For the Sake of Momentum
"I'm surprised this is actually edible," he calls from the dining room. She's still crashing about the kitchen, but he thinks he hears a muffled "Ta!" in response. He twirls his fork in the noodles, amazed she managed to not burn a single thing.
"And for desert…" She appears in the doorway, holding what looks like a chocolate cake on a plate. He wonders if it's actually cake, if the inside's actually cooked and not a clumpy mess of warmed batter (it does look a bit lop-sided, actually…)
"This is a bit much," he remarks and she shrugs, placing the cake on the table.
"It'll be your last real meal for a while," she says, "aside from Molly's cooking but…I wanted to help. Just a bit."
Cool September air blows from the open window, making the candles flicker and causing hairs to raise on his arm. The food turns to ash in his mouth as her words remind him of what he has left and what is still to come.
"Thanks," he remarks, face tight as she leans over to kiss him. Her lips brush against his cheek, because he's only been here for a little more than an hour and hasn't touched her besides brushing against her in the hall on his way to shower. If this had been three months ago, they wouldn't have lasted three seconds. How things have changed.
He knows that he will grow thin, more ragged in the coming months, and that new scars will cross already-worn paths on his body. He hopes, in that time, she does not change, that she is still as lovely (despite the brown hair) as she is today, that she still wants him in any degree and that she doesn't hate him for what he may be forced to do.
He moves and captures her bottom lip with his. He can't resist anymore, he never could. He pulls her into his lap, no longer hungry except for what he'll be giving up, very shortly, and may never get back again.
"Aren't you hungry?" she whispers against his mouth, mirroring his own thoughts in a way she always does (she's always been the vocal one in this relationship) and when he smiles against her throat she laughs, threading her fingers through his hair and arching her neck backwards.
"Not for spaghetti," he says and she laughs again, moving to kiss him.
"Clichéd, to say the least," she tells him and he smiles. "I was wondering when you'd kiss me."
"I have to make the moves?" he says.
"Of course." She kisses his forehead and reaches down to undo his belt. "I make dinner then you come home and shag me senseless. Even exchange of energy."
"Hmm. Physics." She's always been eager and he's regretting instigating this now. He wanted to take his time, memorize each curve of her body with his hands and count all the freckles on her shoulder that she doesn't ever morph away because he thinks they're quite fetching. Now, he's not sure they'll have time to make it to the bedro –oh.
She is also very clever with her hands and distracts him from his quest (the objects of his desire just lay beyond the sheer fabric of that blouse and the bra underneath) and he playfully bites her lip.
"Here?" he asks. He doesn't want to sound like he's questioning her – god, if she keeps doing that he's lost – but with her it's always something new and crazy, like that time in the backseat of that Astro and –
"Maybe," she says, ending in a little moan as he finally succeeds and there're breasts to be tasted.
"Neighbors can look in." She grinds down a bit.
"Not my type." He decides that, as lovely as sex on this table would be, she'll definitely be hungry afterwards and food on the floor would be a waste so he lifts her up. She wraps her legs around his waist and it's taking all his damn control to get to the bedroom and not take her in the hall or up against the door. Her teeth against his earlobe and the smell of her shampoo may very well be his undoing, he suspects.
Her bed is soft, the softest one he's ever laid in and once he told her that the reason he shagged her in the first place was to get in that bed. She hit him with a pillow then, but now, laid out on the pillows topless and eyes wide, he thinks he would make that remark with a different sort of violence in return.
He takes as much time as he can, slipping her out of those jeans for what he hopes isn't the last time and places kisses on her wrists and ankles and ridiculous places he's never found erotic until now. She's got lovely forearms, long and lean and very feminine and he traces fingers up them to her shoulders, admiring the freckles. She giggles and he can't help but kiss her, then, because he loves her more when she laughs because it makes him laugh and when she gasps and he sinks into her, she smiles.
It has always been coming home when they're like this, the movements always the same, the arch and press of her hips into his and the heel of her foot digging into his back, her head falling back, urging him on. He likes knowing that he makes her feel this way, likes hearing the noises from her because it's so incredibly hot when she comes, sighing and he always follows her because it just works like that.
"Mmm," she says afterwards, nimble clever fingers stroking his back, "you had to work up an appetite first, didn't you?"
"Maybe," he says. He presses a kiss to her forehead and closes his eyes. He doesn't want to tell her that this is all his way of maybe saying goodbye, just maybe, but instead she speaks first.
"I'm not sure I baked the cake long enough," she says. "It might be doughy on the inside."
"I'm sure it will be delicious," he tells her.