stop being mad.

Rafael

Denver is sizzlingly hot again: ninety-some-odd degrees, dry as a bone. Customers in flip-flops and sleeveless shirts want to sit outside, but once there they stay out of the sun. Sip at tall sweating glasses of iced this, iced that. It keeps the wait staff busy, bustling between the cozy speakeasy-esque basement, the airy ground floor and the crowded, sunny patio.

Hard to say when it is the wolf shows up, but little by little his presence empties out the patio. Someone takes his order. Passes girl on the way in, mentions it --

your friend's here.

And so he is. Sitting outside, sunglasses on, even the short sleeves of his t-shirt rolled up. Blue jeans that look too thick for the weather. He just has a glass of ice water right now. He ordered a small sandwich.

Looks up when girl heads over. Maybe she brings him his order. Maybe she just gives him a muffin.

"Gonna go up to the mountains tonight," he says. "Too damn hot down here. Wanna come?"

Devon

Downstairs when he shows up, clearing off some tables in the green basement, the loud one with no couches in it. She is coming up the stairs in front of the galley when her coworker calls over to her: her friend's here. Devon just nods and puts dishes in the bin, carries the now-full bin back to the dishwasher. She's getting stronger, all this lifting and hefting and carrying and moving furniture when necessary.

Comes outside wearing one of her lazy dresses, maybe a new one though. He doesn't recognize it. Black boots and thick socks, but the dress is short (in front) and sleeveless. Her hair is piled up the way she's taken to this summer, a bun that starts out rather tidy but frays loose as the day goes on.

She's carrying his sandwich. Sets it down before him, thinking he looks good in that shirt with the sleeves rolled up, sweating, his sunglasses. She always thinks he looks good, though. Bumps her hip against his bicep, which very nearly is her cunt bumping against him.

"Sure," she says. "Have to be back in a couple days though. Shifts." Glances inward, then back at him. "I'll see if I can trade with someone for one of them. When do you want to leave?"

Rafael

Makes him feel a little weird when she brings him his order. Different from when she brings him a muffin; that's a gift. This is ... service.

So he gets up. She hip-bumps him and he gets up, sliding an arm around her waist, kissing her. Probably a bit unprofessional for her to be seen doing that but then: this is hardly the FBI. Wolf sits back down, holding his glass of water out to her in case she wants a drink.

"Whenever you're done here," he says. "We can stop off so you can get your things. Maybe get Franklin to drive."

Devon

Startles her, him rising. Steps back so his chair doesn't eat her foot. Has his arm around her waist then and is tipping back slightly as he leans down to kiss her. At first she doesn't seem to know what to do with her arms; he is kissing her at work, after all. She breathes in, kisses him back, rests her hands on his arms. And he relents, and sits again, and offers her his water.

To which she smiles, but declines. "All right," she says. "I'm off in two hours."

Leans over him, hand on his shoulder, and kisses his cheek. "The basement is empty right now," she says, "and it's cooler down there. If you want to hang out. There's books."

Rafael

They're so fucking awkward sometimes. Never felt this way before, she said, and he didn't say the same back but surely she can guess it. He's so bad at this sometimes. That out-of-nowhere kiss. And then he just sits his grumpy, growly self down again. Gives her water.

What the fuck.

He's lucky she gets it. Or at least, doesn't mind. She smiles; tells him she'll be done in two hours. Tells him where to find shade, shelter, books. He looks at his sandwich. "Okay," he says, and gets up. This time he carries his own food and water.

"Hey," when she starts turning away to go back to work. He's looking at her, standing half in sun and half in shade. Her rich brute of a boyfriend. "Like your legs in that skirt."

Devon

Other people hear him. And saw him kiss her, or else they might wonder. Someone behind Rafael's back rolls their eyes, but Devon ignores it. She just is looking at him over her shoulder, paused in the doorway, and smiles that smile of hers, twisting enigma that it is.

Doesn't say it, but it's obvious enough in her glance: she knows. He likes her in everything.

--

She slips inside, and into the back to talk to Gretchen about taking a shift later this week, after Devon's ostensible 'weekend'. They get out phones and double check so that Devon can take one of Gretchen's shift later. By the end of the hour she's gotten it done, and by the end of her shift she's gotten it cleared. The cafe is still open, it's still daylight and they're just starting bar service, when she tromps downstairs -- having only permitted herself one other check-in with her boyfriend in the last two hours.

Heads across to him and drops herself in his lap, straddling him but not up close, not grinding-close, just hopping on his lap like she belongs there.

"I say you take me back to my place so I can shower and pack, and while I'm doing that, you get me something to eat in the car on the way up."

Rafael

In that one check-in, he's lounging on one of those big couches with his feet up. Pretty much has the basement to himself. Sometimes people sit for a while. Always they leave. It's not even just his rage. It's the way he's spread himself out, taking ownership of that couch, that space, that room.

By the time she goes to find him, he's laid out lengthwise. He's reading a book he found on the shelves: it's a history of Denver. He looks bored, half-asleep. Looks over the book at her and his eyes

let's just admit it

light up. She hops aboard. He puts the book aside, wears that smile lazily. "Hey." His hand drops atop her thigh. She has suggestions. He listens. "Okay." Gives the outside of her thigh a couple taps. "Come on."

Follows her up those stairs, which are so narrow they go single-file. At the top he catches up, slings his arm around her shoulders. She bids goodbye to her coworkers. He glances at them, perfunctorily curious. Doesn't pretend to know them well enough to say hello, goodbye.

Turns out he drove himself here. Or rode. Too hot for a motorcycle jacket, but it does explain the thick pants. He hands her the helmet as he climbs aboard. It's a short ride to her place.

Devon

At first, she seems like she's going to make him carry her again: koalas her arms and legs around him as he rises, grinning. But as soon as he stands up she hops down, and shoulders the bag she brought with her, and they head upstairs. Head outside. Devon puts on sunglasses she has in her bag, and Rafael digs out the helmet they've gotten for her: smaller than his, black, copter style, with a number of arcane symbols drawn on it in white paint. Drawn on by Devon, of course. Who was blessing it, or invoking, or something.

She slips her backpack the rest of the way over her shoulders, takes her hair down, snaps on her helmet, and knocks her fist on the side of it, a silly little habit of hers that has become almost a ritual. And so she hops on behind him, loops her arms tight around him, and whoosh.

--

Devon kisses him at the loft, unhooking her helmet. "You know those salads at Target with the berries and chicken? One of those and those green and black giant cans of iced tea would be perfect." Kisses him again and runs up. She wants to shower the smell of coffee off her body, and she wants to get to the mountains, so she runs.

--

When he gets back with her salad and comes up she's wet-haired, but at least she's not in a towel. She's dressed differently, too, but the dress is a similar style -- slightly tighter cut, slightly shorter up front, all black this time, burned-out designs that seem varying shades of gray across the whole thing. Wears those over-the-knee black socks she's so fond of with her boots this time. Has stacks of bracelets, her usual blue and black and small-hoop earrings in the multitude of holes in her earlobes. Has her backpack, stuffed. And then a shoulder bag, less stuffed.

Devon grins when she sees him, and her food. Maybe he swung by his place to switch the bike for the car. Maybe she shoves the salad and giant can of iced tea in her backpack and hops on the bike with him again. Either way, they end up in the back seat of his car. His fancy fucking car. With Devon leaning against him, long legs stretched out over the bench, feet on the other door's armrest. It's a long, long drive to the mountains; she plugs in her phone to the sound system and starts playing The Love Club as she tucks into her chicken and strawberry and blueberry salad, her boyfriend

her very big, brawny, warm boyfriend

at her back.

Rafael

Chicken salad from Target. And a big can of iced tea. Might be he gets the brand she wants; might be he just grabs whatever he sees because he's not quite sure what she means. Either way he gets something for himself too: several slices of pizza and a large drink from one of those attached Pizza Huts.

Switches the bike for the car. Comes back to her place in his chauffeured fucking limousine: that extended-cabin Cadillac with its piano-black finish. Franklin's up front. Divider is up. Wolf leans against the rear quarterpanel as he waits, slurping coke and digging into his first slice of pizza. When she comes thumping down in her boots, her over-the-knee socks, her dress that flashes her knees, he eyes her unabashedly. Pulls the door open for her and crowds in after her, picking her food up from where he left it to hand it to her.

They pull away from the curb. It's a little past rush hour and the roads are clear. Mid-week; not a lot of other people driving up to the mountains. Evening stretches long and late, and there's plenty of light outside as they get underway.

Girl plays her music. Eats her salad. Wolf ... wolfs down his pizza, offering her a slice if she wants it. He's got plenty.

--

When he's done eating, he gets sleepy. Maybe it's the falling dark. Maybe it's the gentle motion of the car. Maybe it's being full, maybe it's girl leaning against his side. He has an arm around her, only the way she sits his arm is sort of draped across her middle. He yawns a couple times; asks her to turn the music down just a little. Leans his head back and sleeps, comfortable and relaxed.

Full dark when he wakes, and by then they're getting close. Left the freeway long ago. Leaving even the larger mountain roads now; winding into the wilderness. Snowmass Village is a bright glow nestled in the peaks: all chalet-style hotels and sculpted ski slopes. There's a bar there where they met up after breaking up; made up. Made love.

That's not where they go, though. The road sweeps away, higher, deeper, darker. Moon's getting close to full and the landscape is lit by its glow, dim and blue. That icy lake -- his icy lake, one supposes -- glitters by its light. It's been weeks, maybe months, since he's been up this way. The manor is lit, though -- not extravagantly, not brightly, but lit. Alive. He has a staff here. They live here, work here, exist here. Might have for generations. Silver Fangs: they're nothing if not throwbacks to an earlier, feudalistic time.

It's an hour or two before midnight when Franklin pulls to a stop in the circle drive before the house. The front door opens. There's his young valet -- we'll call him Gerard -- stepping out to greet his master. His master's mistress. Girl doesn't have much in the way of luggage, but Gerard shoulders it anyway unless expressly told otherwise. Wolf rises out of the car and stretches, flashing incisors, huffing a yawn. Pleasantly cool up here. Still gets almost cold in the dead of night, so thin is the atmosphere.

His arm falls across girl's shoulders again. He heads for the door.

Devon

After her salad, Devon is snuggly. She twists around and all but climbs into Rafael's lap, head on his shoulder, legs over his thighs, his arm around her. She doesn't completely finish her tea, sitting in its giant can in the holder. She fiddles with her phone and shows him some video she found off of Twitter.

But it's a long drive. And eventually they both nap, the music turned low or off, their bodies contorted in the back seat to try and stretch out and cuddle and curl up all at once. Devon wakes up because she has to pee and gets Franklin to pull off to a gas station; Rafael wakes up in the car, stopped and alone, Devon gone, and... reacts however he reacts to that, until it's clear what's going on.

She gets back in the car and shows him an Instagram of a sign she saw inside. And then she makes him get into a selfie with her so she can post it. And then she turns her music back up, and then she is wired and restless and fifteen minutes later, she is napping against his shoulder again.

--

They drive, and they drive, and Devon wakes up and is quiet again, settled, food in her belly and rest under her eyes and holding his hand where his arm encircles her middle. She doesn't talk, and he doesn't talk, and this is more familiar and normal to both of them than Devon sharing stuff on her phone or feeling chatty.

The fact that she ever gets chatty with him, shares things that could be private, is an indication that she feels less shy of him than she once did.

That's what it was, among other things: just shyness.

They come toward an icy lake; his icy lake. His estate. His land. His mansion. Franklin pulls the limousine to a sliding stop in front of that mansion, its warm lights on inside. And they get out. Gerard is there like he always was, which can't be the case, plucking Devon's backpack as well as whatever luggage Rafael may have, though it's not as likely he has any -- this is only one of his homes. Devon looks startled, but doesn't stop him. She just holds tight to the strap of her shoulderbag across her chest.

Rafael brings his arm down over her, around her. And neatly she slips out from under it, and takes his hand instead, lacing their fingers together.

"Weird that there are always people here," she comments, as they walk towards the house she hasn't been to since before Thanksgiving. She does remember almost losing it in the hallway here, upset and uncertain, and the way the doors rattled. He knows why now; she told him I can move things without touching them. And sometimes it's: things move when I'm upset. things move when I'm angry. I can't always control it.

She tucks herself close to him, linked arms between their bodies, as they head inside. "You're almost never here. Do they just live here all the time?"

Rafael

Never would have thought of her as shy. Girl in her holy sweaters and walk-all-over-you boots. Girl taking drags off cheap cigarettes in some dank alleyway. Girl having shouting matches with him upstairs, downstairs, outside, inside.

She is though. Or at least: there was shyness in her. Just like there's protectiveness in him. Which might be why he keeps dropping his arm around her, though he's okay with it when she dodges it, takes his hand instead.

"Think so," he says. "My mother and her people used to have all their servants living in their houses with them. Most important ones came with, but rest lived wherever they were hired for. Whole families living their whole lives there, kids growing up to take over for their parents, like in olden times.

"My mother just had the two houses. One staff for each. But then I fired all the assholes and moved the rest here. So now people just live here. I don't know, maybe they still have their own places outside. But they have quarters here too, might as well. Franklin follows me to Denver. Sometimes Gerard. And Cassidy keeps the place in Denver clean."

Pause. They're inside now, Gerard patiently waiting to see where Devon's bag should go.

"It's fucking feudal, I know," -- wry. "We're Silver Fangs." And to Gerard: "Just put it in my room."

Devon

"Cushy gig," is her comment, when it comes to servants living -- sometimes for months -- in a place like this, without anyone to answer to but each other. It's not a cushy gig, and something about her tone implies that she knows this. She remembers people always assuming her mother couldn't speak English, assuming her mother was a cleaning lady, and treating her accordingly -- as though service implies lower standards, lower worth. She's aware. Ask her why she didn't finish college, or both going more than 'some', or why she's had few regular jobs, or why the only place she's willing to work only gives her a smattering of hours every week anyway, while she makes up the rest with other talents.

"That's what's weird about it," she tells him, when he comments that it's fucking feudal. Looks over at Gerard, who is giving one of his snappy nods and walking away, while someone else is coming to the door, opening it to let them in. Devon still thinks it's weird, but she tries not to sound judgemental. She knows -- she's always known, even though they don't really talk about it -- how uncomfortable he is with all this.

"You want to swim later?" she asks, looking up at him. "I brought a couple of suits."

Rafael

She doesn't want it to, and he doesn't want it to, but -- it does sting, when she calls it weird. When her tone implies what she thinks of it all. She tries not to sound judgmental, but it's a fine difference, and wolf's ears might not be that keen. He grimaces.

"Think I should fire them all?" He tries not to sound defensive. Might not have succeeded there, either. "Sell the house?"

Devon

Pauses at that. Looks at him, her head slightly back, her brow wrinkling, her mouth perturbed and uncertain. Doesn't say anything for a moment, but her frown deepens over a couple of seconds.

"Do you want to?" she pushes back.

Rafael

By then his brow has wrinkled too. He frowns. Thinks. Shakes his head a couple times, tersely.

"I like it here," he says. "Don't you?"

Devon

Devon's frown eases, but does not vanish. "Only been here once," she reminds him. "Didn't go that great, but I don't... not like it here. I'm here, aren't I?"

Frown deepens again, curious and wary. "What's me liking it got to do with thinking it's odd?"

Rafael

He's been taking her up the stairs, down the hall. Master suite -- and it truly is a suite of rooms -- is on the southeast corner of the building. Overlooks the lake in all its grandeur. They're halfway there and he stops, turns to face her. Frowning, uncomfortable in his skin.

"Made me feel bad just now," he says -- words squeezed out. "Like I'm some sort of evil landlord. Never asked for any of this. Wasn't even a little bit comfortable with it 'til you came along, made me feel like it wasn't so bad that all this is mine."

Devon

This does not unwrinkle Devon's brow. She's been strolling along with him, holding onto her shoulderbag and holding his hand, until they're pausing in the hallway, frowning at each other. He forces words from his mouth. Has to descend to get at them, work to chip them from inner stones, struggle to haul them back out again, set his jaw to offer them to her before he's had a chance to clean them off, polish them. If he even were to know how to do that.

"Who said you're an evil landlord," she says, like a protest, interjected in between his words. Shuts her mouth because he's still trying to talk.

Devon shakes her head. "Didn't say it was bad," she says, a touch defensively. Because they are both of them often, easily, defensive. Grumbling about it. "Just said it was weird. Thought you thought it was weird, too." Still frowning. Still discomfited: "Didn't mean to make you feel bad."

Rafael

She's right. It's a mining operation over here. Descending into the depths, dredging thoughts up from the muck, forcing them into the shape of words coming out of him as inelegant as rocks. She watches him go through it again: frowning, trying hard.

Still holding her hand. There's that.

"Not what I grew up used to," he says at last. "But guess I'm getting used to it now. Not so ... 'weird' anymore. Just different." His eyes meet hers. "Don't want it to turn into something that gets between us. Like we're from different worlds or something. We're not."

Devon

"Yeah we are," Devon says, not unkindly. Maybe even gently. Because softer, if a little insistent: "We are." She shrugs those slender shoulders underneath that loose, hanging dress. "I just don't care."

Rafael

To that, wolf just gives her an angry, exasperated look. Drops her hand and -- yes -- walks away.

Starts to anyway. Stops three steps later. Exhales, turns back.

"Not gonna just stomp off," he says -- there's a touch of self-deprecation. "Gonna ask you why the hell you think that."

Devon

Devon is stunned. And half a second after she is stunned that he just dropped her hand and walked away, she is furious. When he turns around, three steps later, her eyes are all but on fire. There is bright color high on her freckled cheeks. And the hand he dropped is in a tight little fist at her side, like it flinched, curled in on itself to protect a raw spot.

For a moment she just stares at him, looking sharp and drawn like that. "Why the hell do you think we aren't? And why's it so important that we're not?"

Rafael

"I don't want it to be," he fumbles for a word, ends up with the same ones he's already said, "something that gets between us."

Couple seconds go by. He finds a few more:

"Don't know anyone else like me. Except maybe you."

Devon

"Well..." she says, and her brow is still furrowed, but that flash of hot, livid anger is diminishing, "it's not. For me. I don't love you because you're the same as me." Her forehead flinches. "Don't want to have to be like you for you to love me."

Her voice has fallen in volume the last few sentences. Almost hard to hear her by the end. She crosses her arms almost defiantly over her chest, arms a bit too tight.

Rafael

Wolf's frustration is visible. What might not be so evident is the source; the target: it's not her at all. It's himself, that clumsy tongue, those impossible words. In unconscious mirror, his arms fold across his chest too. He wonders how they got here again: fighting in this goddamn house. Maybe it's cursed. Maybe he should sell it.

"Don't need you to be like me," he says. "It's not that. I'm not saying it right. Just mean I don't wanna feel separate from you. Different. Weird. Want you to see we've got common ground so we're not always ... fuck, misunderstanding each other like this."

Devon

In a hallway in the mountains, far from even the closest town, well into the evening, a wolf's frustration doesn't need a target to be threatening. He doesn't need to be angry at her, or frustrated with her, for her spine to be growing more rigid by the moment. His rage is a powderkeg between them; every argument has the potential to turn into an eruption, and not just because he might snap. Her wariness of him grows, and makes her tense, defensive, more likely to withdraw.

Devon does recognize this about him though, now: he says I'm not saying it right. It sets something alight in her, a match scraped across her shoe to reveal what's really making all that noise in the dark. She sees him more clearly, and hears him better. She can imagine him twisting his head, tense and trying to work it out, shaking his head like an animal. Wasn't always so, that these words meant much of anything to her. Now they signal something: he's not coming at her.

Her brow stays all wrinkled and frowny. "Babe," she says, her arms unfolding, falling at her sides, "I don't feel separate from you. Or like you're different, or you're weird. You being rich or poor or a Silver Fang or a Garou doesn't change anything about how I feel for you. We're different, and come from different worlds. I just don't really care."

She holds out her hand toward him. Not frowning now so much as looking a bit sad, a bit hopeful. Her palm is up, like she's offering to let a dog sniff at her, or come to rest its jowls in her hand, or like she's beckoning him to come back. Mostly that last one. "Come on," she says, imploring. "Stop being mad."

Rafael

Improbably, her little plea - don't be mad - makes one corner of his mouth go ruefully up. He looks at her hand. He doesn't take it - just walks forward into it. Until her fingers graze his shirt, touch down on his chest. Until her palm is pressed to his body.

Wraps his arm around her, then. Dips his nose into her thick hair, inhaling. So many months and he still hasn't stopped trying to catch her scent.

"Not mad," he says, trying to comfort. "I'll stop being mad."

Devon

Like an animal, she thinks. Though really: she's picturing a canine. She's picturing him as a wolf, even though literally the only time he's ever shifted to that shape in front of her was to prank her, and she fell into a tub and she was furious and fed up with him and had a bruised hip because of it. She knows what he looks like, vaguely, when he's in that shape. Sees a flicker of it when he walks forward, right into her hand, and the idea of her palm pressing on his chest makes her think of pushing him away, which she doesn't want. So her hand turns, and her arm wraps around his waist.

Rafael bends over her, wraps around her, sniffs at her though and smells conditioner, botanicals, all her little additions. He's not mad. He'll stop being mad. Devon tucks under him naturally, easily, and smiles a little. Her fingernails scritch at his back where she holds him, her face against his chest now.

"So do you want to swim or not?"

Rafael

The gap closes. The schism heals -- physically, emotionally. They fit together.

"Yeah," he says after a while. "I think there's a rowboat too."

Devon

Devon huffs a laugh, lifting her head from his chest and leaning back to look up at him. "Meant the pool. Lake's got to be freezing."

Rafael

"Oh." Wolf feels stupid. Beat or two go by. "Forgot I had a pool. You wanna go swim now, or what?"

Devon

Devon just grins at him. She can't see that he felt stupid. She just laughs: he forgot that he had a pool. She wonders what else he has here that he's forgotten. A stray memory comes to her: him telling her everything up here. How he could snowmobile. How she could throw her own gala if she wanted to. Bragging, in a way, showing off his mountain estate to impress her, to draw her in, to show her -- in his odd way, in his wolfman way -- that anything she could ever need, he could provide for her. He could keep her warm, and safe, and fed, and -- perhaps -- even happy. She remembers this, and adores him suddenly, a rush of warmth for him flooding through her.

So she squeezes him. Tight and quick, and holds on. She grins up at him, her big toothy smile that is somehow as enigmatic as her wry little twists.

"Sure," she says. "Wanna play with you." Sounds like she means that: play. Dive and splash. Nuzzles his chest, though, her smile fading to something smaller, quieter, more private. "Lake'll be warm tomorrow when the sun's out again. We should go swimming in the lake, too."

Rafael

Girl doesn't know he felt stupid. Wolf doesn't know she feels so tenderly toward him -- or at least, doesn't know why. Doesn't know she remembers how he showed off just a little bit, in that gruff, awkward way. Bragged a little bit. Tried to show her,

gruff and awkward,

that he could provide for her. He could be a good mate. Maybe he didn't even know that's what he was doing, but she read it right. That's exactly what he was doing.

He is squeezed. He feels less stupid. She holds on and sometimes she's such an affectionate thing, that skinny body of hers glomped onto his. That smile, those eyes.

"Okay. Let's go get swimsuits. Tomorrow we'll go down to the lake. Maybe grill up some steaks."

Devon

Again: just grins. "I brought a couple for me. Bet you could swim naked and no one would care."

Rafael

Wolf cants a smirk her way. "Bet you'd care."

Devon

A slight lift to her eyebrows, only lasting a moment. One of those looks she has, subtle and capricious. Her hand on him spreads open, runs up his abdomen, his chest. Covers his solar plexus with her palm. "Don't need to swim naked for me to fuck your brains out."

Rafael

They're not touching skin to skin. Still heats his blood, makes that look come into his eyes. He presses into that touch, walks into it, leans into it. Leans down and kisses her quick and sudden, thunderclap.

"I know," he says.

Devon

Kisses him back. Eyes open at first, closing a second later, her hand curling in his shirt where her palm already rests. Eats luxuriously at his mouth, leaning after him a bit when he pulls away. Her eyes slowly open again.

"Let's go get changed."

And steps back, lowering her arm, heading down the hall towards his room, where she has never been.

Rafael

He was ready to fuck.

Surely she can tell. The way he kissed her. The way he leaned into her touch and -- after her fingers curled, after she kissed him back -- the way he brought his hands to her face. Held her between his big paws while he ate her up.

But they pull apart. And her hand falls away. And she starts walking away, and he makes this sound -- low, growlish -- before falling in behind her. Fingers graze her back, palm presses to her spine. He wraps an arm around her as he catches up.

"Like you," he mutters, improbably.

Devon

After the last time, she couldn't blame him. Even if it weren't for the last time, she couldn't blame him. Still: hears him growl and a little thrill goes through her. Feels him come up behind her, touch her back, wrap around her, and her mouth flashes wide in a grin for just a moment. He mutters that he likes her.

She darts ahead, dashing into his bedroom.

Rafael

She hears him cursing behind her, what the fuck, but laughing. She dashes ahead. He follows at a more measured pace; certainly not running. Maybe a little faster than a walk. Gets to the door and walks in and closes it behind him.

Enormous bedroom. Enormous bed. Four-poster, because of course it is. There's a wardrobe. There's a separate closet. There's a bathroom suite through an adjoining door, downright palatial; there's a small sitting room too, complete with bookshelf, comfortable chairs. Big bay windows in nearly every room that look out over that pristine lake -- jet black at night, of course. Dim lamps sketch out the scope of his land. The manicured parts, anyway: the lawn, the shrubbery. The actual lot stretches farther, into the trees, into the wild.

Who knows where girl's hidden herself. Or maybe she's waiting for him in there. He looks at her if she is: that hungry look of his, direct and unflinching.

Devon

Not so far ahead of him. She dashes, dancingly, those long fucking legs of hers, but she doesn't hide from him. Leaves the door open even. Her backpack is resting on a luggage rack beside the wardrobe, shabbily ruining the picturesque finery of the suite. Her shoulderbag is on the floor in the sitting room, dropped there unceremoniously. And Devon is a few yards ahead of him, looking around, somewhat startled -- she knew it would be nice but she looks a bit stunned at just how nice it is. How opulent. She's reached behind her head, hands in her hair, pushing it up thoughtlessly over her scalp. Is turning.

Stops to look at him. Smiles, one corner of her mouth curling upward. And she takes a couple of steps, and hops up on his big -- no, enormous -- four-poster bed, long legs with those dark over-the-knee stockings just hanging off the end. Primly pats the bedspread beside her, inviting him over.

Rafael

Truth is, despite that uncomfortable discussion in the corridors, the wolf feels a little push of pride when girl looks so impressed. It's just things, and he knows she'd love him regardless, but still.

He shuts the door. She turns, and she smiles, and then she perches on the edge of that big bed. He looks askance at her prim little pat. Comes to her, standing before her; the bed's so high she faces him as though she were standing. Might even be a couple inches taller.

"Thought we were going swimming."

Devon

Shrugs those slender shoulders of her, dotted with a few freckles as they are. Not as many as are on her cheeks, the bridge of her nose. He doesn't sit beside her, and so she looks right at him, folding her hands in her lap.

Spreads her knees apart, enough to fit him between her legs, and then some.

Rafael

It's possible his brain just melted.

Wouldn't know it to look at him though. Wolf plays some cards close to his chest. Most, maybe. Look how long it took him to admit he loved her, when surely he felt something earlier than that. Look how long it took him to fuck her, when surely he wanted her long before. Of course he did. She knows he did.

She opens her legs. His gaze slides down her body sure as rain. He looks, eyes hooded, face expressionless.

He licks his lips.

He steps forward, done with questions now. His hands touch her knees, slide warm and firm up her thighs. That dress of hers was made for this: shorter in the front, baring skin. He pushes it up, up, up. When his hands get to her hips he grabs hold of her, lifts her right up off that bed. Gets her astride his body. Wraps one arm around her waist to secure her; pulls his shirt up and off with the other.

Wants to bite her again. Has that in him, that hunger, that savagery. Makes do with kissing her.

Devon

Truth be told, Devon's not sure who would win if they played poker. She half expected him to topple her over, pin her down, start unzipping his jeans and snarling at her throat,

which he does not do.

She spreads her legs slowly, casually almost, and he just looks down. Looks at where the front of her dress pulls taut as a bridge between her thighs, the shadows underneath, the gap of flesh between hem and stocking. He licks his lips and her heart skips. She licks hers, too.

If he doesn't touch her soon she's going to reach for him. She decides to count to three, and only makes it halfway through 'two'. He steps closer to her, touches her legs, makes her shiver. She lifts her ass as he pushes her hem up, so he can get his hands to her hips, find the edges of her panties. Devon bites her lower lip, then promptly lets it go as he hefts her up, lifts her onto him. She wraps her legs around his waist instantly, making this noise that is part laugh and part purr, a delighted little fuzzy sound that makes her wriggle a bit in his arms. Grins at him,

bites her lip again when he tugs at his shirt. She helps him with that, touching him as it goes, sighing over his chest under her fingertips.

"Babe," she breathes, and that's all it is. No sentence to follow. No query or request, no protest or endearment. Just that.

He kisses her. She kisses him back, and reaches down, and pulls that hi-lo dress of hers up and over her head and off, easy as pie. Black bra. Black stockings. White panties. Black boots. Lots of bracelets. And so on. Puts her hands on his face and kisses him again, harder. Deeper.

Goes on longer.

Her pussy feels hot, and feels wet. And she thinks of telling him, but she likes how viscerally happy he is when he discovers it for himself.

Rafael

Those bracelets rattle against each other as she lifts her arms. Drops them. Puts her hands on his face. They kiss with a blind, hot ferocity. She's wearing black and white and those boots are turning him on.

He topples her down after all. They go sprawling onto that cloud of a bed, comforters whompfing up all around them. Wolf mutters a laugh. Girl wiggles out of her panties. They get caught on her boots, and then forgotten. He wants her to turn over. He turns her on her belly and pulls her to the edge of the bed. Maybe she thinks he's going to nail her like that, girl bent over the side, wolf standing behind her. But he goes down to his knees, and then he goes down on her, lapping at her cunt with such growling enthusiasm that she can be forgiven for thinking he loves the taste of her. He does.

Doesn't quite get her off today though. Wants to fuck, or maybe he just wants her to want. He gets her close, and then he kisses her clit, gets to his feet. She turns on her back and her long arms reach for him, fold around him; her long legs too. He pushes her up to the top of the bed where she can reach the headboard, reach the edge of the mattress. Likes it when she grabs onto things like otherwise she might lose her grip on earth, reality, self. His mouth tastes like her cunt, which is to say it tastes sweet, and hot, and wet. He kisses her as he enters her. Fucks her. She holds onto his biceps, looks at his body, pulls his pillow askew.

--

It's a rather hard, energetic fuck. He comes the way he likes to, deep inside her, arms wrapped around. Sometimes it feels like he wants to envelope her entirely, swallow her up -- as if this will keep her safer or happier. He knows she doesn't want to be enveloped, swallowed, caged. He knows she's a wild, untamed thing; loves her for it.

Afterward he's overheated and out of breath, rolling onto his back. His chest shines with sweat. Hairline damp with it. Almost abruptly he rolls out of bed, gets up, walks naked to the windows and throws a couple open.

Comes back. Climbs onto the bed and flops down again, big hand reaching over to rub over her abdomen, her thigh. He reaches for her cunt; can't even seem to help it. Runs his fingers over her lazily, savoringly.

"Thought we were going swimming," he murmurs again, smiling.

Devon

They kiss, and he is blind, hot ferocity and she is... warm, and deep, and firm. But not ravenous. Not ferocious. She can feel that fervor in him, which to her is sometimes nearly indistinguishable from his rage. Devon draws back, her legs wrapped around him and her arms over his shoulders and her lips wet. She blinks once, slowly, and then kisses him again. Her arms slide closer around him, and she closes her eyes when she kisses him,

as she often does. Her body elongates, belly and breasts pressed to his chest. The kiss goes on a little longer, until he tips them forward, the two of them landing with only the slightest bounce against that soft, high bed. Devon goes on kissing him, breathing with him. He can feel it in that kiss, and the way she slides her legs against his sides. It's mind-melting. But it's also slow. She started playfully, but that's not the same as accelerating to ninety miles an hour, tumbling into fierce acrobatics.

Rafael is no mind-reader, but Devon is thinking of the last time she was here, and how badly it hurt to be rejected by him. How furious she was at him. How frightening it was to be with him, good as alone, in the middle of nowhere, and not feel his tenderness. They didn't love each other then, or really know each other yet, but still. She is remembering these things, months and months in the past, and telling him the only way she thinks she can: touching him more softly, kissing him more languidly, moving her body more slowly against his.

Sometimes she wants him so much she can't think, and doesn't care, and sometimes she wants him so much that it scares her. Sometimes he wants her so much she's afraid he's going to burn her up. Eat her alive. Even though she can't think of any time in recent memory that he's hurt her, she worries about being consumed. Sometimes -- and she never knows why, or when, any better than he does -- his hunger makes her feel like a wolf running alongside him, an animal with him.

And sometimes it makes her feel like prey, running fro her life from him.

--

Devon kisses him. She touches his shoulders, his arms, his chest. He pulls on her panties and she wiggles her hips and they slide down and get caught on her boots, those clunky, heavy things of hers. Devon takes a breath and stops kissing him, looking down. She bends and she tries to get them off. And maybe he tells her he likes them. Maybe he tells them he wants her to leave them on. And so maybe she huffs that laugh of hers and tells him well, I don't.

So the boots come off. And the stockings stay on.

And when they're off she grins that lazy, sly grin of hers, wrapping those long legs around his waist, her naked cunt rubbing lightly, gently against his jeans. She's reaching down, reaching for the fasteners there, pulling blindly at them. Doesn't get very far before he wants to turn her over. Mutters it to her, his voice bleeding with lust, edged with his impatience. Devon breathes in, looking up at him from that opulent, luxurious bed of his. Sees uncertainty in her eyes, not the same as wariness, nothing like fear. Just an unspoken question.

Tells her what he wants. And sees her mind melt. Her eyes close and her lips open, a silent gasp exhaling. Rafael slides away from her; his hands roll her over, pull her to the edge, touch her upper thighs, the curve of her ass, to spread her legs apart for him. Licks her. Laps at her, face buried against her pussy, making these sounds -- the growls, the cursing, the snarling hunger. Devon doesn't know why she's trying to be quiet until the first cry comes out of her, clawing its way up out of her throat. She clutches at the bedding, her back arching, her pussy getting away from him before he plants a hand on her lower back and pushes her back down, holds her right there. To which she moans again, just as loud as before.

And like before -- though longer before, that evening on the couch -- she tells him what she wants. Truth be told, he's still not very skilled at this. Not quite practiced. When she can get a breath, she tells him to slow down, not so hard, up a little, down, softer, oh god faster, right there, oh god, oh fuck, lick it, fuck --

and then of course he's stopping and she's making this keening little sound, a whine, a plea, "Don't stop, babe, what the fuck."

He turns her back over. She looks at him and knows -- well. What the fuck he's thinking. He's undoing his jeans, staring at her, maybe touching her through that soft black bra while he pushes them off and down with one hand. Gets them out of the way at least, before he climbs up on the bed over her. Finds himself enveloped by her arms, her legs, her mouth releasing moans into his kiss. They're kissing when he move her, and she doesn't even notice. Her cunt feels molten when he rubs against her, flexes into her. She feels molten, when she groans aloud at the feel of him pushing into her.

She tells him she loves him, right then. In that soft moan that follows the harder, longer sound before it. The way she almost sighs the words.

The way she says his name.

The way she says, for the first time,

so much,

right at the end, like it almost hurts her how much.

--

It's not a hard, fast, romping fuck, pounding each other against the bedding. It is somehow fierce and firm and hot, almost too hot to bear, but she kisses him like she can't stop, and she runs her hands over him like she adores him, and somewhere in there it's a little awkward because she wants her stupid bra off and he has to help her, hold her up, his palm slipping on the sweat on her back while she arches, reaches back to unclasp it, and meanwhile he's buried deep inside of her and she's squirming around and he's swearing, flexing involuntarily, until she tosses it aside and pulls him back down to her and he groans, ramping up again, fucking her again, feeling her tits against his skin.

It is a good fuck. Good enough to leave her whimpering against him as he fucks her harder near the end, good enough that she's coming on his cock eagerly and sweetly while he's so, so fucking close to his own orgasm. He comes inside of her the way he likes, all wrapped up in her and with her, buried deep, his face against her shoulder, maybe even his teeth in her skin. He comes with her so tight around him, so fucking hot it's unbearable.

Mind-melting.

--

She is not ready for him to leave when he does. Protests wordlessly, helplessly, like he's just injured her and she doesn't know how to express it. Almost manages a no, babe -- when he gets up, pushing open winds. And the gust of cool mountain air that comes in is so good, rushing over his body and trickling over hers a few feet away, that she sighs instead, pleasured by the welcome chill, the gentle evaporation of her sweat.

Devon pushes and rolls and gets out of her stockings. She sprawls, smiling at him when he comes back to the bed, laying out beside her. Lets him touch her belly, her thigh. He reaches for her cunt and she laughs, closing her thighs, twisting her hips a little. Reaches for his hand and kisses the base of his thumb and wraps his arm around her as she turns into him, turns her back to his side, draws that hand to her breast.

Basically: she makes him spoon her. And hold her boob.

He thought they were going swimming. She just shrugs against him, drowsing. "Not like we can't still," she says. "Just probably won't try to fuck you in the pool now."

Rafael

If ever he doubted she loved him, he wouldn't doubt now. At least not in the moment: not while she has him wrapped up in her like that, holding on like that, moaning like that. Love. His name. Love. So much.

By the end they've stripped her bare again. They always manage. She takes off the last of it herself, rolling down her stockings as he's coming back to bed. The smile she throws him hits him by surprise; makes him ache deep in the pit of his stomach. He inhales, chest rising. Crawls back into bed.

They shift around; accommodate. She doesn't want him to touch her cunt and he laughs quietly, understanding. His hand is kissed. He remembers

kissing her in the midst of that lovemaking; their mouths opening hungrily to each other, her hands grasping at his sides. He loves the way she looks when she comes -- the subtle flickers and shivers of her mobile, expressive face, and how sometimes her mouth opens but no sound, no breath, nothing comes out. He thinks of this as he turns, obligingly wrapping his arm around her.

Her breast in his hand. Her voice vibrating in the space between his arm and his chest. It's such a small distance in the end. Sometimes she breaks his heart with her thinness, her slightness. He rubs his face gently against the back of her shoulder. Kisses her there.

"Maybe later," he murmurs. "Nice here."

Devon

Her toenails are turquoise blue, sparkle slightly with silver. Her fingernails are mostly black, and somewhat chipped. She strokes the back of his hand, his wrist, smiling to herself since he can't see it. He holds her, and she feels him breathing, feels his words as much as hears his voice.

"Maybe next time I'll wear boots I don't mind fucking in," she murmurs, teasingly.

Rafael

Wolf makes this sound -- half a laugh, low and fuzzy. He nuzzles her again. Gives her breast the gentlest of squeezes.

"Nah. Like you naked."

A few beats go by. His hand drifts, wanders. Explores by touch the shape of her breasts, the subtle indent of her solar plexus. The span of her abdomen, the dip of her navel. Give him credit: he doesn't try to touch her cunt again. Doesn't try to play with her clit. Get her off.

The thoughts are in his mind. Flicker there, incandescent and searing. He leaves them be. Wraps his arm securely around her waist.

"Love you," he amends, softer.

Devon

"You like me in everything," she teases, wriggling gently against him, fondly. Turns her head to find his jaw with her mouth. Kisses him there, and kisses his mouth if he'll tip his head just so. Kisses him softly like that, while he's touching her. Caressing her breasts. Following her body with his hand. She even starts to part her thighs a little, as though to welcome him if, now, he'd like to try again.

Go again.

But they both relent, lazy and replete. It's still not terribly late at night. They could have a real dinner. They could go for a swim. Watch movies. They could fuck themselves to the point of exhaustion. There's always time.

Her eyes open as he wraps his arm around her, holding her close.

"I know," she murmurs back, softly. Her hand still touches his hand. She lets her eyes fall closed again. "Let's nap," she says, sounding happy about it. "And if we wake up at two a.m. we can always go for a swim then."

Rafael

He is kissed, softly, on his jaw. Truth is he's rather bristly. Truth is that bout of oral could've been ... smoother. But she kisses him anyway, and he turns anyway, and they kiss anyway.

They rest. She touches his hand. He breathes like a yawn, deep and swift, letting it out. Doesn't see a need to reply and so he doesn't. So he closes his eyes. So he naps.

--

Hours pass. Moon rises. Night deepens. Wind coming in the window grows cooler, cooler, cold. Wolf wakes with his bare back chilled; stirs and rubs his face and pushes up to sit on the bed. Dim, stylish little bedside clock tells him it's half past one.

The bed moves as he does, getting up to slide the window shut. A hush falls, so complete he can hear girl breathing. He comes back to bed, sitting on her side.

"Gonna get a bite to eat," he says quietly. "Take a shower."

Devon

Could have been smoother. She didn't mind. She loves it. He knows she loves it; has seen how into it she is when he goes down on her, how lost she gets. She wasn't about to complain about the stubble on his jaw.

Almost as though he was waiting for her to say okay, he drops like a stone into sleep. And Devon smiles, and snuggles closer to him, and gradually drifts off as well.

--

It's colder when she wakes the first time. She makes this whining sound, curling against his chest, tucking herself closer to his heat, trying to soak it out of him. So he wakes. He sits up, breathing, and rubs his face. Devon drowsily comes to greater wakefulness as he gets up, tucking herself into the topmost bedcover a bit while she watches him. He sits. She smiles at him.

He speaks; she nods.

"I'd like that."

Rafael

He likes her in that blanket, too. Likes her in her holy sweaters and her raggedy shirts, her lingerie, her boots.

Just likes her.

Reaches over to touch her face as she smiles. Strokes back a couple locks of hair delicately, using the tips of his ring and little fingers. His hand ends up on her shoulder, warm and heavy. He leans down and kisses her gently.

"Come on. Let's wash up. Then we'll see what's in the fridge."

Devon

"Mmm," she says. And wiggles out from under the covers she so recently tucked herself into. She climbs up on him. Climbs: folds her arms around his shoulders from behind, wraps her legs around his waist. Lets him lift her up as he rises, makes him carry her to the bathroom. Keeps hugging on him, unselfconsciously, while they shower. Washes with him, and digs through her backpack after, hopping into her sleep shorts, her tank top. She doesn't bother with a bra. She does slip her feet into a pair of knock-off ugg-like boots, but new, and not filthy from walking around the streets. They're slippers. Her feet,

as he knows,

get cold.

Her hair is braided, and hangs behind her as they leave his room, heading down to the kitchen for a midnight (plus an hour or two) snack.