nebraska.

Devon

Denver to Milwaukee is the least interesting road trip that Devon and Rafael have ever taken. And at the end of their road they won't see Peru, they won't stand in the Amazon, they won't dine and drink and fight and fuck in Brazil. They are going to drive through dry, empty, flattened out country, which will only get green and rolling and growing again when they hit Iowa and Illinois.

But still: Rafael likes to drive. Devon certainly doesn't mind. He gets so tense and tightened up and withdrawn when they've flown together; she doesn't imagine he likes being that way any more than she likes being around him when he's that way.

This way: he drives for long stretches with her reclined in the passenger seat, her bare feet on the open window, her head on her arm. She sleeps a lot when he drives, as though the car rocks her gently off to dreamland. She has learned not to offer to drive to give him a break, because he seldom agrees, but tells him she's bored and wants to drive now, at least for a while. That's when he relents, and takes up her old seat, while she puts on her sunglasses and turns up the music and floors it.

They are in her car. The one he got her. She wanted to take it; said they were officially breaking it in.

--

One of their stops, roughly halfway, is in Lincoln. They get dinner, they stretch, and decide to push through to Omaha and stop there for the night. Devon taps out some texts to Ursula as Rafael is paying their dinner bill, and they drive on until they reach a DoubleTree by Hilton off of I-80.

Rafael

Flatlands, from Denver all the way to eastern Nebraska. Nothing but fields -- barren high plains at first; then low, fertile lands full of rustling corn. A couple stops in between, food and water and toilet. Once at a rest stop overlooking an endless ocean of crop, beneath a sky so blazingly blue they almost forget it can be any other color.

She drives in the middle. He naps, then wakes. She listens to music and drives very fast. He puts his feet up on the dash, the seat slid all the way back. The sun sets behind them, casting their shadow onto the blurring highway beneath their tires.

Well past nightfall when they make it to the DoubleTree. There are cookies waiting for them at check-in, because why not. They get a room on an upper floor, away from the elevators. Somewhere along the way, wolf learned to ask for such things.

They have little luggage. He has a large backpack with a couple changes of clothes, that shiny new Surface of his. She has ... that bottomless bag, probably. He's tired, leaning against the elevator wall on the way up, yawning. As they head down the hall to their room, he drops his arm around her shoulders the way he does, heavy and familiar.

Devon

Devon looks like she's hardly going anywhere. She carries the satchel he gifted to her, the one she insisted he share with her because the gift felt like too much, like a responsibility she wasn't ready for or an honor she didn't deserve. But somewhere along the line, she got used to it. It suits her, and she treats it with respect. And in return, it keeps her light on her feet, unburdened, without the baggage she clearly dislikes carrying on her shoulders.

She eyes him as he yawns, her eyes twinkling. She collides into his side with a gentle thump when he wraps his arm around her, resting her cheek on his chest through his t-shirt. She isn't terribly tired yet. She waits while he sticks the key card into the door lock, slipping away from him as he shoulders the door open.

The room is clean, spacious, well-appointed. It's not an old hotel. It's not like some of the road motels they've stayed at because that's all that was available on their road trip. Omaha is, as far as the midwest goes, a large city. Of course it has DoubleTrees and the like off the main highway heading east.

Devon walks in, stepping and wiggling out of her boots, putting the satchel on a pillow, both claiming that pillow as her own and giving the satchel momentary pride of place. She sheds articles the way she always does, and within moments there is a stack of scattered bracelets on the desk, boots akimbo on the floor, a pile of necklaces on the nightstand. She starts shedding clothes, too, pulling her arms into her short sleeves and dragging her short little dress up off her body, leaving the loose belt that was around it hanging off her hips, her hot-pink underwear. She forgot a necklace: it drapes between her breasts, which are clad in purple-trimmed black. She peels off the thigh-high fishnets she was wearing without sitting down, tossing them somewhere when she's done.

Standing there in underwear and belt, she looks at herself in the mirror, inspecting her skin, ruffling her hair.

"Do you think if I called the front desk they'd go get me some Biore strips?" she wants to know. "My pores are super gross," she adds by way of explanation, leaning over the dresser to look closer at the mirror, peering way too closely at the pores on her nose.

Rafael

Girl's like some sort of terrestrial comet. Sheds glittering baubles and soft little coils of fabric in her wake like icedust flung from a runaway star. Wolf watches her with some amusement; for his part, he pretty much kicked his shoes off and flopped down on the bed.

Soon enough she's halfway naked. She bends over the dresser, examines her pores. Behind her reflection, darker because he's farther away, wolf is smirking at her. Also quite visibly checking her out.

"Maybe if you pay them extra. But why can't you just scrub them out with soap?"

Devon

Girl has that tiny ass of hers. Not much to call voluptuous about her, or even curvy. Pert. Perky. But mostly: skinny. Almost lanky. No telling how she got those tits of hers, other than a happy accident of genetics.

"It's not the same," she insists, regarding pore strips. She turns around, hands on the edge of the dresser, ass leaning against the dresser, looking over at him.

"How come your skin's so perfect?"

Rafael

"Because I scrub with soap," he deadpans.

Devon

Her eyebrows lift. "I don't think that's how it works," she says, pushing off from the edge of the dresser, walking to the foot of the bed. "I think it's because Gaia doesn't want her warriors looking like pimply teenagers, that's all."

A smirk. "Especially her silvery favorites."

Rafael

He smirks back at her. "And what exactly about me is silver?"

Holds out his hand too.

Devon

Devon's head tips. "Blood, coin, and tongue," she says.

Her hands dent the covers as she brings her weight to the edge of the bed, her feet leaving the ground. Her belt hangs off her hips still, thumps on the tops of her thighs. She comes no closer.

Rafael

"Tongue?" He's amused. Also oddly flattered. "Never thought of myself as a good talker."

And beckons. And holds out his hand again.

"You coming here or not?"

Devon

Looks good like that, she does. Tits hanging in that tight black bra, hair hanging down, eyes ringed in black. Her blue eyes glint at what he says to her, and her eyebrows slide upward for a half-beat with something like amusement, but she doesn't explain why.

She feigns coyness a moment longer. Then slinks up the bed, crawling towards him, between and over his legs, til she's on all fours over his lap and his chest, her face inches from his.

"Didn't mean the way you talk," she whispers.

Rafael

So his hand doesn't take hers after all. It remains extended, but the fingers curl; his knuckles skim her taut stomach as she crawls over him.

"Oh," he says. And now he's smirking again. That grazing touch passes to and fro. Then, as though following some natural course, some inevitable evolution of events, he reaches around to undo her bra.

"Think you should deal with your pores tomorrow," he opines. "Think we should just fuck tonight."

Devon

Touches her sometimes like he has a right to her. Sometimes makes her want to remind him that he doesn't have a right to her, doesn't own her at all, has to earn it. Other times it's a comfort, a homecoming, a gentleness between them.

Warm.

Like now.

The bra strap unclips behind her. The whole thing loosens, but does not fall.

Devon flicks one of her eyebrows upward. "Do you, now?" she murmurs, but of course the question is a rhetorical one. Her eyes are on his lips.

Her mouth is on his lips. Slowly at first, but pressing, warm and insistent,

opening to something more lush, more humid,

as the straps of her bra slip off her shoulders.

Rafael

He can only stand that slow, lush kiss for so long. Only so many seconds elapse, so many beats of the heart, before all at once he's rising against her, the thick musculature of his torso clenching, his hands big and rough on that narrow lovely face of hers.

He turns her under him. This shouldn't surprise her anymore, if it ever did. He pulls that bra off her in one grab, tossing it on the nightstand. Now he rears back. Now he puts those hands on her breasts, enclosing them altogether in the span of those palms, those fingers.

"Yeah," he answers, quite belated. "Yeah, I do."

Devon

His chest touches the dangling cups of her bra first, and a half-breath later, she feels him pressing himself against her body. She feels his hands on her face and shrugs slightly, loosening that bit of lingerie till it falls, slapping gently across his torso and binding her wrists loosely to either side of him.

It gets untangled and tossed aside somewhere in that roll of his body, the way he puts her on his back on that fine, expansive white bedspread. Devon looks up at him, those black-rimmed blue eyes, smirking softly while he caresses her breasts, plays with them, sends little shivers of enjoyment down her body.

"I want to be on top," she murmurs to him. "Feel like riding you tonight. Yeah?"

Rafael

Growls at that. Lowers his mouth to her breasts, his eyes on hers, nuzzling ferociously, biting gently. He pulls her panties off too, pushing them to the end of the bed. Pulls his shirt off, loosens his jeans.

Turns on his back again, landing with a thump. His hands are on her hips, bring her with him. With her back on top he reaches down to finish with his pants, getting the belt open and the button, the fly. Denim's heavy, drags the bedspread with it a ways as he kicks his jeans off the bed.

Devon

Devon laughs softly at the growl. She's negotiating; that's what that upward inflection at the end means. He doesn't answer her. He rubs his face over her breasts, which she likes. He suckles and licks and scrapes his teeth over her, sets them tenderly into her flesh, and she giggles, though more with pleasure than amusement. The giggle trails into a sigh as he peels her underwear off. And look: isn't she helpful? See how she lifts up her hips for him, draws her legs out of the warm fabric?

He rears up a bit, pulls his shirt off, undoes his jeans, gives them a shove as he turns over. Devon grins. Up til now she wasn't sure where Rafael had landed, in regards to positioning. She is grinning as he hauls her over him, opening her legs to straddle him, smiling down at him as he works his jeans off. She

isn't helpful, this time. She just sits there on top of his thighs, an obstruction to his attempts to disrobe, making him lift her up so he can push them all the way down. She just perches there, smirking at him, eyes twinkling.

But sooner or later he's naked, too. And she smiles, softer now than a grin, leaning over him. Her hands are on his abdomen, moving heavily up his chest as she comes back to start kissing him again. They never properly made out before they started fucking, what is now years ago. No dates. Not really. And she likes kissing him quite a bit. She likes pressing her naked body against his chest in a hotel room by the highway, kissing him until she's wet.

Rafael

Such a contrary creature. Such a wicked witch. He gets his pants off anyway, unhelpful girl notwithstanding. His boxers follow. Even his socks.

They're naked atop that nice bed. They can afford a better hotel than this, even. They can afford whatever the hell they want, almost, but truth is that sort of wealth is still uncomfortable for both of them. They don't need that much. They need very little, really, beyond a safe den and a hearty meal and a good amount of liquor.

And one another. There's that, too.

His skin reacts to her touch, a spreading nerve-net of sensation. His body reacts too, muscles tensing and releasing, cock hardening. She's kissing him until she's wet but he's hard well before then. He doesn't rush her. Has learned not to. Has learned some modicum of patience, it seems.

So she's the one to initiate tonight. She's the one to take him in hand and work him inside her. He's ... well. Not passive, no. But receptive. His hands open on her thighs to feel her. Grip as she rides down. He leans up to her if she hasn't already leaned down; kisses her mouth, and then her neck, and then buries his face in the hollow of her throat. His heavy arms close around her. He holds her there for a moment, very close, rather tight.

Then he sinks down again, grunting. His arms loosen. He finds her hands and threads his fingers through hers. Lets her do as she pleases.

Devon

He's never had to tell her how it feels when they finally come together. She's never needed to ask. It's writ plainly across his face, and in the tension of his grip, and in the way he buries himself against her even as he buries himself inside of her. If they could get closer, they would. And when the closeness of him inside of her body is somehow not enough, she kisses him again, and they share even their breath. She shares every gasp with him, every soft cry, every trembling moan.

Perhaps the reason she wanted to be on top tonight is evidenced in how she fucks him: slowly, almost to the point of being maddening for the poor man who loves her. She spends quite a bit of time rocking on top of him, working herself up mostly through rolls of her hips and long, grinding swivels. She only starts bouncing on him, fucking him in eager earnest, well into it. Maybe it's because they're in a hotel and maybe it's just her mood, but she doesn't get terribly loud tonight, doesn't holler and scream and let her voice ring off the walls.

He can hear her, though. He can hear every hitch in her breath, every whimper. He can hear it in her gasping when she gets close to coming. He can feel it when he puts his hands on her tits again, urges her on, feel it when it finally hits her. Her body tightens up around his, against his, and goes perilously still for a protracted moment before collapsing into shakes and quivers and this fast, breathy fuck as she rides her orgasm out on him.

Wants him to come inside of her tonight. Tells him so, gasping the words as she's still at the peak of her own pleasure. And sometimes she wants him to and sometimes she doesn't but that hardly matters: hearing her say it, panting come in me, come inside me, fucking come in my hot pussy in his ear is... something else entirely.

They roll over, at some point. They don't disentangle. They're both tired, and Devon even says she wants to take a shower before she goes to sleep, but... he's hardening again, filling her up again, and she slides her thighs up his legs and wraps her legs around his waist and clutches at his back when he fucks her again, faster this time, harder, the two of them falling apart together, all over again.

--

The bed is a bit of a mess by then. Devon, mooch and lazy thing that she is, goes to shower. Rafael -- perhaps he dozes a bit, before he can move again. Strips the duvet off the bed and tosses it to the floor. Joins her in the shower,

joins her in bed a bit later, the room kept cool by the soft hum of the air conditioner,

their bare skins kept warm by heartbeats, by blood, by rage. They sleep heavily, and deeply, and wonderfully. Devon rests her hand atop his hand where his hand rests over her body, holding her close.