It was the most basic hotel – no, motel – room Abbie had ever seen. Contents: One bed, queen sized, one bureau with a TV on top, one tiny desk with a wood and vinyl armchair, one nightstand (with the TV remote bolted on), one lamp. The sink was in a nook outside of the disappointing bathroom. Everything seemed to be a dank shade of yellow. It was also 100 miles from Sleepy Hollow, 1:30 in the morning, and the only vacancy they'd seen.
Of course, the only available rooms were singles. They were given "the good one."
"I shall sleep on the floor," Crane had declared.
Abbie sighed. "No. This floor is gross and only God knows what has been on it," she said, looking down at the matted carpet. I don't even know what color this is supposed to be. "Look. I'm tired. You're tired. There's no reason why we both can't sleep in the bed," she says, trying to sound convincing when there is actually one very good reason why they shouldn't share a bed. Too much temptation. She's so deep in denial her chin is wet and she can barely see the pyramids anymore.
She's fairly certain Crane is standing in the same river, based on some of the things he's muttered in his sleep the few times he has dozed off in the archives while doing late night research. He tends to wear his heart on his sleeve, but he's been frustratingly difficult to read in this particular area. He's always been very tactile. He's never had any concept of personal space with her. He's always launching into soliloquies about their bond as Witnesses and how much they mean to one another. So it's a little difficult for Abbie to tell if his feelings for her have developed into something more in the years since Katrina has died. The way hers have for him. The only clue she has are the mutterings in his sleep, when he calls her name in a breathy rumble followed by a moan that makes her torn between leaving the room and jumping him.
"Of course," Crane answers. "We can certainly manage sleeping beside one another for one night."
"Okay then," Abbie says, heading to the bathroom, avoiding his cerulean gaze. A few minutes later, she emerges with her hair braided, bra in her hand.
Crane's eyes flick nervously from the lingerie dangling from her hand to her chest before quickly looking away. He has removed his boots, turned back the covers, and is standing stiffly beside the bed, waiting. They stand and regard one another for a long moment. Finally, Abbie sits and removes her boots and socks. Then, she sighs and climbs into the bed. She is happy to discover the sheets feel and smell clean.
"Um… I'll just…" Crane quietly says, and heads to the bathroom. When he emerges a moment later, he sees his partner squirming under the covers, her hands hidden. "Miss Mills?" he asks, stepping cautiously forward. "Are you well?"
"Yep, fine," she answers, her hand darting out from beneath the covers, her jeans clutched in it. "Just couldn't get comfortable with these on. The seam was digging into my hip," she says, tossing the jeans on top of her jacket.
"Oh, dear…" he mutters.
"I still have my underwear on, Crane," she says, sounding braver than she actually feels. She knows she's just made the situation more dangerous for both of them, but if she's going to stand a chance of sleeping at all, she needs to be comfortable. She sighs heavily and flops onto her side, close to the edge, facing away from him.
He looks down at his clothes, not particularly wanting to sleep in them either. I have done so before, but I have never liked it. I shall just keep close to the edge as the Lieutenant has done and... bind my hands to my sides.
Abbie hears his sigh followed by the soft shuffling noises of her partner undressing. She feels the bed shift and dip as he slips between the sheets.
"Good night, Miss Mills," he quietly says.
"Good night, Crane," she answers, adjusting slightly. She can feel the warmth of him behind her, wondering how close he is to the edge of the bed. She tentatively reaches a hand behind her, finds nothing, and figures he must be clinging to the edge like a spider monkey. "You don't have to endanger yourself, you know."
"Well, I rather think it is a part of our role as Witnesses, Lieutenant," he answers, furrowing his brow. "The creature tonight was—"
"I was talking about sleeping so close to the edge of the bed," she interrupts, chuckling into her pillow.
"Oh." He shuffles a few inches closer.
Abbie quietly, shakily exhales, suddenly anxious. If this were a king sized bed, it would be so much easier to just pretend he isn't there and fall asleep. She is dead tired, but the knowledge that Crane is right behind her, in some state of undress, is making it difficult for her to relax into sleep. She can sense his solid, warm presence behind her. She sighs and flips over, trying in vain to get comfortable. She opens her eyes and sees him lying on his back like a corpse, hands clasped on his chest, staring at the ceiling. She quickly closes her eyes when he turns his head to look at her, praying he didn't notice her watching him.
The bed jostles as he shifts his position. Minutes pass. A large, warm hand hesitantly lands on her thigh, just above her knee. "Lieutenant…" he softly rumbles, fingers gently caressing the soft skin of her leg.
She softly gasps, then in one fluid motion, scoots closer, places her hand over his, and moves it higher till it lands on her hip. Her hand touches his bare chest, fingers cool against his warm – hot – skin.
Finally, she opens her eyes and looks up at him. "Ichabod."
His whispered name on her lips is all the permission he needs. Barely moving his head, he claims her lips, sudden and hungry. She squeaks in surprise at the raw passion he pours into the kiss, her fingers curling into his chest hair as his dig into her hip, pulling her closer still.
"Abbie," Ichabod tears his lips away to speak her name, his voice raspy and thick. His eyes search hers in the dim, yellow light filtering in from the parking lot through the spaces between the curtains, looking for any sign of reluctance or hesitation. Finding none, he dives in again, his tongue insistent against hers.
Abbie moans into his mouth and he moves his hand to cup her backside. "What...?" he sputters, expecting his fingers to be touching fabric. They find only skin. "I thought you said...?"
She laughs. "It's a thong," she says, not sure if he'll understand but not really caring.
He gropes around, still kissing her, until his fingers locate the scant material. "I must see this," he decides, pulling away to look at her with dark, dazed eyes. "I know to what you are referring, but I wish to – need to see..." he says, flinging the blankets away and lifts up, letting his eyes travel her body, taking in the way her breasts push against the cotton of her t-shirt, its hem bunched up at her waist revealing a strip of tantalizing skin, and finally, they land on her panties. They are purple and enticingly scant. He stretches his neck to see the back view, then gently turns her onto her stomach while she laughs at him. "Good gracious," he gasps, his fingers flexing and twitching just above her skin.
"You memorizing it, or what—ah!" she yelps as he lightly bites her cheek, his long hair tickling where it brushes her. Laughing, she rolls over onto her back and looks up at him.
"You are delectable," he declares, his low baritone voice feeling like a caress on her skin.
Abbie indulges herself, looking at as much as him as she can. He is on his side, but she can still discern the slender, corded muscles of his arms and chest, his flat stomach and slender waist, and the intriguing bulge in his grey boxer briefs (one of his two concessions to modern attire, the other being socks). "You're pretty delectable yourself," she replies, pulling him down over her.
"Mmm," Ichabod hums, kissing her again. "These lips have tormented me for far too long," he murmurs, sucking her lower lip into his mouth.
"Ah," she gasps, tilting her chin up a little as she slides her hands around his torso. She intentionally arches up against him, pressing her thigh against his manhood.
He hisses between his teeth at the contact. "Oh, Abbie," he groans. "Oh!" he exclaims in surprise as one of her small, sneaky hands closes around his length.
She strokes and squeezes him through the material of his shorts while his hands work their way under her shirt, kissing almost frantically the entire time.
"You have no idea how..." Abbie gasps as his hand closes over her breast, "how long I've wanted..."
Ichabod lifts his head. "You have?" he asks, a little breathless. "For I have dreamt of this very thing for... oh, it feels like forever," he says, kissing her.
She suddenly laughs. "We're a couple of assholes..." she says, still laughing as he kisses his way down her neck. "Pining like idiots for..."
"Years?" he suggests.
"Years," she confirms, "only to find out..." she pauses as he impatiently tugs at her t-shirt. She whips it over her head. "Only to find out we both—oh..." she trails off as he closes his lips over one of her nipples.
Her hand stills on him, momentarily distracted. Then, she regroups, moves her hand up to the waistband of his underwear, and sneaks her hand inside.
"Oh," he grunts as her fingers caress his length, familiarizing themselves with all of him. He retaliates by slipping his hand into her panties, his long fingers sliding against her folds, already wet with desire for him.
"Off..." she gasps, pushing at his boxer briefs, clinging to the last vestiges of her sanity. His long, dextrous fingers feel as good as she has imagined they would, and she already feels close to her peak. No... they're better than I imagined.
"Yes," he agrees, helping to remove his underwear, then hers. He settles over her, her firm thighs invitingly cradling his hips. "Wait," he says. "Should we not take... precautions? I mean... as much as I would—"
Abbie leans up and kisses him, gently silencing him. "I'm not going to get pregnant," she says. "Modern medicine," she adds, kissing him again. "I'll explain later."
"Ah. Very well," Ichabod says, kissing her in response. The kiss grows deeper, hungrier, and soon neither of them can wait any longer.
She reaches down and takes his impressive length into her hand, stroking him a few times as she slides the tip against her, pleasuring them both. He groans and she moves him into place.
He plunges his hips down and forward, smoothly entering her. "Abbie..." he breathes her name. "Oh, my Abigail..."
"Ichabod," she answers, pushing her hips upward, encouraging him to move.
He does. She cries out, throwing her head back, clutching his shoulders.
"Abbie," he grunts, thrusting with long, measured strokes, his one hand moving to close over her breast where he toys with her nipple with his thumb.
She arches beneath him and tugs on his shoulders until he bends down to kiss her. He continues to move, his strokes smooth and sure, while they kiss, tongues sweeping and darting. She hitches her knees higher at his sides, wanting this closeness with him, needing it the same way she needs air. She drags her nails across his scalp, the long strands of his hair tangling between her fingers.
"Oh," he grunts, moving to kiss her neck.
"Yes," she gasps in reply, her small hands exploring the slender, toned muscles of his chest and back. "More..."
He immediately thrusts harder and she cries out, a sound of joyous surprise. She had expected him to hesitate, or even repeat her request as a question. She had not expected him to have a spare fuel tank in that skinny body of his.
"Oh, Abbie... my love... I... wanted... so long..." Words and half-finished phrases start falling from lips that never leave her skin. Her neck, her lips, her cheek, her ear; he trails kisses wherever he can reach, murmuring endearments as he brings her higher and higher until she digs her nails in and cries out his name.
"Oh, God, I love you so much..." the whispered confession slips out before Abbie can stop it, and she realizes she doesn't want to stop it.
Ichabod was on the brink already. He was driven there by her unraveling beneath him, but her words push him over the edge. He plunges deeply and stills, his entire body tensing up for just a few moments as he floods into her. He carefully collapses over her, rendered momentarily weak but still mindful of the difference in their sizes. "I love you, too, Abbie," he breathes against her hair.
She wraps her arms around his torso, hugging him tightly. Then, he rolls off of her, pulling her with and tucking her against his side. "Wow... I wasn't expecting that," she says after a short time.
He lifts his head and looks down at her, eyebrow raised. "The actual event or my demeanor?" he asks.
She laughs. "Well, both of those were pretty unexpected, too. I guess I was expecting you to be a little more... reserved."
He squeezes her rear. "Oh, Miss Mills, how I will enjoy surpassing your expectations," he rumbles, enticingly running his large hand over her skin.
Abbie feels a wave of delicious heat course through her body. Damn.
Ichabod kisses her. "You have yet to explain your previous statement," he reminds her.
"Well, stop distracting me," she says. She pauses, thinking. "Hmm. How can I say this without sounding weird?" she sighs.
"After all we've been through, you honestly expect me to find anything you say to be 'weird', Lieutenant?" he asks.
"Good point," she answers. "I just mean... well, we're the Witnesses to the apocalypse. I guess I was... I don't know... expecting God to smite us for, oh, abusing our bond by fornicating." He chuckles and she adds, "Either that, or I was expecting the heavens to have opened up and all the angelic hosts start singing while we made the beast with two backs bathed in heavenly light. Or something."
Ichabod pauses thoughtfully before he deadpans, "Was it not like that for you then?"
Abbie laughs loudly, surprised by his reply, and lightly slaps his chest. He captures her hand and kisses it. "I don't know if I would go so far as to say I was having visions, but it was definitely the best sex I've had in... oh, ever," she says. She kisses his chest, over the large scar on his pectoral muscle. "I guess it's different when you love the person."
He smiles and kisses her forehead.
"I want you to know I wasn't just saying that because of... you know, post-orgasmic bliss... I really meant it. I do love you, Ichabod," she says, lifting her head to look up at him.
"I know you do, Abbie. I meant every word I said as well. I love you," he replies, cupping her chin to kiss her lips. "I have for some time now." He kisses her again, longer. "And I will continue to do so for as long as I draw breath." He pulls her into a full embrace, hauling her on top of him as he kisses her thoroughly, lovingly.
"Oh," she gasps, feeling his length against her thigh, ready for another round. "Damn, man," she softly exclaims, the soft prickle of his beard on her neck contrasting nicely with the slick wetness of his tongue.
Ichabod moves back to her lips, kissing her deeply as his hands begin to roam again, and Abbie gets the distinct impression that neither of them will be getting as much sleep as they had anticipated that night.