in winter, with those freckles. If he counts them, he notices that they increase gently in number.
She has gotten her hair cut -- still long, past her shoulders, but trimmed off several inches of old growth. She mostly wears it wavy, untouched, undone. Up in messy buns and several times: two fishtail braids. She comes over a lot. The air conditioning is better at his place, she says, nevermind that he's been to Naomi's, and the air conditioning there is just fine.
Devon does not say that he is not at Naomi's, and that is not just fine.
--
Right now it is some lazy Friday afternoon, and Devon is laying on a blanket in his back yard, well-hidden under the shade of some heavy tree, and she was reading a book earlier and she was drinking tequila earlier so there is a bottle nearby and a handful of bitten-and-sucked lime wedges on the corner of the blanket but now she is just dozing, lazing, her head pillowed on her hands. She's lying on her stomach. And today, she is just wearing a bikini. He doesn't even have a pool, and she's clearly not trying to tan.
RafaelWolf's shadow falls over her first, but in the shade of that sprawling tree it's possible girl doesn't even notice. It's possible it's his rage she notices first; feels it even in the depths of sleep. It's also possible the first and only thing that wakes her is a towel, dropping across her rump. Covers her from thigh to mid-back.
Heavy towel. Beach towel. Soft. Smells new. Wolf's standing over her, customary frown on his brow because that's just the default. Stays there even as the corner of his mouth nudges up. He's looking down, she's not-tanning on her stomach.
"Colder when you sleep," he explains. Leans down, picks up the tequila. Sniffs at the mouth of the bottle before lifting it for a swig.
A moment later the very earth beneath her trembles a little: he drops down next to her. Another swig. Puts the bottle down. Lays back with a groan, lifting his hands to tuck them behind his head. He's still wearing clothes. Shorts that hang past his knees; t-shirt, grey, no print. Wolf closes his eyes, seems ready to nap.
Reaches over after another moment, though. Slips his hand under that towel, spreads his fingers over her lower back.
"Turn over," he murmurs. Opens one eye a beat later; slants her a crooked little smirk.
DevonHis shadow melts into the softer one of the tree's boughs, which are rich with thick green leaves. Her bikini is blue, with white lotus flowers hither and yon across it. Ties behind her neck, below her shoulderblades. She's still wearing her sunglasses, retro things with brown rims. He can't see her eyes open as he approaches, not because his rage wakes her, but because she wasn't fully asleep.
He thumps a towel down over her and explains that she's colder when she sleeps. Immediately Devon starts wriggling, reaching down to flip it off her ass again. "Ninety-six," is all she says, and wiggles her toes. Stretches out her legs a bit, watching him lean down and drink some of her tequila. Or his tequila. The tequila from the bar (his tequila).
Then Rafael flumps down, not quite fitting on the blanket she's laying on, and she doesn't scoot over. He's half in the sunshine as a result when he lays out, in his plain and boring clothes. He doesn't do anything, so she decides he's there to nap, and closes her eyes again. Even when he moves, and she senses it, she just thinks he's getting comfortable. A light breeze skims over her skin, but it feels good: cools the sweat that makes her sheen even in the shade.
So he touches her. And tells her to turn over. And her eyes slowly open behind those dark, impenetrable glasses.
"You wanna fuck?" she asks him back, no louder than he spoke.
Rafael"No."
He turns a little more toward her. Now both eyes are open, green as an animal's.
"I want to get you off with my hand."
Devon"You wanna fuck," Devon says again, still low and lazy, but this time the corner of her mouth is curving outward, upward. This time she's not asking a question: she's telling him that's still fucking.
Breathes in deep, then. Rolls slightly, but only enough to unfold one arm, touching him over his shirt, over his ribs. Runs that touch slowly up his chest, reveling in the heat emanating through the soft cotton.
"C'mere," she murmurs. "Kiss me."
RafaelWolf exhales a laugh. It catches -- hitches in his throat when she touches him slowly, slowly, lazily. He looks down, following the progress of her fingertips; the way the cotton folds and shifts between skin and skin.
"I got neighbors," he reminds her,
but that doesn't stop him from rolling up on an elbow. Leaning over her, his palm heavy on her back, his mouth heavy on hers.
Down goes his hand. Curves over her ass, squeezes.
DevonJust as lazily, limbs soft and falling with artlike ease, Devon folds her free hand towards herself and removes her sunglasses. The tree shades her from the sun; his body shades her from the sun. It's some kind of concession, though: he always strips her naked. Seems to want her bared, utterly and completely. He never really comments on her eyes, or much of anything, but she wants to see him more clearly. Some part of her remembers: it's hard to connect to someone who won't show you their eyes. And some part of her knows: this isn't just sex. He wants to be close to her.
Her mouth curls into a smirk at his reminder, as she rolls to her side, nearly on her back, letting her weight lean into his arm where it encircles her. She slides her own arm around his neck and shoulders, the other one still caressing his chest, finding its way under his shirt. He'll feel her breath on his cheek.
"So what?" she wants to know. Just before he kisses her. Just before that summer-warm body of hers melts a little against him. She kisses him lingeringly, slowly, murmuring pleasure as he plays with her.
RafaelSo what, and he kisses her. So maybe that's an answer. So nothing. So nobody cares. Nobody here, anyway: not him, not her. She melts into it. His grip on her body is hungry, and for a moment, it starts to veer into brutality.
So he sighs into the kiss. And it softens. His touch, his kiss. He seals it with another one, softer. Leans back, lays back, face to the sky -- the heavy boughs of the tree with its dark, glossy leaves.
"So," he says, and nods over at the discarded fabric: "pull that over. So I can get you off under it."
DevonOn the edge of harsh, she sighs in his mouth. It's a sigh not of tension but something else, something in her releasing. Her back arches, lifting her hips toward him. Somehow he relents. He softens his grip on her back, her ass. Kisses her more softly and she smiles, feeling a wave of tenderness. Nuzzles him slightly, and when he starts to lay back, lean away, she follows, curling her body up against his side.
"Too hot," she teases, her leg sliding over his, between his thighs. Her hand runs up his torso. "Take this off. Your body turns me on."
RafaelWolf lets out another one of those exhales -- half a laugh, half ...well. It's not exasperation; nothing quite so far. But something along that axis. Same family. Smaller, gentler cousin.
Raises his head. Alert like that; a beast in everything he does. Casts a glance at his neighbor's house, the upstairs windows. Wolf's got money in scads but the townhouse is strictly upper-middle. Small yard, crammed in. Land is precious and people build small in the city center. Neighbors are crammed close and sure, it's midday on a weekday and people in this area still work for a living, so probably they're okay. Still. He looks. He debates.
He pulls his shirt off, quickly: grabs it at the neck and tugs. Now there's grass on his bare back, which is a nice feeling. He can't easily remember the last time he's felt it. He'd dwell on it more but girl's in a goddamn bikini, all bare skin that doesn't tan. Freckles and that unforgettable smile. He reaches down, rubs his hand over her thigh; rubs firmly, wanting to imprint the feel of her skin into his palm.
DevonThat kind of sigh of his is, in her mind, the one he gives when he's exasperated, and he likes it. Embarrassed, but not really. Eager, but not overly. All of those. She leans forward as he lifts his head to look around. Kisses his neck, licks him. Pushes her hand farther up his body, over his chest. Finds a fold of skin and sucks it into her mouth, biting down gently as she rubs her thumb over his nipple.
He looks. He debates. Devon moans softly against his neck as she slides her bare thigh between his legs.
Next thing she knows he's pulling his shirt off, and she's pulling back enough for him to do so, then laying herself out over his chest, all but purring. She leans into him, kissing him again, pressing her body against his. "Thought you were gonna get me off," she mutters, nipping his lower lip with her teeth.
RafaelA last glance at that empty window: his neighbor's master bedroom. She's kissing him right at that moment. She's nipping his lip, her blunt little teeth tugging at his flesh. He growls, sudden and decisive. Wraps an arm around her waist and turns her, bears her down under him.
Now it's him between her and the sky, the tree, its branches. Now it's her eyes reflecting that sky, that tree, those branches. He kisses her with open eyes, and with teeth: biting at her lip that same way, affectionate and light, but with an edge of true hunger.
She's barely wearing anything at all. His hand, sliding down, feels nothing but skin. Skin and the smoothness of her abdomen; the subtlety of slender musculature beneath. And then the scrap of fabric that makes up her bikini bottoms, which poses no barrier at all. He pushes it down. Or aside. Or maybe just slides fingers underneath. Now he's growling again, growling to feel her, growling to touch her, growling to discover her silky-softness; lips, clit.
She sees his eyes gleam when he finds her. Sees the involuntarily flicker of his lips -- discovery, delight. "There," he whispers, and then his fingers circle, slide, run past. He slips them into her cunt. Presses the heel of his hand to her instead, grinds, a firm and relentless pressure.
DevonMet her in late fall. It was snowing off and on in Denver before they ever fucked. This spring was made up of seemingly nonstop rain which has only recently tapered off. All of which is to say:
he's never fucked her outside. Never knew that she might let him.
Would want him to.
--
Rafael growls and Devon gives a little cry.
Rafael turns her under his body and Devon's outcry melts into a moan, heedless of the possible nearness of neighbors.
Rafael kisses her, bites her lip, and Devon wiggles, holding him more tightly now, kissing him more hungrily. More fully. Her hips lift between her blanket and his body, rubbing her barely-clad cunt against the front of his shorts. Keeps on with it as he's touching her, his arm between their bodies. His hand is so large, she thinks: so broad, his fingers so rough for being so elegantly formed. She's noticed that about his hands. And the thought of everything he's doing, as much as the sensation of him doing it, makes her squirm eagerly for him to reach in, push her bathing suit down just enough to give his wrist room. Finds her growing wet for him, and he growls again and she sets her teeth against her lower lip, whimpering. It's a helpless little sound; her head tips back as he touches her, sliding his fingers over her pussy, stealing wetness to spread it around, circle it over her clit, get it all over his fingers.
He feels her quivering, gently, as he's murmuring that he's found her, like she was missing. Like she was buried treasure. Feels her hungry, feels her clenching around him when he slides his touch into her, grinds against her. Feels how wet she gets, slicking between his fingers.
"You sure you don't want to fuck me?" she says, a whimper under the words, but one that never quite gets voiced. Exhales heavily as he presses the heel of his hand into her clit, rubbing her off as his fingers slide into her pussy. She's almost panting. "I love it when you fuck me."
Rafael"Course I want to fuck you."
Words are rough. And dirty. And come so close to the end of her question -- that panting, whimper-edged question -- that he almost cuts her off. Does cut her off: kisses her when she starts to speak again, eats those words. She has to try a second time to get it out:
she loves it when he fucks her.
He laughs. It's low, and blurred. "I know." That's confidence on the edge of cockiness; it's something he wouldn't have said, or had, late last fall. That first time, rough and needful. The many, many times after that, with all the fights in between, the two of them storming away from each other. Still somehow between those fights, and somehow between the two of them with their stunted ways of coping, dealing, interacting, they kindled something small and tender and soft.
It's there -- if a little hidden -- even now. When he kisses her. When he fucks her with his hand: that big, coarse, wellformed hand. His fingers sliding out of her again, slow, dragging, bringing that wetness back up. He nudges her knees farther apart with his own. His lower leg is bare, and his feet. She's bare almost all over. He starts working her clit in earnest, a quickening steady pressure, focused, singleminded.
"I'm gonna watch you come," he tells her. Murmurs it. "Then I'm going to fuck you and watch you come again."
DevonMouth opens when he kisses her, eating words out of her. She groans, and so it's a panting groan when she finally gets to tell him what she loves. But by that point she's starting to work herself off on his hand. And she thinks it's a yes, and is lifting up, trying to work her bikini bottoms all the way off. She doesn't even care if she seems overeager, if she seems like she can't help herself. She doesn't care to try and help herself; she wants to fuck. She wants to fuck outside in the garden, under a tree, on the grass. With her boyfriend. She loves it when he fucks her.
I know.
Devon just moans. That cockiness. That laughing arrogance. That reference, however gentle, to how much she wants it. How much she wants him. He feels it again: how fucking wet she is in response, how slippery his hand is getting. Hears it in her voice and sees it in the way she writhes, panting when he rubs her own slick all over her pussy, when he pushes her thighs apart. "Oh," she's saying, longing.
watch you come
fuck you
watch you come again
Her cunt pulls at his fingers, and her mouth tries to close, tries to get close enough that she can bite her lip, but she can't breathe, can't stop these high, gasping little pants for air. He knows how long it takes her to come when he's eating her out, and it takes forever, but this is different: she can feel his body. He can kiss her. And the things he says.
"I'm gonna come," she gasps, reaching up, clutching the edge of the blanket, the grass. "Oh, I'm gonna come,"
and it's right on the end of those words that she does. Comes, leaning her head back and moaning, loud and free and heedless, while that sweet, wet little pussy ripples around his fingers. He can feel every pulse of her orgasm as it goes through her, these little throbs of her clit, the aching clenches of her cunt. Devon bites her lower lip, finally, whimpering hard and helpless. Right after it peaks, she gasps again, crying out: "Oh god, oh god, oh god --" because she's fucking his hand, and it's hitting her again, no little aftershock but a whole other wave, this time deeper, flooding through her. Anything else she might say catches in her throat; it's all she can do to breathe.
When this one starts to let her down, she's shaking. Her thighs and belly tremble from involuntary muscle spasms. Her thighs and her belly are flushed pink, but so are her breasts. So are her cheeks. Her lips are livid, and not from being bitten. There's sweat on her skin. Her back is still arched for several seconds, like she has to consciously remember to relax it again. In short, her whole body is still telling him, even though she can't get the words out:
fuck me. fuck me.
RafaelAt least they have a tree.
At least that provides them some cover. Even if girl's gasping like that. Even if girl's declaring to the whole damn world that she's coming, she's coming, she's going to come. Even if girl lets out that moan, grabbing at blanket and grass and the very earth like maybe that'll keep her from just flying off into pieces.
There's no one to hear, though. No one looking. No one to see. At least: no one they know or care about. Neither of them is paying the slightest attention to the rest of the world now. It's just him, her, and that overwhelming tidal wave of an orgasm that takes hold of her. Breaks her into all these little, quivering pieces, and god he loves the look of her like that, eyes closed, lip caught in her teeth. He kisses her. Tries. Her mouth opens; she calls out to god, god, god, and
there it is again, hitting her, rolling over her, drenching through her and he can feel it on his hand, feel it in his fingers, feel it in her body arching so hard under him. Wolf bites her: not her shoulder but that arm she's flung up to grasp at ground, the slender tricep. Holds her in his teeth that way as he watches her, ravenous for the sight of it. Keeps right on rubbing her off, meeting her motion, amplifying it.
Until she's shaking. Until she's trembling all over. Leaf in the wind. He loves that flush to her face, upper chest. He loves her freckles, and what a stupid thing to think that is. She's still arched up when he gently, gently tapers off, except at the last second he can't help it; some devil in him makes him flick the pads of his fingers across her clit, knowing she can't take that right now, knowing it's too much.
Soothes her a moment later. Something like it anyway. Puts his mouth on her tits, sucks her nipples through her bikini. Undoes the fastenings of his shorts. Doesn't really push them down. Opens the fly and pulls his dick out through his underpants and of course he's hard, of course he's ready to go: who wouldn't be, watching her come like that. Her wetness on his cock: it turns him on, that little detail. He lets her breast out of his mouth, and this time he does bite her shoulder, grips it hard between his teeth as he shoves into her.
Growls. Because of course he does. Because she feels so fucking good; so hot, so tight, so off the charts. So wet. His hand finds hers, grips hers where she grips blanket-grass-ground. Their arms aligned, the length of his hard with muscle, flexed with tension. He fucks her, unequivocally, hard, fast; pushes those still-shaking thighs apart and hammers her against that summer-warm, fecund earth.
DevonBite marks on her arm, on her shoulder. Saliva on her bikini top where he tried to suck on her tits through the slinky fabric. He brushes his fingertips quick over her clit and she lets out something like a scream, truncated but rich. He's all over her while he's unfastening his shorts; she's wriggling out of her bikini bottoms the rest of the way, getting them off, off. He's going to fuck her. She's panting, overcome and overeager all at once, reaching for him even though she's still trembling. Doesn't have to urge him: he pushes her legs apart and fits his cock against her, fucks her.
"Oh," she groans, heavy and quick. Holds onto his arms, digs her nails in while he starts nailing her. One of his hands grabs hers, all but forces it down, holds it against the grass past the blanket, and her cunt responds before she can even make a sound: tightens around him. She thinks of sucking his cock, out of nowhere.
Well, not nowhere.
Now they're both... growling. Moaning. Devon keeps making these sounds, just as loud as before, and they're unmistakable: a girl getting fucked. A girl working up, rapidly, to another orgasm because she hasn't really completely come down from the one before it.
RafaelShe still sounds like a girl. He just sounds like the animal he is, snarling as he fucks. Because that much is unmistakable too: he is fucking. He is fucking the girl who is getting fucked, and making those sounds, and he is making those sounds, and they are just
scandalous. There in the backyard, in broad daylight, on a goddamn Friday afternoon. In summer. God, there could be kids. He deserves it, if the H.O.A. serves him with a stern letter. Or a fine. Or a court summons. He deserves it, and he'd blame it on her except the truth is he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
More, maybe.
His idea, after all, to begin with. Tossing that towel over her and then flopping down and telling her he wanted to put his hand between her legs and stroke her off. Just thought he'd be a little more subtle about it.
They're anything but subtle now. She's not even wearing her bikini bottom anymore; whatever difference that made. He's barechested and his shorts are sliding down his ass. Her legs are wrapped around him. He's nailing her to the ground, making her moan, making her scream.
Pulls her top off, when she really gets close. He can tell. He's not an idiot, and he's had enough practice to know. Read the sounds, see the signs. Pulls her top off and plays with her tits, leans back, flicks at her nipples with his tongue, laps at her breasts as they bounce. Skinny thing; such great tits. Ridiculous. He comes back to her, and he's still holding her hand in his, but the other hand wraps over her head, behind her head, he kisses her. Eats every sound out of her as he drives deep, grinds, and there's nothing subtle about that: he's trying to get her off. Again. Wants her to come with his cock buried deep in her; wants to feel that, the way she loses control, the way her cunt slips her conscious command and clenches at him with pure, biological greed.
Wants to see her shaking again. Wants to see her limp, lost, out of her mind with pleasure. That's a pure, biological greed too: a paradoxical one, to want her ecstasy so utterly that it all but eclipses his own.
DevonNot hard to imagine how this came to pass. Him coming in, walking back into the house after some errand, or waking up late and heading downstairs. Standing in some room drinking a glass of water already sweating from the ambient heat. Looking out a window and seeing her out there, half naked, drowsing in the shade. Not hard to imagine the first electric surges of lust going down his body, lighting up his skin, heating him up.
Not difficult to see how it came into his mind: the thought of fucking her out there. No, out in the open? Middle of the day? All right: getting her off with his hand. Watching her come. Telling her to be quiet. Getting a fucking towel to take outside with him so they'd have privacy, his mind already filled with imaginings of the sight of her face when she has an orgasm, the writhing of that scantily-clad body against his own. Of course he was imagining it. Fingers twitching already to touch her. Fuck her. Ears burning for the exact sounds she's making now.
For Devon it was just the sound of his voice when he told her to roll over. The intensity of his presence. The heat radiating off of him, seething in his words. She stirred, and she sensed it, and she wanted him to give it to her. Really fucking give it to her
like he is. Right now.
--
Her top gets pulled off, the knots not so tight that they don't slip easily undone; pulls that scrap off of her tits and starts licking at her, sucking on her nipples. Her breasts are bouncing as he thrusts, which he likes. Which, to tell the truth, she likes as well. Likes the way he likes it. Likes the feel of his chest on her own. Or his mouth, hot and wet and hungry. Just as she likes the way he gets her naked even when he never intended to. Just as she likes the fact that his clothes are barely on him now, too. Fucking hot body. She fucking loves it.
Mutters as such, running her free hand over him. Even slaps his ass when her hand wanders down that far, urging him on. Between her teeth: "Fuck me," like that is not exactly what he's doing. Like he's not doing it fast, ferociously, hard, just like she wants it right now. Like he isn't giving her everything she wants.
"Call me a slut," she pants, and she's so close. He kisses her, grinding his cock into her, and she moans, right on the edge of it all over again. "Call me your slut," she insists, all but crying it out, and then
crying out nothing at all, just noises, just fervent desire.
Rafael"What?"
So he still does that. She surprises him and he doesn't -- can't -- react fast enough in the heat of the moment. Brain barely works. Brain's a kettle of steam, might as well be; he's just muscles and nerves and bones, driven by touch and instinct. She says something that doesn't compute. He says: what?
So she says it again. Call me your slut. It's a little different this time; there's that word, your, and he does understand that. He bites her, fervently, channeling a sudden upwelling of lust into that bit of controlled violence. Violent, rough thing: sometimes he can't help it.
She's just making sounds by then. He grabs her breast; cups one of those sweet, bouncing tits in his hand. "Slut," he says. The word feels scandalous in his mouth. Shocking as the thought of fucking her out in the open daylight, and as arousing. He says it again,
"Slut."
There's a rhythm there; thrusts matched to words, fast, hard, grinding, deep. There are words coming out of his mouth, edges blurring together, he didn't even know he had it in him. "You're my slut. Look at you. You love it. You love getting fucked. You're my hot, slutty, wet little fuck.
"You're mine. I'm going to fuck that hot little pussy. I'm going to make you come again. I'm going to watch you come. I'm going to fuck you senseless and watch you come on my cock. My sweet, hot, little slut."
DevonHe never talks this much. He has never said this much to her when they're having sex. And suddenly it's a torrent of words, dredged up from some primitive part of his brain, spilling over her. Slut, he says, and it turns him on so much that it happens again. And again. Calls her filthy things, says things that border on degrading, drives the words into her as hard and fast as he fucks her with his cock. And he's barely gotten going when he feels her tipping over into orgasm again.
She was so close. Right when she was gasping at him, making her shocking little plea: right on the edge of it, quivering on the point. And then coming. Hard. He's snarling at her, that word: wet. She's coming apart, her mouth soundlessly open, her body trembling to pieces underneath him. She can't even think clear enough to tell him to please fuck her, fuck her harder, come in her pussy, fill her full of cum, but... the truth is, all those thoughts and more are running through her mind. Filthy, dirty things.
But she can't think. She's just trembling, all over, so overcome that it seems her body can barely handle it. None of the filthy things he's saying are untrue: she does love it. She is his. And she's hot, and she's wet, and look at her: he's making her come again. He's watching her come: senseless, sweet, and right on his cock.
RafaelWords start coming apart. She's falling to pieces
again
and his mind goes with her. All those things he's saying -- god, where did they even come from? -- start blurring together, words falling one into the other, she's trembling, she's clutching at him, she can't even make a sound anymore and he can't string words together either. Just syllables. Fragments of words that might be slut or fuck or come. Might not be. Might be nothing at all.
She goes off. He goes with her. There's no control left; he wraps her up in his arms and buries himself, deep, hard, rough. Roars to fill the space left by her sudden silence, and comes.
--
So she's shaking. So he's grinding into her. So she's overcome. So he's overcome too. So they move together like that, imperfectly, mindlessly. It's so hot he can barely breathe. The air, the afternoon, the girl, the fuck.
He can feel her heart beating against his chest. Fast, fast, fast as a hummingbird's wings. Now a sudden tenderness, which feels not unlike an ache. He was ungentle with her again. He said such terrible things.
Wolf keeps her close. Keeps his eyes closed. Lies there in the grass, half on the blanket, waits for his mind to recoalesce so he can speak again.
DevonPanting. God, it's so hard to breathe. The air is thick with heat and he's so heavy and her chest is tight from three orgasms with hardly a break in between for her to slow her heart rate. Thank god she's lying down; she's so dizzy. She closes her eyes, forces her mouth closed, breathes in deep and holds it for a moment before exhaling through her lips, trying to go slow. Does this consciously, with effort, because she's certain that if she doesn't get her lungs back under control she's going to pass out. She wishes they had a sprinkler. Or a bucket of water to douse them both. They're so sweaty.
Devon keeps her eyes closed. She stays where she is, unable to move, just focusing on her breathing. Focuses on her heart slowing down, on her body relaxing. She realizes that he has bitten her in a few places, and a couple of times very hard, and though they don't sting, she can still feel the imprint of his teeth. She realizes that her hips actually are a little sore. Her cunt feels achey and hot and tender.
"Oh," she murmurs out of nowhere, when she can again, sounding surprised: "I am tired."
RafaelHumor and ache pang through him together. Strange little duet, that. Wolf moves; shifts off her a little. Replaces the weight of his body with his hand: covering her breast. It's subconscious, the way he protects her nudity.
His eyes open. He looks at her. Hair sweat-stuck to her brow, her neck. Hot flush to her cheeks. Her breasts. Freckles, those freckles. Those blue eyes. That mouth.
Gruff: "You okay?"
DevonShe breathes weird, when he moves. That soreness in a spot that's so tender anyway, so overwhelmed now. His cock, sliding in her a little, and she trembles in a different way. Doesn't notice him trying to cover her up; just feels him touching her, holding her. Asks if she's okay.
Devon takes a breath. Inhales and her chest expands and she nods. "Yeah. Worn out." A moment passes, then: "A bit sore. But I don't mind it."
RafaelHasn't gone far. Rolled off her, but only to the side. Close enough to nuzzle her still, which he does: rubbing his lips, tip of his nose, on her shoulder. Comes back a little closer, half-covering her again.
"Was rough," he says; there's a touch of apology in it, but it too is gruff. "Take you inside. Have a shower and some lemonade. Soak up the A/C."
DevonAll this nuzzling, cuddling, covering her. Devon likes it. And she feels comforted. And she closes her eyes, still dazed. He says he was rough and they flutter open again, find his.
"It was good," she tells him, softly but clearly. "That was so good." Takes a short breath and exhales, like even thinking about it turns her on again. Which. It fucking. Does.
"Wouldn't want it like that all the time," she admits, though he already knows this is the truth. "But that was amazing, babe," she whispers. "I'd fuck you again right now if I could stand it."
RafaelSettles a little, somehow. Some faintly rattled nerve calms again. Corner of his mouth turns up a little. That hand on her breast -- it's still there -- moves; fingers straightening, flexing off her skin. He rubs his palm over her nipple thoughtfully. Cups her breast again.
"Yeah," wolf executes understatement of the year, "was pretty good." Follows it up with a crooked sort of smile.
Couple more beats of silence. So hot, even in the shade, but at least there's a gentle breeze now and again. At least it's dry now, the rains momentarily departed.
Then he inhales. Exhales. Something like the breath one takes on awakening. Wolf pushes up on an elbow; looks around the small yard. "C'mon," he urges again, gently and persistently. "Let's go in."
DevonWatches her as her eyes fall closed. Watches her as his hand moves over her breast, stroking her nipple, and feels her tightening up, wanting. She can't stand it. And she can't help it; her body starts melting again. His hand on her breast is meant now to be comforting, loving, but it's her breast after all. And it turns her on when he touches them.
Eyes snap open a moment alter. "Pretty good? You prick," she says, but she doesn't have much energy to put into the words. She actually does seem a little stung that he said that, strangely -- she just can't work up the energy to do anything about it.
Closes her eyes. Exhales. Stays where she is, while he persists in trying to get her to move. Her head waggles. "Can't walk."
RafaelCorner of his mouth curls, but he's repentant. Leans over her. Cups that breast of hers that he's so taken by; lifts it, puts his mouth on her nipple. Licks. Laps. Sucks ever so lightly.
"Was the best," he amends, softer. "Best so far."
Rubs his face gently against her breastbone. Then exhales, pushes his hands against the ground, gets up. Pulls his shorts up and straightens himself up. Zips, buttons. Fishes the towel off the ground, tosses that over her.
Spends a little time walking around, picking up the loose pieces: bikini top. Bikini bottom. Tequila. Was there a book too? There it is. It goes in his back pocket, stretching that compartment to its fullest. He's lazy to the marrow of his bones, replete with heat and fuckery of the highest caliber. Stands over her smirking.
"Gonna make me carry you?"
DevonDevon's head tips back. She can't breathe; his hand roams over her, and then his mouth descends and pleasures her, and she is so overcome, so overstimulated, that tears come to her eyes and well slightly past her soot-dark eyelashes. Her back hurts when it arches. Even the words he says, so tender, so comforting, drag her towards lust again. "I can't," she manages to breathe, not in answer but in plea: she can't take it. She can't stand any more.
Rafael departs, and she regains herself a little, but breathing is still labored, sweat is still pooling on her skin. She lies naked in the shade, a mess: her skin is still pink from exertion and arousal. Her chest still moves as she catches her breath. Her heart still hammers. Rafael, comparatively well-composed, zips his shorts. Covers her, and again she tosses it off, wanting the breeze. Sighs softly.
Opens her eyes slowly, watching him gather things up. Bits and pieces of her afternoon out here, and of that exuberant and decadent fuck. Watches his lazy limbs, the flex and shift of his muscles. Her cunt clenches, so she closes her eyes, and stops watching her half-naked boyfriend. Doesn't see him smirking down at her, which is good, because it was the cool that stung a moment earlier, and not the words themselves.
Is she gonna make him carry her.
Her freckled shoulders just shrug. "Can't walk," she repeats, and is unapologetic: she really doesn't think she can stand right now. Her thighs are still trembling.
RafaelMight pretend exasperation again. Doesn't though. Maybe because she's not really joking around. She looks so ... stripped bare, in every sense of the word. He remembers her heart beating so fast. He remembers the way she shook.
Shakes.
Exhales softly, then. It's not exasperation but tenderness. Wolf tosses that again-rejected towel over his shoulder. Bends down, almost splits his back pocket open against that book crammed in there. A bottle of tequila comes to a rest against her stomach: well, she has to help out at least a little. His strong arms slip under her knees, her back. "Put your arms around me," he says softly.
Lifts her when she does. Gravity loses its grip on her, or perhaps it's her that loses her grip on the earth. He has her securely, soundly against his chest. Doesn't need to heft her up, jostle her. That neighbor's window gets another glance. Then he walks across the small lawn with her, past that patch of sunlight, back into the shadow of the house.
Sliding door. Coolness inside. He swings through the kitchen where she can drop the bottle of tequila off on the counter; where she can grab a couple bottles of water out of the fridge. He's still carrying her, and seems all right with this. Carries her up the spiraling stairs, into his room. Still doesn't have much in the way of personal effects in here.
In the bathroom he sets her down -- right there on the edge of the tub. He tosses the towel in the hamper, book on the countertop. Bikini goes in the hamper too. Provided she took those bottles of water out of the fridge, he cracks one open now. Drinks, thirstily, before leaning over the tub and flipping the lever that plugs the drain. Cranking the faucets to open them up.
Wolf sits next to girl while the tub fills. He rehydrates quietly. Leans into her after a while, nudging his shoulder against hers without word, without explanation. Just for the sake of contact.
DevonSo Devon hugs the tequila. She drapes her arm over it and cradles it and slides her other arm around his neck, holding onto him as he lifts her up. Not effortlessly, but easily. She lets her head loll against his chest, sighing. They leave the blanket where it is for now, to be rained upon or collected by a servant, no matter. Devon closes her eyes again, her legs crossed at the ankle just a bit. Rafael glances at the window, and Devon doesn't.
They go inside. She sighs again, contentedly, as soon as they're enveloped in air conditioning. Her eyes flutter open and she smiles. Tequila goes on the counter. She laughs when he opens the fridge, nods at the water bottles, which she grabs one of. He grunts; she grabs a second. They feel good on her bare stomach, oddly: cold and wet. Like relief. She holds onto them, and holds onto him, and he continues carrying her.
He seems all right with this.
Already she's perking up again, no longer inundated with relentless heat. Down the short hallway, into his dim bedroom, cool and soft and dry. She sighs -- again! -- and sounds happy this time. Her breathing has become its own language, complicated and nuanced. But she is ready to be set down when he does. Slides off the edge of the tub and sits on the bath mat instead, leaning against the side of the aforementioned tub. Untwists her bottle finally and takes a very long drink.
He is doing the same. After he drops laundry in the hamper. Drinking, while he starts a bath. She wonders if she really wants a bath. He sits beside her, and she smiles at him. He leans against her and she leans back against him, the two of them pressing together idly. She's got some marks on her where he bit her, how hard he bit her. They're just pink. Nothing nasty. Nothing worrisome, unless he's feeling particularly worrisome already.
Breathes in deep. Exhales, takes another drink of clear, cold water. Rubs her face against his upper arm.
"Can we shower instead?" she asks, when she lays her head against him once more.
Rafael"What? Yeah." Wolf turns, cranks the faucets off. Pulls the plug to drain the tub. "Just thought you didn't want to stand."
Takes another swallow of water, then caps his bottle. Leans across her to set it on the counter before he stands, holding a hand out to her.
"C'mon."
DevonA huff of air through her nose and a grin; it's not quite laughter but it's happy. She slides both her arms, long and slender and smooth, around his middle. Kisses his chest, because it's closest. Buries her face there, smiling still.
"You'll hold me up," she says, at once cocky and presumptuous and tender and trusting.
They stand. And she seems to have regained her legs a bit; after all, this is the girl who can drink him under the table. She's tough. Most of the time. Gives herself a little wiggle, holding onto his forearm as she steps into the tub. They're turning on the water. They're turning on the elegant, rainfall-like showerhead. Devon is reaching for his face wash. Or soap. Maybe he doesn't use face wash. And her shoulderblades rest on his chest as she leans against him.
RafaelHe likes her skinny arms. He likes how narrow and long she is; graceful in this artless way. Liked it even when he didn't think he liked her very much. Has this memory of chasing her down in the midnight street when she'd walked out of his house, angry and hurt, skinny legs moving fast. He dropped his coat around her and she almost disappeared.
Gives the impression of always being balanced on her long legs, always being balanced on the edge of flight -- like a young deer, a cheetah, a waterbird. Maybe that's why the big boots, the shabby loose clothing that she somehow pulls off. Maybe all that keeps her grounded, a little. Weighed to the earth.
She wraps her arms around him, kisses him where she can reach him because why would it matter where? It's all him: solid and coarse and, with the summer, and especially in comparison to her, dark. He wraps a heavy, loose arm around her shoulders, casual but protective,
She gets up at last. He is chivalrous: he lets her hold onto his arm. She steps into shower stall and he takes a moment to get his shorts off, leaves it in a little heap on the mat. Follows her in. He does have facewash, and shampoo, and conditioner, and bodywash, and scrub, and all sorts of things the servants stock. They look new. He also has one of those absurd bottles of Nivea 3-in-1; a squeezable plastic bottle of soapy goo that was apparently suitable for hair, body, and shave. That's what he reaches for.
They share the shower amicably. He doesn't get too grabby. Focuses mostly on getting clean, scrubbing that all-in-one gel into his hair, onto his face, all over his body. Pulls the retractable showerhead off the wall to rinse -- to water pressure from above dropping only slightly when he turns it on. Blessings of the rich and powerful, and all. There's a sort of lockerroom efficiency about his self-maintenance routine, all blasting water and quick scrubbing and rough, doggish head-shaking. When he's done he slams the showerhead back into its holster and starts to get out.
Pauses. Maybe she still needs propping up. "Want me to stick around 'til you're done?"
DevonShe does not move nearly as quickly as he does. Watches him as she's washing her face. By the time she's done he's nearly soaped up completely. Silly thing, she thinks of him, all animal and rushed. He's so impatient. And then, sometimes, out of nowhere, he seems like he's in no hurry to get anywhere. She smiles as she stands under the spray again, suds rinsing from her face. She has so much more hair than he does. Takes longer to wash it, and rinse it out, and then to condition. He's getting out of the shower and she's still finger-combing conditioner through all that thick, dark mass.
However, she's standing find on her own. And smiling at him, shaking her head. "Order Thai?" she asks him, question and request. "We can watch All About Eve. Or Butch Cassidy." Smiles, reaching for body wash, pouring it into her palms. Starting to lather it over herself: breasts, belly, arms.
Then, as though forgetting she's all but sending him on errands to get food, says: "What made you come out like that, earlier?"
Rafael"You and your old movies," he says, fondly, and pushes the door open after all. Gets out. She can see him through the glass -- an outline, anyway, obscured by the frosting and the design. He gets a towel. He starts drying off.
Pauses at her question. Turns toward the shower.
"Saw you outside," wolf says. "Looked like you were asleep. Wanted to cover you up a little so you didn't wake up cold. Didn't know how hot it was 'til I got out there. And then I was thinking of fucking anyway, so."
DevonJust smiles at him. "You love it," she says to the closed door, raising her voice just enough so he can hear her over the water. She grins to herself, watching him as she washes herself.
His answer makes her laugh a little. "Thought you brought the towel out specifically to fuck me under it."
This, she almost sounds pleased with. But what follows sounds gentler, and careful: probing, but not wanting to offend him, and not really being sure how to avoid it. That hesitant way they talk to each other sometimes: "Never would have thought you were so protective," she says. "You know. When all this started. But you are, aren't you?"
RafaelThere's a silence outside.
Then the wolf comes back. Pulls the door open, tosses the towel aside, steps in. Wants to see her. Wants to look her in the eye when they talk about things like this.
Looks at her, all right. Let's be honest: looks at more than just her eyes. There are soap-suds sliding down her body. His hand grazes her waist; backs of his fingers sweep up the slope of her ribcage. He pulls away just before he starts fondling her tits again.
Sits, instead, on the little ledge where his toiletries go. Shower stall's a fancy thing, all sheets of solid rock. Some of the spray catches his toes and his lower legs; he doesn't mind. It's warm in here, steaming.
"Don't really think of myself like that either," he says. Leans against the shower wall. Shrugs. "But this all started 'cause you buttdialed me and I ran back. Guess that says something."
DevonSpray touches his chest. And his cock. She looks at him, looks down and up again, like she didn't just see him naked thirty seconds ago. Like they weren't fucking fifteen minutes ago. So at first she doesn't even notice that he's looking at her, too. Watching soap running down her stomach, or her thighs. Water dripping off her breasts. She notices he's looking at her a moment before he touches her, and by then she's moving toward him, stepping closer even though she's still soapy, there's conditioner in her hair.
Breathes in as he stops, and sits down on a ledge in the shower. Her mouth quirks in a half-smile. Bites her lower lip and goes back to rinsing off. Tips her head back to rinse her hair, too.
He reminds her of how this all started. She could argue that it started because he wanted to fuck her, but that's how they met. It's not how this, what this is between them, really began. He's right: her phone called the last number she'd dialed, and it rang him, and that's why she didn't die. It's a chilling thing to remember. Devon isn't smiling anymore as she rinses her hair out. Not scowling, not trembling, just not smiling. Seems thoughtful.
"Really glad you did," she says finally, more quietly.
RafaelWhich makes him uncomfortable. More so than confronting the specter of his own protectiveness, and everything that implies. You only protect what is yours, after all. And what you care for. And what you can't stand to lose.
"Really glad you buttdialed," he says, and he's not trying to be funny. Grave, if anything. "Would've ... sucked otherwise. Wouldn't have even known what happened. Probably would've just thought we went our separate ways and lived our separate lives, just never saw each other again."
Chilling thing to remember. Chilling thing to think about. Wolf leaves off, frowning. Looks down at his hands for a moment, which are fidgeting absently. Then with little explanation he reaches out after all. Puts his hands on her waist, wraps his arms around her. Pulls her over until he can embrace her, burying his face against her body.
Devon"My mom's human," she says, looking at the ceiling of the shower. He knows this, she thinks, but he might have forgotten. "I just... think about how long it would have taken for her to find out. And how... like... what would have been left of me."
Devon's curling in on herself, vocally. He can hear it, even if she isn't shrinking physically in front of him. Without preamble, she steps over to him and essentially climbs onto his lap, wrapping her arms around him, burying her face against his neck and shoulder. And he's pulling her close at the same time, holding her, and she's trying to mutter an apology, how she didn't mean to bring this up, but it's deflection.
It's just scary to think about. It's the worst thing she can imagine. And it almost happened.
RafaelWolf's arms tighten at the very thought. Those awful words: what would have been left of me. She climbs into his lap and they fit together immediately, naturally; heads tucking together, arms winding.
"I love you," he mutters. Might be the first time he's ever volunteered that. "I'd die before I let anything happen to you."
DevonFor the first time in the last hour or so -- or the last week, or month, or since that weird breakup they had -- Devon touches her skin to his and she doesn't feel overpowering, bone-shaking lust. She just wants to be held, and is held, and wants to hold onto him. Not hold onto something, anything solid: she wants Rafael. She wants his particular warmth, the specific rhythm of his heartbeat. Wants to know that it's him holding her.
They fold together, tucking their faces to one another's flesh as though this would protect them. And Devon flinches when he says what he says, answering almost inanely: "I don't want you to die."
Not inanely at all.
RafaelWolf's hand presses against her back. Pulls her closer, closer. Can barely hear him above the sound of water: "I know."
DevonShe breathes in deep. The water falls over her back, and conditioner still rinsing from her long hair makes her back slick. She says nothing. She just holds onto him, wrapped in him and around him for the sake of deep, elemental comfort.
"I love you," she whispers. It's true: he seldom volunteers it. Hard enough for him to say it back when she says it. This afternoon, he said it to her first. Part of a promise. He'd die first. And this chills her and this hurts her and it also rather effectively makes her stop thinking about her own potential death,
though it's only because she's thinking of his potential death.
"I've never felt like this about anyone before," she also admits. It doesn't need an answer. She just kisses him where her mouth falls, the slope of one muscle into another. Lifts her head and looks at him instead. Finds his eyes and holds them for a moment, longer than it should be. Sighs, and leans into him, and kisses him. Her soft mouth against his sly one, her love translated somehow into the gesture.
RafaelIf he were more insecure, or perhaps just more stupid, maybe he'd wonder what she was in this for. This is the wolf who said once that most people are trying to take something from you. Maybe he'd think she was in it for his money, his privilege, all the perks of fucking a consummately rich man. Or maybe, more painfully, he'd think she was in it because she thought she owed him something. Her love in exchange for her life.
He doesn't think any of that, though. Never has. And maybe it's not even confidence or intelligence, but simple, animal intuition. He sees the look in her eyes. He feels the way she responds to him.
Feels how she holds on to him now, too. Feels the meaning in that soft, soft kiss -- which he closes his eyes for. Which he accepts, gently, his lips ever so slightly parting for hers.
When it ends he raises a hand to her face. Touches her in soft, curious little pats: pads of his fingers and thumb mapping out the shape of her chin, cheek, tip of her nose. His knuckles brush those freckles. Fingers thread into her wet hair as he kisses her again.
DevonThat kiss goes on. The way he touches her; the way she touches his scalp, strokes him. Pets him, in a way. And kisses him soft, because this comforts her, and she thinks it comforts him. He's so beautiful; he's so large, so very strong. Even his smirks fill her with desire. It wasn't always so; she didn't really like him for a long time. If she looks back, she only sees an up and a down and an up and a down and on and on and she's not sure when it all began to matter so much to her.
But it does matter. A lot.
She has to take a deep breath when she parts from him, opens her eyes, looks at him. Her hands are on his face. She almost smiles, but her expression is more one of gentle ache.
"Let's finish up and go downstairs," she murmurs. "Order food. Watch movies. I like doing that with you a lot."
RafaelThey touch each other so gently through that kiss: as though they were precious to each other. They are. When she draws back, his eyes open. Then hers. Her hands are on his face still, and his on hers.
He turns his face to that hand. Kisses her palm. Then he wraps his arms around her; lifts her as he stands. Sets her back down, toes touching the gently textured floor. Water runs over them both. Rinses him clean in seconds; he just had a little conditioner on his hands, after all.
"I know," he says; a second time. Kinder, gentler, less painful knowledge this time. Enough that he can quirk a bit of a smile. His hand comes to her face again, large and rough. He looks at her a moment: just looks. Then his hand falls away and he pushes the stall door open to step out.
"Thai, right?"
DevonSomething about the way he holds her on his body as he rises reminds her of that time, soon after the first time they fucked -- both of them uncertain if it would be a one-time thing or if they would repeat themselves -- when she greeted his return to the house by running at him and jumping onto him. She remembers her almost blatant request for sex. She remembers how badly she wanted him, how much she'd been thinking about him, about doing it with him again. She remembers the sting of shame when it felt like all that was out there now, revealed, and he pushed her away. It doesn't hurt anymore; she just recalls it.
Thoughts and memories flitting through her mind. Maybe that -- or this most recent conversation -- is why she holds on a little tighter for a second when it seems he's about to put her down. He could have just slid her off his lap and then stood up, but he didn't. He wrapped her in his arms, like he wanted to make sure his own footing was stable before he let her stand again, and after that initial flex of muscle in her body to hold herself to him, Devon slides away, sets her toes down in the water, on the floor. Stands, looking up at him as water rinses her further.
Smiles. Is smiling, when he touches her face, looks at her, those glittering eyes softened by the expression. Is looking at him too, but in a way, just watching him look at her. Still smiling as he steps out. She has more to rinse off. "Kang keow waan with shrimp," she says, which is only one of her usual orders. Reaches up, scritching her scalp to lift her hair, letting more water in. "I'll be out soon."
Rafael"All right."
The door shuts. Again, through the frosted glass, she can see him toweling off; draping that damp terrycloth around his neck as he pads into his closet. Comes out a couple seconds later, stepping into a fresh pair of shorts.
Bedroom door opens and shuts. Muffled footsteps going down the stairs. She can't hear him placing the phone call, but when she comes out later he's in his favorite recliner, tipped back, leaning back, flipping idly through the channels.
Looks up when he sees her. Holds his arm out to her wordlessly. There's room in the recliner for her. Not much, but it's there: right up against his side, bare skin dry already in the gloriously air-conditioned room.
"Twenty minutes or so," he says.
DevonDevon takes longer. Rinses off, then gets out. Dries off. Combs her hair. Puts some stuff in it from one of her bottles that she has happened to leave in his medicine cabinet -- stuff that makes her smell nice, stuff that keeps her hair from frizzing, stuff that softens it. Leaves it to air dry in its waves and idle, loose curls. She puts on eyeliner in his mirror, because she also has eyeliner in his medicine cabinet that just appeared one day. Lotions and moisturizers and so forth.
She puts on underwear, bra. Wiggles into a romper with a delicate floral pattern and heads downstairs, her hair still wet but being twisted, bound up over her head. It's cool and dry inside, but she knows she's going to be snuggling. She knows he's a blast furnace. Comes down the stairs and into the living room, climbing over the arm of the recliner and right in with him, against his side, draping her legs alongside his, draping her arm over his bare midsection, laying her head on his heavy shoulder.
Lust sighs through her again, same as it did when he picked her up in the shower. She's not kidding when she tells him she always wants him. But she doesn't slip her hand under his shorts, or cover his nipple with her mouth, or climb on top of him. She snuggles in closer, smiling.
"I decided," she says. "Butch and Sundance."
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