"I know one thing," Sara says, just as she takes another step towards him. Oliver feels heat rise up his neck and his jaw as she speaks, and as he gazes down at her he knows his suddenly racing pulse has nothing to do with his workout.
"What's that?" Oliver asks. He's surprised at how steady his voice is when inside he's shaking – whether with anger, sadness, relief, he's not quite sure.
Sara meets his eyes. "I'm home," she says softly, and those two words are all it takes for Oliver to forgo any restraint he had previously; without even thinking about it, he closes the distance between them in one long stride and kisses her. She kisses him back, not letting go, taking off her jacket, moaning into his mouth, and it's amazing because the last time he had kissed her was nearly five years ago and yet it may as well have been yesterday – that's how achingly familiar she feels in his arms.
He barely even realises he's taking off her shirt – not until she lifts her arms willingly, quickly, and allows him to pull it up and over her head. Her lips crash onto his once more, and Oliver's sure (as surely as he knows he's tasting the bitter salt of her tears) Sara's tasting sweat on his tongue when it darts into her mouth, but she doesn't seem to care. She kisses him harder, faster, her small breasts straining against her bra and pushing insistently against his bare torso. Oliver's arms go right around her waist, hugging her to him, and it's as they finally come up for air – Oliver breathing heavily, leaning his forehead against Sara's – that he opens his mouth to speak at last.
Sara beats him to it, though. "Please don't say you're sorry."
And despite the turbulence of emotions still roaring in his ears, he finds himself smiling. His arms are still tightly wrapped around her but he only slightly loosens his grip (so he can still feel her heartbeat right against his chest).
"If you insist," Oliver says quietly, and he groans when Sara's hand moves to lightly tap the Bratva tattoo on his chest, before catching his nipple between her fingers. He closes his eyes when she does that, trying and failing to hold back another groan. "Sara…"
"I've had enough of apologies today."
"I get that," he says softly. "I just…"
He halts when she presses a kiss on the hollow of his neck, her tongue flicking against his skin and making him arch involuntarily forward. The hardness of his arousal is evident now, and Oliver has to bite his lip to stop himself moaning when Sara's hand wanders down to cup him through his pants.
"You just what?"
There are so many things Oliver wants to say. Far too many. But when he meets Sara's eyes, he doesn't just see the pain that is no doubt reflected in his own. He sees her pleading with him, wordlessly, to save whatever platitudes they both know he will say at some point until later. He sees her asking him not to pick up where they left off all those years ago but to let her in, let her comfort him because it's obvious he's hurting just as much as her right now.
Oliver answers her with a kiss. It's slow and careful and he marvels at how good it feels when she deepens it, sighing into his mouth.
"I've just missed you, that's all," he whispers against her lips, and he feels them upturn at his words.
"You've known I've been alive for months," she says in reply.
"No," Oliver murmurs, letting his gaze drag down her body, "I mean I've missed you."
He continues to kiss her, backing her against the sparring dummy, before he bends his knees a little and his lips move down her neck. Meanwhile his hands slide down her hips, fingers curling around the loops of her pants, thumbs hooking around the waistband of her panties.
Oliver raises his face to hers, looking into her eyes, seeking permission.
"This okay?" he asks, and Sara laughs in a way he hasn't seen in years.
"More than okay, Ollie."
So with a sharp tug he pulls down her jeans and panties, before – with another glance up at Sara – he drops to his knees, pushing her legs apart a little more. Sara kicks off the garments that are still around her ankles, and Oliver takes that as his cue to plant a kiss on her thigh. He can't help but sink his teeth lightly into her skin, making her cry out. His lips move up in a line of softly biting kisses, with each one lingering a little more so he is suckling her sensitive flesh.
Her legs are shaking with his every touch – that much he can tell as his fingers move up her thigh, along the path his mouth has already made on her skin. And when his fingertips meet her centre, they're drenched; for a moment Oliver has to pause. He closes his eyes, takes a breath, so turned on at how wet she is for him and her heady, sweet, oh so familiar scent that for a moment he forgets where he is, what he's doing.
But then he hears Sara's voice, no more than a soft whisper, really, that hangs and lingers in the air as she says his name – "Ollie" – and he's suddenly aware of the fact that he's stopped what he was doing with his mouth and with his hands. He looks up at her once more, wanting her to be sure, and in answer she grabs his free hand, the one that's gripping her bare hip. Their fingers lace together, her small hand fitting perfectly inside his larger one, and Oliver's tongue flits out ever so briefly, teasing at her opening, going slow. Reflexively, Sara thrusts forward against his mouth, gasping, and Oliver lets her, holding her steady by the thigh, smiling against her skin.
Then he does it again, his tongue moving further in this time. He's torn between exploring gently (wanting to reacquaint himself with her properly – it's been six years, after all, and fuck she tastes so good) and going hard and fast (just the way he knows she likes it).
It's only when her grip on his fingers tightens that Oliver abandons any semblance of going slow – his mouth moves faster, tongue lapping up the sweet wet heat of her arousal, teeth scraping the swollen nub inside her until all he can hear is a stream of unintelligible Arabic spilling from her mouth. The language sounds harsher than he thought it would, the way she hisses a stream of foreign words not exactly musical or graceful, but truth be told he would not have it any other way. Still, Oliver doesn't stop, undeterred by how his jaw begins to ache with the effort; if anything he feels himself getting harder knowing what he's doing to her, and he's sure his cock is pressing against the toned muscles in her calf.
Sara's whimpering his name now, trembling above him, and with a final push of her hips into his face, she reaches her climax. She's quieter than he remembers her to be when she comes – probably a League thing. Oliver plants one final kiss at her entrance, just as she softly mouths "fuck" and her legs give way beneath her so her back is sliding against the sparring dummy behind her, until she's level with him once more.
Oliver can't help but smile – there's something about the way the sweat on her forehead has darkened the roots of her blonde hair and is gleaming in the dim light of the foundry that makes her seem so… undone, and damn if that isn't totally doing it for him (especially when he knows he is the one who has done that to her). Sara smiles too, leans forward, lips brushing against his ever so briefly. Their kiss is clumsy, both of them breathing too heavily for Oliver to do more than catch her bottom lip between his teeth for a second in response before letting go. Still, the smile they share is full of exhilaration that Oliver can feel deep in his chest, down his spine and – most potently – in his groin.
"For the record," she says, her warm breath caressing his cheek and her fingertips kissing his jaw just as her other hand goes inside his pants and wraps firmly around his cock, "I missed you too."