Initially posted on Lietome_fic at LJ.
With so much love to #ltmteamawesome and Pineapple xx
She's come to expect him now. She no longer bothers going to bed; she just lays on the couch to close her eyes.
They snap open to every sound, every knock of the pipes, every floorboard creak, every holler from next door. Sometimes she'll just study the ceiling, count the cracks in the plaster around the light, mentally redecorate. All the while, her head screams at her and asks her what the hell she's doing.
She should be pissed. She should be distraught. She should feel used, violated, untrusting.
But she doesn't.
She feels excited.
She can't remember how it started. Well, no, she can. She remembers every single thing about that night: the way he grabbed her hair, how he grunted her name, the strong taste of scotch. What she doesn't remember is how it has become a regular thing... another aspect of his recovery from the hard cases. His last port of call before stumbling home, sated and smiling.
She isn't even sure if he remembers.
Obviously, some part of him does for there to be repeat performances week after week, but the morning after, in work, on the phone, nothing. He complains about his hangover, looks like death warmed up, but he shows no recollection of the night before. She's kind of glad. Their...whatever they are, trysts? Affairs? Fucks? They aren't for common knowledge. And Cal is the best liar she knows. He is the best liar anyone knows.
Maybe he thinks that it's a fantasy. A teenage wet dream.
Maybe he remembers everything. Maybe he's lying enough for the both of them. Maybe he isn't even drunk, maybe he swallows just enough to give his breath bitter fumes, to put the taste on his tongue.
Maybe she should care.
She shoots up when she heard three knocks. Soft, so as not to wake her, but loud enough for her to hear if she wants to. She fiddles with her thin silk robe, tightening it, loosening it, opening it a bit wider. She nudges the net aside from the window and watches him, a clumsy hand raking through his hair, teetering on his feet.
She smirks, tucking her hair behind her ear and fixing her robe again. She breathes, trying to swallow the smirk as she opens the door.
She rubs at her eye, feigning that she's just woken up, and looks at him. "Cal?"
His eyes don't meet hers. His hand shoots out to the wall, steadying himself.
She steps aside, her back to the door. The movement makes him look at her, his eyes finally meeting hers. She swallows, the intensity of the arousal in his dark gaze making a blush rise on her cheeks already.
In spite of the amount that he's apparently drunk, he jumps the step with surprising dexterity and then his lips are on hers.
One hand on her cheek, one hand on her waist. This is new. There is no pretence, no small talk, no waiting; just his mouth, his tongue, his hands.
He pulls her into him and she can already feel him hard against her leg. She moans against his mouth, his hands sliding down her arms, the robe falling to the floor. She is vaguely aware of the cool breeze against her heated skin, the door still wide open.
She puts her hands flat on his chest when he moves to her jaw, leaving wet kisses on a trail down her neck, her collar bone. She doesn't want to – God, does she not want to – but she pushes him away. He steps back, slight confusion quickly changing to amusement. His head tilts, staring at her with that smirk that makes her stomach tighten. It's all a game to him and he's loving every fucking second.
She swallows; she's got to get some semblance of control. She closes the door and walks away towards her bedroom, knowing without a doubt that he'll follow. She gives her hips an extra sway under his watchful gaze, and she gets as far as the couch before she is pulled back into his body. His hand is splayed across her stomach, his mouth suckling on her neck. He grinds a palm into her breast, squeezing as the nipple hardens under his touch. He does it again. Again. Her breath hitches in the throat that he is kissing, licking, biting. The hand on her stomach travels lower, stroking over her panties.
Her back arches, a moan rumbling under his lips.
She winds her arm up, threading her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp. She smirks when he grunts, his body stilling when she slides her other hand around her back and grabs his cock. She meanders a finger up the length, his face pressing into her shoulder as he loses control under her touch. Blindly, she pulls down his zipper, feeding her hand through the gap.
She barely has a hold when he spins her around, her skin scraping across the teeth of the zipper. He pushes her into the back of the couch, pulling her leg up to his hip. He manages to catch her before she loses her balance and falls backwards. She shuffles into a comfortable position as he presses his body tight up to hers.
This isn't the Cal from work. The intensity in his eyes, the arousal that penetrates her almost as hard as he could physically, it is intoxicating. She fights with everything that she can to keep an upper hand, to not give in entirely. She moves closer, her face inches from his. She lets her bottom lip stroke against his, daring him to make the first move. She matches his look, her playful defiance making his jaw set, his gaze harden.
He is better at this than she is. She blinks, swallowing down a dry throat. And then his mouth is on hers again, his tongue dancing across hers, his stubble scratching at her skin. He unhooks her bra, ripping it from her chest, grinding his palm against the supple flesh. He tweaks, twists, pulls her nipples, swallowing the yelp of pain that escapes her.
She bunches the back of his polo shirt in her fists, her nails scraping his skin. They part as she helps to pull it off him, her shaking hands unbuckling his belt as he tosses the shirt on the floor. She undoes the button, stroking her hands down his clenched ass as she pushes the jeans off his hips.
He pulls her mouth back to his with a finger under her chin, his hand on her thigh, pulling her knee further up. He is right there, she can feel him, tantalisingly close.
He trails his fingers down her neck, over her breasts, across her stomach. Each muscle quivering under his touch. He slides beneath her panties, quickly finding her clit. Her head rolls backwards, a groan of pleasure escaping her swollen lips as he nips at her pulse.
Round, round, round, circling the small mound with excruciatingly slow strokes. Her legs start to twitch, her stomach tightening in the same rhythm, the tension building. Jesus, if he didn't enter n-
She almost screams when she feels one finger, two fingers. In, out, bending, his palm grinding against her clit as he goes.
Her nails dig into his shoulders, her leg wrapping tightly around his waist. So close, so close.
She manages to utter his name, and before she knows it, his arm is around her back, lifting her as he drags the last layer of clothing from her body. He drops his boxers to floor and guides himself into her.
He mumbles a profanity as she slides onto him, her back arching as she cries out.
He pounds into her, not letting her get accustomed to him before he pounds again. Again.
"Harder," she manages, matching his thrusts. Her eyes are closed, her lip caught between her teeth. He bends her knee even further up his side, going deeper inside her. The sight of him disappearing into her, into Gillian, is enough to make him almost lose it.
He quickens. Her mouth opening just a slight as she begins to pant, her walls clenching around him. Yes. Yes. Close. So Close.
He rocks into her again, putting his everything into the thrusts, wanting her to scream his name as she crashes over the edge. Again. Again.
Suddenly, she's gone. She cries out, her body shuddering, her nails drawing blood on his shoulders as her orgasm explodes within her. He rides her through it, pushing into her until he can stand no more. With one final thrust, he comes inside her, grunting her name as his body stiffens.
Her leg drops unceremoniously from his grasp, her breath still laboured as she slowly comes back to reality. He strokes his fingers across her cheek, bringing her lips to his. He kisses her. Not like before, not when it was a challenge for control, for who could force the other into submission.
This is a kiss. A promise. A recognition. She pulls away, looking into his eyes.
"Hi," he whispers, the faintest smile across his swollen lips.
She knows this Cal. "Hi."