TITLE: The Dream Weavers
SPOILERS: Series thru early season four (pre-Ryan/Taylor)
Their bodies moved together in perfect harmony. Skin slid against skin, every touch inciting a moan or a gasp. Her nails dug in to his back and she heard him groan, a mix of pain and pleasure that was practically music to her ears as they continued to move together. Moonlight danced across them, painted them in stripes as it filtered through the blinds, shielding them halfway from prying eyes. Part of her wanted to get caught doing this. It was so wrong. So tawdry. But so completely perfect and natural.
Her head lolled back against the pillows and he covered her throat with kisses while he thrust deep. Her loud gasp broke the silence, color bursting behind her now-closed eyelids with every thrust. Never had sex been so intense, so passionate, so completely bone-melting and eerily, forbiddenly right.
His name rolled off her tongue like it was always meant to be there as he helped her climb toward the higher planes of ecstasy. Her name echoed back at her from his kiss-swollen lips, dripping with lust and adoration. His hands tripped down her body, trembling as they skirted across her waist. She had been needing this.
She was practically vibrating with the need for release and she knew he sensed this, for his movements sped up. His arms tightened around her and his lips plundered hers. As their tongues twisted around each other, her mouth opened on a long moan. Her body was tensing and shuddering and she was so damned close. She had to say his name again, had to feel it on her lips and tongue.
He groaned into her mouth in response and kissed her a little harder, thrust just a little deeper. And that was all she needed. She reached that edge, felt that one little push toward bliss and then she was flying, dragging him along with her.
Kirsten shot straight up in bed, clutching her rapidly-thudding heart while she gasped for air. Her nightgown felt damp... as did the air around her. She was covered in sweat, and her body was tingling from head to toe. Her stomach somersaulted wildly as she was assailed with visions of the dream she'd just awoken from.
It had felt so real. So painstakingly, horrifyingly, wonderfully real. Almost as if he'd really been here with her, skin against hers... deep inside her. She gulped.
The attraction had always been there, had always lingered in the air between them. They had almost collided once, years ago, and it lit a spark. A spark that she secretly (desperately) wanted to light a fire with. But there was the age difference. And her marriage. And the fact that he was technically (sort of) part of the family. But that did nothing to lessen the attraction, or extinguish the spark. If anything, it made the idea of being with him even more irresistible. Temptation was the most wicked little high.
Kirsten glanced over at her husband, slumbering peacefully beside her, and was immediately overcome with guilt. This was precisely why what she felt for Ryan -- whatever that was -- had to stay buried. For her marriage's sake.
The kitchen table was not the best place to do this, and he knew it. So did she. But neither of them cared. He threw his head back and moaned as he felt her muscles clench around him, and he thrust again... deeply. He loved to hear her gasp and more than that, he loved to hear her gasp his name. He loved the feel of her nails on his back, marking him, gripping him, begging for more.
Her long legs twined around his waist and she pulled herself closer... pulled his head down to hers. Her lips bruised his own and he had never felt anything so intense in his life. The heat, the passion, the way they fit together... it was unbelievably wrong, and yet there was something about it that was irrepressibly, inexplicably right.
Her fingertips skated across his broad shoulders and then dug in to his biceps. He winced in pain but the pleasure was far more potent, especially when she clenched around him again.
She kissed him once more and breathed his name into him... told him how much she had needed this. He echoed the sentiments back and planted open-mouthed kisses on her neck. Her head tilted, offered him more skin to kiss, and he was intoxicated by the heady scent that surrounded him. Her shampoo, her light perfume, sweat, and sex. He never wanted this to end.
She tensed and began to shudder, babbled incoherently while raking her fingers through his short-cropped hair. Her muscles tensed around him one last time and that was when he saw stars.
Ryan jerked awake with a grunt and looked around the poolhouse, disoriented. His beater was soaked clean through with sweat and his pillow was damp from where he'd laid his head. His body tingled from head to foot and his heart thudded wildly in his chest as he recalled the dream he'd just startled awake from.
It had felt so real. So unbelievably, terrifyingly, fantastically real. Almost as if she'd really been here with him, against him... around him. He gulped.
It was safe to say that Ryan had had a thing for Kirsten since they'd met. There had been something in the air, something about the way their eyes had met that had sent a jolt straight through him, electrified him like never before. When they'd almost run into each other in the kitchen years ago, there was a definite spark. Trouble was, due to her marriage and the fact that he was living with them (not to mention the age difference), it was pretty much impossible for him to create enough sparks to stoke a flame.
And the worst part? Not that he couldn't have her. No, the worst part was the fact that not being able to have her made him want her even more... almost desperately so. Desire was such an intoxicating, dizzying thing... a wicked little high.
Ryan glanced through the poolhouse doors, toward the doors of the master bedroom, envisioning Sandy slumbering peacefully, trusting Ryan with every bit of himself. Then he was overcome with guilt at the very thought. Sandy did trust him. As did Seth. That was precisely why what he felt for Kirsten -- whatever that may be -- had to stay buried. For the sake of keeping their trust, if nothing more.
He flopped backward on his bed again, winced at the cold wetness to meet the back of his head from the pillow, and promptly rose to his feet. Maybe he needed a shower.
...A cold one.