A/N: You all can thank Twitter and the various pokings/priddings/outright bribery that goes on between a lot of the LtM authors over there. It's insipring lol. And I now have a list of prompts to complete for them, 80% of which are all smut. So, thanks girls ;)
Got lucky; Beautiful shot
It happened by accident.
No really – it did. After the Matheson debacle – the night he'd shown up on Gillian's doorstep and slept on her sofa – he'd felt a strange sense of peace there. The room had smelled like her, and the quiet didn't seem so terribly lonely, because every now and then he could hear the rustle of her bed sheets as she moved around in the room down the hall. He dozed, pleasantly drowsy on her sofa, but he hadn't slept, not really, and yet the next day he'd felt the most well-rested he had in months.
Obviously it was her.
Gillian had this effect on him – this ability to make him stop and think and rest and everything in his head got quieter and the constriction around his chest got a little looser.
But he knew, even then – he couldn't sleep in her living room every night, or even every other night because eventually she would ask questions he didn't want to answer. And it wasn't because he couldn't answer her, but because those answers would hurt her. And he never wanted that, despite being so naturally talented at doing it.
So one night, long after he'd lingered in the office far too late, simply because she was there, he'd driven home. He'd meant to drive home and somehow found himself parking half a block down her street. He'd walked to her courtyard, knowing that he wouldn't – couldn't – knock on her door. But he had slouched in the shadows, on the stairs leading up to area where her door was.
Her kitchen light had been on, and he could see her, just through the living room window, moving around and making something – he couldn't tell what. And as he'd watched her move, watched her smile to herself as she worked, he'd felt that tension ease and everything go really quiet within him again.
And he knew – he'd found a way. A way to not impose on her; not let her see too much and tell her not enough. He'd found a way to have her, but not ruin her.
He sat on the stone steps, watched her make her dinner, and watched her move from the kitchen into the living room, turn on the telly. He'd watched her.
And that night, when he went home to make himself a pot of tea and lay in bed with a steaming mug in his hands, he'd felt the chaos of the day – the latest case, his latest fuck up – slip away and he'd slept soundly.
Of all the vices he had, this was easily about to become the most addicting.
She'd noticed his car.
Every condo in her complex had an access channel to view the closed circuit security cameras. It was a safety feature she'd appreciated, being a single woman living alone. And she'd been flicking through channels on her tv when she skimmed past the security feed, moving three channels up before pausing and moving back to the grainy black and white image.
It was his car.
And he was definitely not in it.
Of course, he was definitely not here, either, so she paused – considering the possible explanations for that. Maybe he was seeing someone in the area. A woman. She felt an acid burning at the back of her throat before she shook her head – no, surely he had more tact than that.
Maybe he just couldn't think of what to say, so he just... wasn't coming in. She tilted her head, glancing out of her window, the gauzy fabric of her sheer curtains obscuring the view.
Maybe he didn't want to.
It wasn't unusual for Cal to let the more difficult cases affect him. But lately – lately he'd been getting better. He'd seemed... content after the Matheson case. An odd sort of peaceful – like a jungle cat resting or something. The potential for power still hung around him but he seemed content to be still.
And again, after a particularly difficult case a few weeks ago. And today had been another horrendous day at work, a suicide/murder case that went horribly wrong, right until the very bitter, twisted end.
She left the tv on, leaving the security channel to illuminate her living room in various shades of grey. But she turned a lamp on, and she stretched before meandering over to her bookcase to choose a book to read. Something she'd read before – but something with a happy ending, she always liked those. Her hand trailed along the shelf, fingertips lingering over the well worn spines as she peered at the titles thoughtfully.
She felt like someone was watching her.
She imagined she could feel his gaze. She can't be sure, of course. And she realized that she should probably be a bit creeped out at the thought of him watching her. But it was Cal. And if she knew anything in her life, it was that he would never, ever do anything to hurt her. Sometimes he stuck to that particular rule so hard and fast she wanted to hurt him. Because he could never see just how much his not hurting her, actually hurt her.
She stopped at a well-worn book – an old paperback romance about a woman who falls in love with her boss, and they fight, and misunderstand and love each other. It's a clichéd story, but she loved it. Loved the woman in this book, loved the bumbling ineffectual man she works for. She supposed she could draw parallels, but she shrugged the thought away. He's not her boss.
Comforted by this thought, she curled into a corner of her couch, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders and read until thirty minutes later when she saw him walking back to his car on the grainy screen.
She can't be sure but his stride seems looser, more fluid, relaxed.
She can't even be sure he was watching her, but she has her suspicions. And she can't find it in herself to be even a little bit mad. She had always loved the man.
And she'd help him any way she could – even if it meant not mentioning any of this, ever.
He dragged a hand down over his face, and resisted the urge to question his sanity, yet again.
He'd managed a month. A month of not coming to hide in the shadows outside of her windows. A month in which he had chastised himself, berated himself for being a creep and a tosser, and looked up the definition of stalker twice. Obsessive persual – he could at least, comfort himself with the fact that it wasn't obsessive.
But today had been complete and utter shit and he'd just needed – just needed to see her. She'd been in her kitchen again, so he'd walked round the building and into the grassy strip behind it that classified as a garden. And he would have left – he would have, but she was in her kitchen, dancing.
It was something he knew he shouldn't be watching. He quite possibly knew that Gillian would be amazingly annoyed with him if she knew he was out here, because nobody wanted to be seen dancing around their kitchen and singing into a wooden spoon, of all things, but she was flushed and smiling that smile.
The one where her whole face sort of scrunched up, and her nose wrinkled and she just looked so bloody adorable he couldn't help but grin to himself, thankful as fuck that absolutely no one could see him right now.
But honestly – he was fairly certain she could convince grown men to fling themselves off cliffs for that smile.
He leaned against the back wall of the garden, feeling a peace steal through him as he watched her slide from one side of her kitchen to the next, still clutching that spoon and presumably belting her heart out. He could hear the faint thumping of the music she was listening to, but it was all he could distinguish on the still night air.
He would be welcome there, he knew. He could walk over and knock on her door and she would open it, probably still with that same smile and he would be welcomed inside. And half of him longed to just do it – just go over there and knock and stop being such a bloody pansy about the whole damn thing.
But then his chest would seize and fear would grip him so damn tightly. He was a fuck-up – he was, and he managed to screw up every good thing ever handed to him. Emily – well, any sort of good way she'd turned out certainly wasn't due to him. Probably wasn't all due to her mother either, if he thought about it. He was fairly certain Emily was some type of self-evolving child – she was who she was and she was going to get there regardless of him, or her mum, or their marriage and divorce.
He didn't deserve any of these good things, he knew that. And sometimes his own thought process about the whole damn thing was so convoluted he wanted to shake the hell out of himself. Sometimes he didn't know why he was such an ass. And sometimes he knew exactly why.
He didn't want to hurt her. And yes, he was fully aware that he quite often hurt her now, but if he ever let himself go, for just a second, loosened this tight hold he had over himself – if he ever gave in and reached for even more than he already had with Gillian, reached for that brass ring...
He hurt her now yes, but it was like comparing paper cuts to the inevitable stab wound that awaited her at the end of any romantic relationship they tried to have. And if he kept them firmly on friendship grounds – chances were he would get to have her in his life a hell of a lot longer than if he did allow these feelings of his free reign.
She was still dancing, spinning in circles now and pulling out moves he knew she'd never let anyone see and live.
He was seeing her in a way that no other person ever had. Not even her, in all probability, unless she was prone to performing in front of mirrors – which frankly was a level of narcissism he couldn't attribute to her, even in passing thought.
He couldn't seem to take his eyes off of her.
He stayed longer than any other night previous.
He'd been back more frequently in the last few weeks, she knew. It's gotten to the point that she turns on her security channel at night, just in case.
She wanted to confront him about his... his... lurking, but what could she say that wouldn't end up in a fight of epic proportions? He would hate to know that she knew, and saw this weakness of his. And sometimes, especially lately, it felt like the only way she could communicate with him. Which was odd, and a bit stupid when she sat down and thought about it, but him seeing her doing, well, normal things like dancing and baking and talking on the phone with her girlfriends – it was her way of saying to him 'I'm okay.' She knew he believed it more because in his mind, these were unguarded moments.
And they were. She always tried to make sure of that – she did what she would normally do; she tried not to let his watching her affect her demeanour and activities.
So maybe by telling him she was okay, it meant that he was okay too.
And he had been recovering from those bad cases more and more quickly, things hadn't been quite as difficult or deep-hitting but that very fact irritated the hell out of her. It was an obvious conclusion that she must bring him some type of peace. There was calm in his eyes during the day when he smiled at her, or watched her blatantly there instead of covertly here.
This angered her because she knew what he was doing to achieve it. And dammit, he could get that same peace by coming in. But he wouldn't, or couldn't allow himself and this whole thing felt so damn stilted. Because maybe she would like a little bit of that peace within her, too.
It was frustrating.
And the last three visits weren't even bad days for him – for them, for anyone. He was watching when he didn't need to, and she knew the time was coming when she had to confront him. Make him stop. But every single time she imagined that conversation, it ended in a wedge and a rift between them, because in no scenario of her confronting him could she imagine him not incredibly pissed and hurt that she had known, and allowed this to continue.
She knew that, to Cal, even though she couldn't see him – this was him at his most vulnerable. This was that raw wound that he curled around and hid like an animal struggling to survive.
She just – she wanted them to be able to do this together. She wanted to draw comfort and peace from him the way he did from her, and his... habits weren't allowing her that simple basic need.
She frowned and bit her lip, wrapping her arms around herself in a self-comforting gesture.
This was, in essence like telling him she had seen him bared down to his very soul.
And then she bit her lip, a grin spreading across her face.
She had an idea.
He shifted, left to right and back again, oddly uneasy.
He should be uneasy when he did this – obviously, he should feel guilt and shame and any other of a myriad of self-depreciating emotions, but he didn't. Lately all he ever felt when he parked in that spot down the street and alighted from his car was a sense of anticipation. Excitement. Eagerness.
He was a sick, twisted bastard, he knew. But that never really stopped him from pulling into that spot more and more frequently, the need to see her always just burning underneath the surface of his skin.
He had to stop. The thought pained him, but he recognized it for what it was – truth. Even if Foster never knew about this, even if he would never harm a hair on her head, the truth was he was invading her privacy. He was violating a section of her life, and that thought was the one that made him feel sick with disgust.
Every night he had watched her, she'd been happy. Chatting on the phone, laughing at the telly, baking chocolate something or other, dancing, running on her treadmill – any number of things but she was always happy.
Tonight though – she looked worried. A frown covered her face and she was chewing on her bottom lip entirely too much as she paced her bedroom. Tonight was also the first time he'd seen in her this room – usually she was in the main living areas. She had the light on and the curtains were open, and he could clearly see the warm yellow of her walls, the red of her curtains, the photos on her wall, the worry on her face.
She wrapped her arms around herself and paused, just to the right of the window. He adjusted his own position, sliding left to see her better. Just in time to see a huge smile cross her face as her arms dropped to her sides. Whatever was worrying her she'd apparently come up with a solution.
And then her fingers grasped the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head.
He stopped breathing.
Her skin was pale, and he wasn't close enough to see, but he imagined the dusting of freckles across her shoulders and chest. Her bra was a lilac colour and her felt his vision tunnel and his head swim as her hand moved to unzip the skirt she'd been wearing that day – a slim black, form-fitting skirt that he'd admired more than once today.
It felt like slow motion. She pushed the skirt down and presumably stepped out of it, and he could see her matching knickers now, riding low on her hips, the boy cut style hugging her ass in a delicious ways. He swallowed heavily before sucking in a lungful of night air, thankful for the chill in the air that bit into him. He should stop watching. He should walk away, and he knew that, but my God, she was absolutely lovely.
And obviously, he'd known that – but imagining what was under those enticing dresses she wore to the office and actually seeing it were two entirely different things. She almost glowed. The lilac lace cupped her body as if it had been painted on, and he damn near bit his tongue off when he saw her gaze, affixed at some point in front of her. Her hands trailed down over her shoulders, brushing against the sides of her breasts as she slid them slowly down over her toned stomach with a smile.
She had to be watching herself in the mirror.
If possible (and trust him, he didn't even know it was possible) his already hard cock grew even harder, straining against the inside of his jeans. It was almost bloody painful really, but he felt as though he'd sprung roots. He couldn't move. Literally, physically could not move, not even to slide his hand in his own pants and adjust his painfully positioned hard on.
Her fingers were at the elastic of her knickers now, and she skated over that, pressing her fingers eagerly downward until she was cupping her own mound, he could see her pressing just over her clit and she bit her lip and he wanted so fucking desperately to be able to hear her moan just then. Oh bloody hell, he wondered what that sound would be like. Low and throaty? Or a high breathy moan? Would she be imagining someone right now? Or just getting off on the image of herself in the mirror?
Her other hand was cupping one of her breasts through the lace of her bra, palming the weight of her breast before pinching the nipple through the lace. He licked his lips as she never took her eyes off the mirror, and her gaze was so damn heated that he could barely feel the chill of the outside air anymore. His throat was dry and his breathing matched the rise and fall of her chest.
Her hand slid behind her back, twisting there and doing something and – oh god, she was undoing her bra. She was removing her bra, sliding the straps down her arms and letting it drop to the floor and oh fucking hell, she had gorgeous tits.
They were, genuinely, a perfect size. Just more than a handful, pert and the dusky pink of her nipples was so obscenely perfect. Her hands were tracing over both of her breasts now, over and under and around, occasionally pinching or twisting the nipples into even stiffer peaks. They jutted out from her chest proudly, and he could easily imagine drawing one between his teeth, and suckling desperately on it. He bet she would taste sweet and light, maybe slightly citrusy – oh he knew she would be the absolute best tasting thing he'd ever had the privilege of putting his mouth on.
She was biting her lip, cupping a breast and lifting it as she finally took her eyes off of the mirror, bending her neck and lowering her head until her tongue darted out of her mouth, so pink, and licked the breast she was holding aloft.
A strangled noise escaped him and his hand shot convulsively to the front of his own pants. He shoved it under his belt, straightening his rock hard cock and gripping it tightly. The pressure, pressure, pain of it felt so amazing he thought he might come on the spot. He relaxed his grip, feeling his balls tighten in anticipation as her fingers rolled over that nipple, again and again.
Finally her fingers slid under the elastic of her knickers and she – oh god yes yes yes – pushed them down over her delicate hip bones and slid them to the floor, unseen. His grip tightened again and his heart stopped and started and stopped and started in the most erotically painful way.
She was – she was like a work of art, really. And it wasn't obscene because he was too far away to see detail, but his gaze was in love with the flow of her figure - the line of her shoulders, the delicacy of her ribcage, how her waist nipped in before curving out with her hips. Jesus, she was beautiful.
He could see the small dark patch of curls between her thighs as she slid her hand between them, her eyes now wide open and fixed on the view in front of her.
It was silent – but he could see her mouth open, he could see her chest heaving and he could imagine the noises she would be making now. Small whimpers or high squeaks? Maybe low moans that travelled right down your spine. Her fingers slid in and out, and eventually she lifted them out, licking them clean with a smile before placing her hand back where it had been. His own hand tightened and released around his hard on compulsively. He wasn't exactly having a wank – constriction of his jeans made that damn near impossible, but he was timing his grip and release with her fingers, dancing in and out of her curls.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, she bit her lip, bending over slightly and her head dropping forward as her mouth formed a word, and it was a word he knew, and he felt the gasp all the way to his bones as his own grip tightened, pulling up and watching her lips part and her tongue press against the back of her teeth as he rather embarrassingly came in his pants.
She was grinning as she slid the key into the lock, humming a happy tune under her breath because everything was going just so perfectly according to her plan.
He'd watched. She knew he'd watched, and in truth, it was the knowledge of his eyes on her that had rushed her along to her orgasm so quickly. It had been so intense she'd damn near blacked out. And if it was that good when he was only touching her with his gaze, she could not wait to find out what it would be like live and in person.
But first things first.
She slid silently into the kitchen, locking the door behind her before ghosting silently up the stairs and into the bedroom. She moved one of the armchairs there into the corner by the bed, furthest from the door, and she settled herself into it, not bothered by the absolute dark around her.
He had alternated between avoiding her like the plague today, and being unable to take his eyes off of her when they were in the same room. Even just the weight of his eyes on her had been enough today to keep her in a near constant state of arousal, and she could feel the dampness between her thighs every time she walked through a room that he was occupying.
She'd left the office before him, stopping to say goodnight with a confused frown as he'd avoided her eyes and waved her off. She had to make him think she had no idea about his behaviour, in order for this to work. Of course, she had realized she could be screwed if he didn't come up here as soon as he arrived home, but she knew he kept the good scotch in his bedroom – one of the concessions to having a teenage daughter in his house, who thankfully was at her mother's tonight – so she was banking on the fact that he would definitely need a stiff drink when he got in.
She sat up straighter when she heard the key in the lock downstairs, and she remained still as she heard the door open and shut heavily. She heard the clang of his keys hitting what she assumed was the island countertop in the kitchen, and she fought the urge to grin in victory as she heard his heavy footfalls on the stairs. She licked her lips, pulling back into the shadows of the corner when she saw him round the corner of the doorframe.
Her eyes had adjusted to the dark by now, and she watched as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the bed before unbuttoning his shirtsleeves and shoving them up past his elbows as he walked over to the tall dresser that held his barware on top of it. She did grin as he poured himself a drink, his head hanging low and his shoulders slumped forward. Clearly he was feeling terribly guilty about everything, and she felt her heart squeeze in sympathy.
He swallowed one glass quickly, and dropped the glass on the wooden tall boy with a dull thud before his hands unbuttoned his shirt, removing that and tossing it on the nearby chair.
Which wasn't there. Mostly because she was sitting in it.
She saw him pause, and frown before his hand reached out and flicked the switch on the wall, illuminating the lamp next to the bed. He jumped visibly when he saw her out of the corner of his eye.
"Jesus Christ, Foster – what in the hell are you doing?" His hands were gripping the lip of the dresser and he stared at her incredulously as she uncrossed her legs and sat forward with a grin.
"Don't stop on my account Cal." She watched as he looked at her, his eyes widening in confusion before narrowing to study her face. He moved to grab his shirt from the floor and she shook her head negatively. "Nuh-uh. I bet your wondering why I'm here."
"Why you broke into my house? Yeah, thought had crossed my mind." He folded his arms over his chest and she smiled wider, because the movement just accentuated the muscles in his forearms, and she let her eyes trace over the various tattoos there before sliding up to his face.
"Not breaking in if I have a key is it?"
"For emergencies only, Foster." He wasn't upset, really, but she could tell he felt off-balance. He couldn't figure out anything he was reading on her face – oh she was more than sure he could read it – but he didn't understand what any of it meant.
"Maybe your definition of emergency varies from mine. Either way, that's neither here nor there – point is, I have a key, it's not breaking in." She smiled as he stepped closer, almost reluctantly, like a child about to be scolded.
"So why are you visiting unannounced then, Gill? And hiding out in my bedroom no less? Might give a bloke the wrong idea." He was on the offensive now, having reached her side he dropped his arms and loomed over her, trying to use his standing position to his advantage.
"Might give him the right idea too." She grinned unrepentantly up at him and watched as confusion, interest, fear and lust skittered across his face in rapid succession. "I'm here, Cal, because as you and I both know – turnabout's fair play."
"I've broken into your house and been unaware of it recently, have I?" She saw the fear again, followed by shame this time and she leaned back in the chair, re-crossing her legs.
"No, but we both know that if you'd gotten even more undressed before you noticed me, we'd still be nowhere near even." She could actually see him swallow, and he took a tiny, half-step back.
"How- how'd you know?" His voice sounded dry and oddly choked and she smiled gently up at him, reaching forward to take one of his hands.
"I couldn't be sure. I saw you come in, but didn't know how long you'd stayed. Until now." She saw confusion cross his face as he sank down onto the bed and stared at her.
"You knew I was-" She nodded in affirmation and he looked down and away. "How long?"
"A few weeks." Her voice was soft and she didn't let go of his hand, even when he tried to pull away from her.
"God, Gill, I am so sorry – I am – I mean what is wrong with me, yeah? I've just been – and you've," he exhaled harshly and she waited for him to finally stop twitching long enough to dare a look at her. When her eyes met his, she smiled.
"I'm sorry too – I'm sorry that you couldn't seem to find it in yourself to knock, Cal. But I'm not sorry you were there. You needed something, and I could provide it. So I did." She spoke simply, clearly and concisely. His eyes opened for a brief second, in surprise.
"You – you're – jesus, just unbelievable Gill. I was invading your privacy!" He waved a hand expressively as he shouted at her, and she shook her head fiercely.
"You don't get it, Cal. I knew you were there. I knew you were watching – so how is that invading my privacy? It's not. I let you watch, by not confronting you."
"Then why are doing it now?" His tone was resentful and he finally dragged his hand away from hers, pushing it through his hair as he stared at her. She sighed at the loss of contact.
"Because – because it's too often now. And you're getting all this calm and balance or whatever from it – and I'm – I want that too. But the current arrangement doesn't allow for me to have it." She folded her arms and glared at him, even as he was shaking his head in denial.
"No, no – Gillian you – you deserve better than this – than some half broken sod of a man who can't even handle his own shit properly." He shook his head again to emphasize his point. "No."
She stared at him in silence for a moment, before standing up quickly, an immense pressure building up in her chest until she felt like it was focussed just behind her eyes. "Who gave you the right to choose for me? Huh, Cal? Who made you the decision maker in all this, because I sure as hell didn't see the line up for that title? If I had, I would have shoved you the hell out of the way, so I got it. I love you. Okay? And nothing you do or don't do can take the power of that choice from me. I love you – I love you when you're supportive, I love you when you're being an asshole, I love you when you're hurting me, I love you when you're trying your best not to hurt me and hurting me even more in the process." She moved forward, grasping his shoulders and leaning down until her face was even with his. "You don't get to choose that for me Cal, and even if you did, you are god damned years too late about it."
"Gill," his protest was weak and she climbed onto the bed, straddling his waist with her knees and tilting his head up until his eyes met hers.
"No. No more arguing, no more deciding for the both of us that you're not good enough or that you'll screw things up. It's my turn as decision maker, Cal. And I have decided, that yes, you do fuck up monumentally every now and then – but luckily for you I am a perfectionist. And I hate failure. So we are going to do this," She pressed forward, grinding herself into his lap and he made a slight choked sound at the back of his throat. "and you are going to let us. You don't get to say no anymore, okay? Okay?" Her eyes were filled with tears and he swallowed heavily looking up at her. "Because this – what we do right now? It hurts, Cal. And I don't want to hurt anymore, and you don't want to hurt me, right?" Her voice was softer now, and he shook his head in response to her questions. His hands had come up to rest on her hips, and one had snaked it's way behind her, rubbing up along her back until it settled just below her hair, on the back of her neck.
"What if I-" His voice was rough and she moved one of her hands to cover his mouth, shaking her head.
"Don't talk. You'll ruin it if you talk." She grinned and she could feel his smile spread across her palm, before she felt his tongue sneak out and lick her there. She pulled her hand back, looking down at it. "I've got better uses for your-" His hand pulled her down and her mouth met his before she could finish her sentence.
It was silent, and heavy and breath-taking. And then his tongue stole into her mouth and she moaned and broke the silence that they had built. He hummed in response and his hand moved up into her hair, fisting there even as his other hand pulled down on her hip, pulling her against him.
She could feel the thickness of him, even through his jeans, and she rolled her hips with another moan. When his mouth moved from hers to slide down her jaw and neck, alternately nipping and soothing as he went, she gasped before pushing him back with a smile. She crawled over him, evading his reaching hands until she could lie down against his pillows and grin up at him as he rolled over to look at her with hot eyes.
"Where are you-"
"Like I said, Cal, turnabout's fair play. You got to watch me. Now it's my turn." She smiled sweetly before sitting up slightly and pulling her dress over her head and tossing it to the floor while he eyed her lasciviously.
"Wait – so last night, when you," he waved a hand and got to his knees, looking down at her, "You knew I was watching?"
She smiled up at him, her hands running up the thighs of his jeans until she encountered his hard length. She scraped her nails against it, before squeezing slightly and moving to undo his pants. "I did it because you were watching. And it was possibly the best orgasm I've ever given myself in my life." Her hands had just slid until the elastic band of his underwear and his cock twitched in her hand as her smile grew. "You got to watch me, now... I want to watch you."
"Then we're even?" His voice was hoarse as he looked down at her through heavily lidded eyes.
"Then we start a new game." She grinned as she pulled down his pants, eyeing his cock hungrily for a moment – it swayed toward her, straining and stretched tight. She sat back, and leaned against the pillows, her hand drifting down to the damp satin of her own panties. "But first, you need to catch up."
He grinned, grasping himself with ease and she smiled as she watched him roll left and kick off his pants and shoes before rolling back so he was laid out next to her, his hand still grasping himself tightly. "Alright love, but I don't think it's fair rally – if this is anything like last night it'll be a rather embarrassingly short show."
She didn't respond verbally, just turned on her side, her hand still pressed against the slippery satin over her clit as she watched his hand stroke up and down slowly. His eyes were on her, but all over her – her face and her breasts, her waist and hips, where her hand rested and even further down over her legs. He was stroking himself with one hand, the other cupping his balls gently. "You've got brilliant legs, you know that? I couldn't see those last night, but jesus – they are gorgeous Gill. And you're so tiny, how are they even possibly that long?" His voice was low and rough and she watched his hand, slipping her own inside her panties and sliding through the drenched wetness already there. God damn, but this man – his eyes and his hands and the way he walked and talked – everything about him turned her on so incredibly much. She whimpered, and his pace increased as he dragged his eyes back up her body, leaving her flushed with heat.
"Do you like it when I talk, Gillian?" She felt a moan catch in the back of her throat and he laughed, "Oh you do. Do you want to know what I was thinking as I watched you last night, darling? I was thinking that I would give my left arm to be able to hear you. Watching you was unbelievable, but I wanted to hear what you sounded like, writhing in ecstasy. Would you moan? Whimper? Squeal a bit when your fingers slipped inside and felt so warm and tight?" She was doing all three as his voice washed over her, and she drove her fingers inside at his words, one thumb still pressed against her clit while the two fingers inside curled up and hit just there and – oh.
"Oh God, Cal." She dragged his name out, her tongue curling around the 'l' as she moved her hand faster, trying to keep time with his. "Oh – oh – jesus – oh Cal."
She came, hard and fast, her vision going dark as wave after wave of light danced across the backs of her eyelids. It was over in a matter of seconds, and her breathing was laboured when she could finally see again, only to see him arch back, crying out her name as he convulsed beside her, his cock still in his hands as he milked every last drop of his orgasm out.
She was still flushed as she stared at him, before leaning over to kiss him gently, once, twice and the third time it was fiercer, as passion reignited. He kissed her thoroughly, one hand on her ass, dragging her against him and the other in her hair. They kissed like it was necessary to survival, like teenagers, or like two people so desperately in love, the only thing that existed for them was each other. Her orgasm had been insanely intense but she ached inside, hollow and empty and she felt him grow hard between them even as she climbed on top of him.
She didn't even bother removing her underwear, just yanked them to one side before sinking down onto him with a delighted groan as his hands gripped her hips tightly. He tore his mouth from hers with a grunt.
"Oh Jesus, Gill, you're gonna fucking kill me." She groaned in satisfaction, rocking her hips against him as her hands gripped his biceps, curling around flesh and ink.
"Oh so much better." She sighed the words out, continuing to move, up and down and up and down. His hands tightened, pushing and pulling with her as his eyes rolled into the back of his head.
"Oh, god – Gill, Gill, -" Her tempo increased and flesh smack against flesh with a soft squelching noise. Her legs trembled from clenching his hips so tightly and her arms ached from holding herself upright. She was pretty sure her nails had embedded themselves in his arms, and would mar his tattoos with tiny crescent shaped scars. He was bucking his hips up now and she could feel another orgasm building, lifting and rising until she couldn't feel anything anymore, except the pounding of his pulse, deep within her with every stroke they made. Finally, she came, his name spilling from her mouth over and over again as she ground down against him, pressing her clit into his pelvic bone until she could see stars as her arms gave way and she collapsed on top of him abruptly.
His cry was not far behind hers and he pressed up, up, up into her, burying his face in the hollow of her neck, wet with sweat as he strained into her with a grunt before relaxing suddenly beneath her. They lay there, in silence, collapsed in exhaustion, each of them breathing heavily.
She was pressing small kisses to his chest, shoulders, arms, and above his heart between pants, and his arms were wrapped loosely around her waist – heavy and inanimate. The silence wrapped around them in the same way and she snuggled into him with a tired smile.
"Gill?" His voice was a whisper that stirred the hair by her ear and she hmmm'd in response, too tired to form words or even coherent thoughts. "I think you should be the decision maker for the rest of our lives. Really, you make the bloody best decisions ever."
His arms tightened around her before sliding her off of him and tucking her into his side, dragging the blanket off of the foot of the bed to pull over them, to ward off a chill. "You're welcome." Her smile was as slow as her words, and his shoulder shook as he chuckled.
"I'm sorry for being bollocks at the job." His voice was quiet and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head, lingering there for a moment, his face pressed into her crown and she sighed in contentment. "But you know I love you too." It wasn't a question, it was a statement and she smiled, snaking her arm around his middle and trying to get closer, which wasn't really possible.
"You'll be okay. I'll be okay, Cal. But we'll? We'll be great."