Summary: AU. A semi-sequel to Momentary. He kisses her again and she can see lightning flash through the cover of her eyelids. Oneshot.

Disclaimer: Still waiting to own.

A/N: So, I'm sitting in my room reading White Oleander and listening to Bright Eyes and am suddenly struck with the inspiration to write this. I don't think I've ever leapt off of my bed so quickly.

In 'Momentary,' Rory kept getting flashes (of her, Jess, sex)…and I'm letting them connect to each other, now. This didn't turn out the way I had originally intended; but I think it kind of works. Let me know what you think.

--

She's lying on top of him on the floor of her living room. Her breathing is slightly capricious, her heart pounding against her rib cage; she idly wonders if he can feel the labored heave of her chest against his.

He reaches up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear and she glares at him.

"You tickled me," she accuses.

"You attacked me with a pillow," he counters. His voice is soft, his breath warm on her lips as she stares down at him. She smirks.

"Why'd I do that again?"

"Because you're crazy."

"Right. I forgot," she smiles. He rolls his eyes and tangles his hands in her hair, earning another smile and a soft brush of her lips on his. She moves to sit up and he grabs her wrist lightly, pulling her back down to him. She feels herself dissolving into him, on the floor of her living room with the voice of Kate Hudson filtering through the speakers on the television, and she pulls away gently.

Jess looks at her questioningly and she smiles again, running a hand through his hair.

"We're on the floor," she whispers delicately.

"Your fault we ended up here," he returns quietly. Rory rolls her eyes and sits up so that she's straddling him. She ignores the obvious erection she feels through her sweatpants and rests her hands on his chest, blue locking onto brown.

They stay in that position for a few minutes, gazes locked and her fingernails lightly tracing the seams on his t-shirt, before she leans down and attaches her lips to his, smiling when he snakes his arms around her back and pulls her closer.

She's surprised when they pull apart and she's underneath him, the carpet scratching the portion of skin that's revealed itself. Her breathing is erratic, in synch with his, and she notices that the room has gotten considerably darker. She glances sidelong at the window and smiles: thunder clouds; droplets on the window.

He kisses her again and she can see lightning flash through the cover of her eyelids.

Then he's sitting up, tugging her with him into a standing position as their mouths clash over and over. She laughs when he backs her into the wall and he swallows the sound, his tongue absorbing the vibrations.

Cotton rustles against skin as they separate momentarily and his shirt is pulled over his head. Her eyes catch one last glimpse of the movie they'd been watching (what it is, she can't recall) before they're stumbling blindly toward her bedroom.

There is a quiet screeching noise as she sinks into the bed and he sinks into her. She thinks it's the springs but, somewhat annoyingly, her mind has decided that coherent thought is overrated. She buries her face in his neck, breathing in his scent.

Cologne; cigarette; sex.

He's always smelled this way, she realizes, and the thought makes her giggle unintentionally.

"Ok?" he asks softly. She smiles at him and runs a hand through his hair, nodding. The look in his eyes sends an intense heat through her, swirling through her veins for a moment before settling between her legs.

They've never progressed beyond this point.

She runs the tips of her fingers down his naked chest, her eyes trailing the movements. He runs his hands lovingly up her body, his nails lightly scraping against the curves and contours. His eyes haven't averted hers once in the process and she bites her lip. He smiles softly at her and twines their fingers together above her head as he kisses her again.

She lets out a sound (half giggle, half moan) that he decides is the sexiest thing he's ever heard. Then she's whispering in his ear, shivering when he rakes his teeth across her collarbone and arching against him.

His next question doesn't need to be asked.

Her answer is to lead his fingers to the drawstrings of her sweats.

Lightning flashes through the window again and the rain picks up speed. For a moment, her bedroom is covered in a sort of white film. And then she's lost in the friction; the pleasure of his body; cotton, skin, and sweat.

--End--