Chapter Text
“What was that?” Dick looks befuddled as he scans the room, searching for the source of the whining sound that burst from her throat because she, apparently, can't control herself.
She'd have been right at home in a track for sad puppies and closed doors and the strong urge to smack herself crops up as she wallows in her embarrassment.
Did he have to have such great hearing?
Actually, that might be a requirement for what they do. Situational awareness and all that jazz.
“It came from your radiator” is not her best work, her voice had gone the teensiest bit reedy at the end like she ran out of oxygen, but still, she got points for plausibility, right?
The radiator in her apartment occasionally went off like it'd been possessed by the poltergeist of an angry repairman.
Lived experience is going to save the day here.
Or not, she clocks the glint in his clear blue eyes.
Dick's staring, arm on the ledge of the couch behind her as if he doesn't understand what she's saying.
“Come on, Steph, I've got central heating and air conditioning, my building isn't a hundred years old. New construction wouldn't opt for something so outdated.”
He's matter of fact about it and not trying to deliberately annoy her but every apartment she's ever lived in has had a radiator. How the hell was she gonna know?
Sometimes she really wants to buy into the ‘Eat the rich’ rhetoric.
“Bougie freaking…”, she mumbles to herself before ducking her head and answering honestly, “The lights are still on which means I have to get up and I just got comfy. The perfect amount of comfy where my face isn't overheated but the rest of me is enveloped in the fluffy magnificence of the banket you got me from”, she gropes around for the care tag, smoothing the curl of it with a finger, “Restoration Hardware?”
She's not brand savvy but she walks past Gotham City Center’s shopping district on her way to work. Her boss’s office is exclusively decorated in the style of the white and crystal and chrome that eats up attention on Fifth.
“Dick, did you really drop a ridiculous amount of money to get me a throw blanket? I've dropped nachos on this blanket. I thought this was from Target”, her voice goes shrill with horror.
She would've rejected it or insisted on something cheaper if she knew. Though, maybe that was the point. He could be surprisingly underhanded for someone who seemed so open. Or maybe it was just that she made the list of people who got the Mother Hen treatment.
Either way, she's poring over the blanket for any stains she might've left, fabric bunching as she holds it up to eye level.
How much would it cost to replace this?
Doing the imaginary math already has her mourning the part of her budget that she set aside for fun.
“The stain came out”, Dick tugs the blanket down, exasperation in his voice, “And the switch is”, he measured the distance with his eyes, “maybe ten feet away.”
Her shoulders lose some tension at his reassurance and she relaxes enough to start bantering with him, a smile on her face as she says, “Yeah, but's ten feet more than I want to travel and you're totally forgetting about the return trip.”
“You're acting like you're hauling freight across the country.”
Dick's attempt to redirect the flow would be more impressive if he wasn't trying to use it on her even if she can appreciate the classic maneuver. Indirectly acknowledging one fact and leapfrogging ahead to control the narrative is smart but she knows him too well.
And then she sees it. The dimple.
Another whine builds in the back of her throat but before it makes a jailbreak, she strangles it.
One flash of his dimple and taking him to task seems uselessly petty. Mean. It was sweet of him, if she takes the money out of the equation.
She shouldn't take it out of the equation.
Is this how parents feel when they're trying to teach their kids the value of a dollar?
Those animated eyes of his freeze her in place, charm making her systems go postal. She feels like she's hanging off the edge of his crooked smile, plagued with the kind of crazy that makes you want to go to the doctor because you were sure you had a heart condition.
Doc Thompson made sure to clear them all regularly, so she knows that she doesn't have one, but, a wobbly breath hobbles out of her, she really, really, really, needs to find a counter.
If she had her own nuke it would at least be mutually assured destruction.
“I am. Sort of. Popcorn me”, she demands and stretches out a hand in the direction of his coffee table, putting on the snotty accent everyone from Bristol had.
Was that too ham-fisted?
“Right away, your highness? Duchess of the Bowery? Queen Steph?” He tips the bowl is tipped at her jauntily and she tosses a few kernels into her mouth, clapping as she crushes them between her teeth.
Licking butter off her fingers, she opens her mouth, “Hard pass. I'd actually want to be, like, 20th in line to the throne. Just far enough in succession to enjoy the fringe benefits and have none of the responsibility.” The most she wanted to rule over was the remote to any given TV or massage chair. “If I had it my way I'd spend my life carried on a litter like some living goddess, fed grapes, and fanned by palm leaves. Scantily clad pool boys optional. But since I can't be a goddess, let me be a burrito.”
Drawing her throw blanket around her shoulders more tightly, she shoves her freezing toes under his thigh because she knows it'll make him laugh, preening when she's rewarded with a surprised chuckle.
“You've thought a lot about this”, he gives her a disbelieving look before his mirth completely takes over, sound growing when she swings her head away like a stubborn mule, the hint of a smile hidden by fabric around her neck. “Alright, alright, you can be a burrito.”, he says fondly, “Give me a second.”
“You're gonna get up?” She squints at him from the corner of her eye. She should probably be grateful he's willing to cross the room but-
“Not a bad guess, but no. I've just got the solution to our problem.” Dick bends forward, an arm snaking past her to his glass top coffee table and, en route, drapes her blanket more securely over her lower body, tucking the ends over her feet.
A secret, giddy, little rush washes over her and she resists the urge to beam at him. He obviously gets where her priorities are; her toes wiggle playfully under the weight of his hand.
The table, like most things in his spartan apartment, is empty save for the usual snacks and the magazines she'd brought over last week that she still hadn't gotten to read. She wasn't much of a magazine reader, usually just flipping through them in the checkout line before putting them back, but she'd been trying to monitor him after a blow to the head she was sure caused a concussion.
Where is he going with this? How was ‘10 Staples you should always have in your closet’ going to help?
Maybe he was going to throw them at the switch?
Lack of aerodynamics aside, their glasses of water and their bowl of popcorn aren't gonna do the trick.
A soft click dispels the idea and he reveals a small compartment hidden in the wood frame that she never would've noticed. The edges line up to the beveled ends seamlessly and she knows that the family, i.e. Bruce, is too paranoid to contract a master carpenter, so, the question is, who picked up the skill?
Probably Dick, since this is his apartment.
It both does and doesn't surprise her, he's number one of the Bat brood and all of them are brilliant but unhinged. In their time together he's showcased more than one random skill, a true jack of all trades.
It's funny that seven years in, she still has literal mountain ranges more to learn about them all. Some of it's been heartbreaking, when she thinks about how Cass had never celebrated a birthday until she got adopted by Bruce it makes her want to cry, but some of it’s hilarious too. Like Tim's disastrous attempt to investigate sports doping at Gotham Academy. He'd apparently joined the school swim team and gone as far as shaving off all his body hair.
Dick had even shown her a picture of Tim, all tetchy and miserable as he stared at the dark bristly hair that was growing back in patches on his calves. ‘Woe is me’ plastered all over his face like he was in one of those Greek tragedies he loved referencing so much.
When she'd said as much Dick had even mentioned that classic literature was the one thing Tim and Jason had in common.
Not that the two were in Book Club together.
She's still trying to wrap her head around that. The brusk Crime Alley native wasn't someone she'd thought would appreciate Pride and Prejudice or Hamlet.
Personally, she couldn't get more than 10 pages into either without wanting to fall asleep. Adaptations with music that didn't come out last century with modern english and slang and convoluted drama were way more entertaining.
Add Zombies? Bring it on.
Tim had had the grace to watch adaptations with her but they wouldn't, in a million years, be his personal choice. No, Tim preferred detective dramas and mysteries even though his life was already one long montage of them. A workaholic to the end.
That conversation in the middle of a supermarket might've been the first time since the break up that she'd genuinely smiled at the thought of Tim. It was strange how the closer she and Dick got to each other, the less any references, direct or indirect to her ex, hurt.
The sound of the gears tumbling into place brings her back to herself and she wonders if he has more hidey holes. Her eyes swivel around the room looking for loose floorboards or misaligned edges on his other furniture.
She already knows about the false wall in his guest room, he'd had to pull out his gear in front of her before, but those aren't hard to make. Hell, she'd magicked one up in her ancient apartment using an online tutorial and adopting the identity of a sorority girl while she shopped at a hardware store across town. She'd droned on and on, hamming it up as a woman scorned who caught her cheating boyfriend shacking up with her roommate. Spun some story about her gargantuan Anatomy and Physiology textbook denting the drywall.
If she had to play a sorority girl she was at least going to be a smart one.
The charade almost distracted the stoop backed old man helping her check out completely. A look of sympathy on his face, all Good Samaritan as he’d asked her why she needed so much in an attempt to keep her from blowing out her budget.
Restoring her faith in humanity had never felt so problematic. She had to assume a sheepish look as she told him that she had a lot of textbooks, which only made the rail thin man let out a thunderous laugh and say something about his granddaughter having a ton of textbooks that she paid too much for too except his granddaughter wasn't as creative as her.
Dick holds up a tiny remote with lightbulb symbols on something shaped like a garage opener.
“You have dimmers? Seriously? How did I miss that?”
“I wasn't trying to set the mood before.” Dick grins and tosses the remote up in the air with that signature flourish, the silver finish flashing as he flips it through his fingers.
With the press of a button he turns the white walls into panels of raw amber and gold, the rough texture of the plaster adding to the illusion. It might not have been the flicker of candlelight but the color echoes the sun just settling on the horizon. All they're missing is a bottle of wine, and, she doesn't know, Marvin Gaye crooning in the background?
Full disclosure, she wouldn't be entirely opposed to getting swept away, kissing him is a thrill she still hasn't gotten used to, but she does actually want to watch this movie. She'd already passed on it the year before because she hadn't wanted to spring for matinee. Gotham being Gotham, she really can't guarantee being able to carve out more time than what she has right now.
So, kissing can wait. Her rental period will not.
“Nothing's gonna stop me from watching this movie tonight.”
“Nothing, huh?”
“Hell, high water, or Arkham breakout. The creative genius of Boguszewics and Centnerszwer can't be denied.”
He looks surprised that she didn't trip over the syllables of the Polish directors and she feels like patting herself on the back. The Internet was a magical, wonderful thing. Kittens and puppies, epic fail videos, and How To’s, on demand. That she looked up how to pronounce them because she hated tripping in front of him was besides the point.
“Sounds like a challenge.” Dick quirks a brow, something unfamiliar lurking in those annoyingly pretty eyes of his.
Ugh. Why did he have to have such long eyelashes? it's not even all that original of a thought and she purses her lips at the realization.
Maybe she has more weaknesses than the dip in his cheek.
Now, she could move, put some distance here, Dick would accept it gracefully and they'd fall into their usual banter once the fog cleared.
It would be easy.
But the curiosity that gets her in trouble, that brought her into this life, the same reckless curiosity that brought her into his apartment, infects her.
How far can she push him and still get her way?
Invoking Bruce's name in a classic bait and switch would be the smart choice. She can see it now, the wide ‘O’ of his mouth, the flailing that a crack about inviting Bruce over would induce. Dick knows she isn't the biggest fan of the man but it would still throw him for a loop before he caught that she was referencing his Bat plushie, the one peeking out from behind the edge of his flat screen that she'd taken to hiding in unexpected places around his apartment as a joke.
It would be an instant mood killer, but well, the pads of her fingers sink into the plush of her blanket, chickening out isn't something in her nature.
Centering herself she answers with a single “Nope.”
The ‘P’ comes out like she'd been chewing gum and the bubble popped, and, in a last ditch attempt to redirect, she scrambles for the TV remote lying to the right of him, windmilling and bracing herself on his knee, before flying back to her side of the couch, blanket dislodged in the flurry of activity.
“Theater rules, no pausing, no interruptions”, she crows, a sense of triumph running through her.
Have they ever put them into place before? Not strictly, they always talked during, but if it was about the movie, it didn't count as an interruption, did it?
It doesn't matter. If he argues she'll say that she's setting precedent.
Sometimes you really did learn through osmosis, she thought, thinking of how Schuster provided a steady stack of case files for her to rest her head on.
Dick must pick up on her mood because he has his own response to her invocation, eyes flashing like she's helped him solve a gordian knot.
“You're right. There's a lot of time honored traditions. People tear their tickets at the door and keep the stubs in their pockets with their spare change, they eat popcorn, and in the back of the theater…” His hand closes over the ankle exposed by the theft and he shoots her his own, darker, honeyed, smile.
She feels a full body flush come and go, sure that she looked like a boiled shrimp for all of a few seconds.
Her lizard brain demands that she do the equivalent of roll over and show him her belly but she has higher brain function than that.
At least, she hopes she does. The way her breath catches when his hand moves up to the bend of her knee to stroke at a silvery pink scar makes her worry otherwise.
In the absence of his dimple her eyes trace the blade of his cheekbone.
Movie, concentrate on the movie, she tells herself instead of responding, imitating a stone in an attempt to will that prickly awareness of him away.
Maybe there is something she would ask Bruce about. He was the only one who'd spent time with honest to god Tibetan monks.
Just when did she turn into this swooning damsel straight out of a Harlequin?
Is this how he is with someone he's-
What even are they? Really?
They've tossed around the idea of friends with benefits, agreed on it, but said they'd take it slow. Or as slow as two people who were as touch oriented as they were, could.
Slow is a weird tempo for that kind of thing, isn't it?
There are a dozen different hypotheses and more questions than she knows what to do with and they mostly only prove that she didn't miss her calling as a scientist.
She's still debating in the finer points of their decision when Dick drags her into his lap and sinks her into the harbor of his body. The shadow and heat, the hard line of him against her back making her heart skip like there's a scratch in the record.
“You said, ‘Hell, high water, or Arkham breakout’ but what if I…”, Dick trails off, whispering the words into the shell of her ear, embellishing them with the velvet of his tongue, “Touch you like this?”
Warm air puffs up against the hollow behind her ear. The point of his chin settles on her shoulder and the bulk of him winds around her like ivy. His palm glides from the relative innocence of her upper arm to her lower belly and he spreads his fingers, rucks up the edge of her tank in the act like he has to have as much of her in his hands as possible.
It's a heady, disorienting thing, maybe because they've been close, she's even sat between his legs before, but now there's the option of more.
Images fly across the screen in a blur and she does her best not to let him know how much he's affecting her but she's not sure how successful she is.
Had he felt her stomach contract? Felt the muscles of her abdomen quiver beneath the steady pressure of his hand?
Lazy shapes, drawn with the tips of his fingertips, just under the band of her shorts, leave her so lightheaded she loses time. And just when she thinks he forgot about the question, he ventures further to hover over the cotton and lace of her panties, and hums.
Dick hums as if urging her to answer.
She bites her tongue to stop herself from saying something stupid.
How can he expect an answer from her right now? It's taking everything in her to remember how to breathe.
She settles for marching of her fingers from his thighs to his knees. Perching them daintily over the edges, she smoothes her palms over the curves like he really is a piece of furniture and waits.
Nothing bothers Dick as much as being ignored.
Maybe it's the circus boy in him who feeds off of the crowd or the former leader of the Titans who's used to people listening to him, she's not sure which, but she refuses to make this easy.
There's no immediate response from Dick but the way he stills and calls her cute feels intense, charged. Like the way he'd been winding her up before was a test game.
Her eyes dart for a mirror, some reflective surface, but come up with nothing.
If she could just see his face.
This Dick isn't the one who jokes around with her, the one who cut himself on a batarang because he tried cooking with it to show her he could after he'd cut himself with a real knife, or the hard ass she'd started the year with who nitpicked every choice she made on patrol. This isn't even the one who talked to her in the dark of her room, lit only by the street lamp outside her window as she talked about an old scar.
Only the question of contact, that same hand straying lower and ghosting over the cotton and lace of her panties, brings her any clarity.
Running her tongue against her teeth, she arches her back sinuously, gratified by the sharp inhale of the man behind her and the heavy, possessive, arm he brackets around her waist.
Reveling in his reaction is short lived because his touch takes on a borderline tantric quality. He skates along the outer edges of the thin fabric covering her core like it's ice that hasn't quite set. Trails the ridges carefully, like he's in danger of falling through the surface of a lake.
His version of revenge is better than hers.
Those feather light, indirect strokes, have her so wet that she seeps through her underwear to the flimsy polyester of her bottoms. It's like the world has narrowed down to the four corners of this room and the touch of his hand.
If he pulled them off right now, would the white of her panties be as transparent as she feels?
Would he slip or tear them off? Would he keep them on?
Dick hooks a retaliatory finger just under the elastic of her underwear and she can feel it stretch and strain like cables fraying on a suspension bridge. Lower lip, rosy and swollen from the pressure of her own teeth, she wonders if she'll have an answer to at least one of her questions.
Tension builds as he slowly lifts it high from the juncture of her thigh.
Is he waiting for a lull between scenes?
Is he as driven by sound as she is?
She's not in the best position to test her theory so she settles for imagining the displeased look on his face he'd make when she denies him the satisfaction of hearing her. A mild sort of evil she can actually get behind. But then he lets the elastic snap back on her body and she jolts with a surprised, strangled, sound that leaves her longing for alcohol. For something unrefined, heavy handed, something she could choke on. Moonshine over the controlled burn of whiskey.
There was no pain but It may as well have been a branch breaking, may as well have been the swing of a whip for the way she yelps.
A unique mix of resentment and want winds its way through her as he nuzzles her hair, ruffling the loose strands around her face.
“We said we'd take it slow, didn't we?” He teases quietly, almost like he's saying it to himself but pitched just enough that every word drops directly into her ear.
“You're being a dick.” She fails to stamp out the breathiness in her voice, weakness front and center from the low purr of the laugh he lets out as he presses a lingering kiss to the side of her neck.
“That's my name.”
It's such a dumb, smooth, joke that shouldn't be as sexy as she finds it. And she hates how much more sensitive the sound of his laughter makes her, how much she enjoys the sin of it. Every vibration she picks up from his vocal cords feels as if he's setting off a series of charges. His voice is like C-4 and he could bring her to her knees with the tiniest of sparks.
And that's another thought, being on her knees for him, the shiny newness of it consuming her.
The image of him wrecked and entirely at her mercy, gorgeous dark hair swept back from his face as he towers over her, flickers behind her eyelids. Her calves would ache from his hardwood floors as she watched him go to pieces under the ministry of her tongue.
“So”, he says conversationally, like he hasn't been pushing her in inches and degrees towards insanity, “What's your take on what's happening? I really liked the scene where they broke into the bank and realized they didn't have their equipment. Macgyvering everything from what they scavenged around the building.”
Macgyver is an outdated reference and a quip about his age is on her lips but then his hand is flush to what feels like the closest thing to her beating heart. Stricken as those long fingers wander the soaked fabric over her core, slipping on the slickness as he searches for the hood of her clit, for the pearled nub inside, she shivers uncontrollably.
She knows what he's going to do before he does it, can see the pattern spiraling out in front of her, and the gasp as he rips out as he pinches the engorged flesh is nearly violent in conception.
The sensation of falling has never felt so much like flying and when she reaches the bottom of that pleasure she's buoyed by teeth nipping at her pulse so hard that she knows there'll be a mark, his tongue soothing the sting as her nails create crescents in her palms.
She's so wound up that when he brings a matching mark to life somewhere around her ear, some sweet spot that she hadn't even known she had, she's startled by the needy, high pitched whimper that careens out of her.
Believing that the sound came from her is difficult even though she felt it leap, fully grown, from her throat. Delicate, it would have crumbled like shortbread in milk if she held it a beat longer.
Dick is obsessed with the sound and every kiss and nip and lick that he lavishes along the column of her neck after it is a dogged attempt to bring it out of her again. He blooms a third and fourth mark like he wants to set a constellation to her skin, each one the birth of something that makes her quake and curl into him.
She tries in vain to muffle the next eager moan as he adds to whatever picture he obviously has in his head but he drags her hand away from her mouth.
“I thought you wanted to watch this movie?”
The hand buried at the apex of her legs is mercenary, flicking, and rubbing, and provoking the most broken sounds. She can't stop whining. Notes of mint from his aftershave waft into the back of her throat and she has to swallow them down before she can answer.
What should she-
Pearly whites map the curve of her shoulder and she gasps and forgets what she was about to say. Words lost in the anticipation of the next love bite.
Would it be light and disappear in two days or so dark that she'd see it for weeks? Pressing it and conjuring the phantom of his touch?
“WelI?” He asks, that terrible hand ceasing its rough attention to her clit, fingers gently framing the throbbing bundle of nerves, occasionally stroking the folds around it like she could forget he was there. Appeasing the ache that feels so close to pain.
She doesn't even have to see him to know he's smirking. Dick knows that she isn't in the shape to process and she's not going to admit that the only part she could piece together is a scene from the trailer that she didn't even have the full context for.
She'd clearly been too passive, too wrapped up in her curiosity, in learning about this new facet of him. Half set on her course of action, hand wrapped around his wrist to turn the tables, she prepares to move, but one step ahead of her he switches tactics.
Light pressure from his thumb turns into rough circles around her oversensitive clit and the sheer pleasure of every rotation scatters her thoughts before she can organize them.
“That's”, she pants because air is in such precious supply, “ridiculously unfair. How am I supposed to pay attention to anything like this?”
The end result of his torture has spread to her thighs, moisture sticky where it had partially dried on her skin and dark where her wetness ran down to the microfiber of the couch cushions.
She hates Dick's couch, the boring gray of it, but she hadn't wanted to ruin it.
How did you clean something like this?
Some sixth sense must tell him that she's distracted because he nips at the tip of her ear in punishment, close enough to an existing mark for the two to play off one another.
“Unfair? I don't even have my fingers inside you.” Dick uses that low purr to his advantage again and the image of his fingers, or the girthier length of the cock resting against the small of her back in her pussy, pings all the pleasure centers of her brain. The hand she uses to comb through her messy hair is shaky and the other is white knuckled on his thigh. She'll leave bruises if she grips any harder.
The uncharacteristic speechlessness must amuse him because he chuckles. “I could stop”, he offers and makes a play of being gallant. “Yes? No?”
Her gaze drifts down. Light reflects off his fingers as he slips them out of her shorts and they shine with the wetness of her arousal as he waits for her answer.
She closes her eyes to block out the sight but can't escape the bolt of pleasure that pulses between her thighs.
The best answer isn't an answer at all.
“This is a little PG-13, isn't it?”, she taunts, “What are we? Teenagers in the backseat of your car?”
A blow to his pride and a provocation, no one could say that she didn't learn. Wasn't the highest form of flattery imitation?
That laugh rings out again, vibrates against her temple and rattles her heart.
“They wouldn't have the patience for what I'm about to do to you.”
Stomach in knots, she gasps as he begins the third stage of his grand plan. Hand no longer nestled between her legs, he tweaks at a neglected nipple through her tank, leaves a smear of her arousal on it, hand lingering as if he wants to do more, before snaking down to her weeping slit.
Long fingers swipe through her slickness, coating themselves anew, and then he's thrusting into her and she can't breathe, left spinning out with the intensity of his touch.
“You're swallowing my fingers…”, he croons in a voice redolent of cream and chocolate and cherries. So blatantly pleased that she just knows her cheeks have gone apple red.
The words aren't even in the top ten most explicit things she's ever heard. It's the tightening of his thighs around her hips as he says it makes it feel obscene.
He's everywhere and she's just melting into him. His calluses, juxtaposed against the gentleness of his fingertips make her brain go blank and the sensual rhythm of his movements changes every time she gets used to it. All she can manage is a hushed whimper of his name as she throws her head back.
“Getting to touch you like this is the only dream I've had for months”, A harsh, guttural groan, like that single utterance of his name is somehow equivalent to the electricity he sends thrumming through her body, leaves him.
The rasp in his voice as he confesses has the most devastating effect on her. It goes right to her head and the wet squelch as she involuntarily clenches around his fingers, grinding against his hand in a mindless search for friction, is only free of shame because she can't string her thoughts together. Her feet flex against the cool hardwood as her lower body rises off the couch, hips canting up restlessly as the rest of her arches into his embrace.
Nearly feral in her attempt to reach that perfect high, her hands reach backwards blindly, fisting a handful of his silky dark hair. He feels like the only solid thing she can hold onto and only the quiet, pained, hiss he makes at the action, the cessation of movement, makes her loosen her grip.
She does her best to card her fingers through it gently, and Dick, taking it as encouragement, rubs up against something inside her that makes her keen out like a wounded bird. An uncomfortable sort of pleasure that makes her waver between trying to flee and pushing back against his pelvis so he can banish the ache.
“Let me take care of you”, he groans, deep in his throat like everything he does to her does something for him.
Does he even know what he's saying? Take care of her? That's too much for what they are. That's-
He coaxes her gently with the heel of his hand, grinding it against her cleft as he curls his fingers in and up into that special place that makes stars swing around her head and she falters. Their moans echo off the walls and she can't decide if her lungs are burning because she's pushing them to their limits or if he's forcing them out of her.
“There. Right there.” She almost sobs, desperate for relief, and rockets forward, destined to bruise her knees but for the way his body follows her, hauls her higher and clutches at her like he's buried inside her and can't bear to let her go.
Her stomach twists and coils wildly around itself, hurricane growing when he rocks into the cradle of her thighs in his own mindless gambit for pleasure and a complicated bliss bursts so bright over her senses that she swears she goes blind. Bursts with the tang and sweetness of fruit between her teeth and tongue.
When she cries out, it's wordless, but she might as well be saying his name. She gushes for him, trembling in an aftermath that he won't let die out before he wrings every drop of pleasure from her body.
If he wasn't holding her she might've slid right off the couch and as she comes down from the high she registers the way he pets her hair, the way he smooths a hand up and down her arm. The condensation on the glass of water that he stretches past her to get and presses to her sternum to cool her down.
Fighting him is the last thing on her mind, and when he tips the glass into her mouth, she swallows noisily.
Would it always be like this?