Author's Note: This story, told from Reese's point of view, is a remix of the inspired erotic tale, "Event Horizon" by rose_griffes. In her original story, the vantage point was Carter's. If you haven't read that marvelous masterwork, run and do so at once.
Watching her control unravel, thread by fraying thread, was a surprising turn on for him.
John was used to being in charge, of course. In every situation, he had mastered how to manipulate, command, threaten, break, or flirt until he achieved his way. His survival and the safety of those he protected demanded nothing less than perfection from him in these skills; they were as important to his success as an encyclopedic knowledge of weapons or an intimacy with poisons.
So when he let go, when he let Joss take over the first two times they were together, he felt like it was a gift to himself as much as an expression of his ardor for her.
He had enjoyed the way her hands positioned him just right, the way she skipped over the kissing and went straight for what she wanted. Her frankness, the disregard for the clichéd niceties of the storybook female role, was thrilling to him.
The urgency of her desire for him in that first encounter six weeks ago was flattering, of course. But he understood enough about himself to recognize what an immense relief it was to just let go, to let someone else be in charge of his body and its responses.
Now, however, he wanted to direct the show.
He had brought her to his loft as a first step in this campaign for control. The anonymous hotel or empty safe house wouldn't work for his purposes now. He wanted Joss off-stride, in unfamiliar territory, not a neutral zone, but his own space with its subtle revelations of his inner life.
He hadn't let her explore the loft, but instead kissed her into compliance as he walked her backwards from the door to the leather couch where they now sat.
She is straddling his lap, her muscles bunching over his erection, so she knew that his energy was already focused on the end goal. He lets her get his dress shirt off with a quick maneuver that she must have thought was clever, because her lips curled up in satisfaction and her dimples winked at him.
Having her head slightly above his is a new sensation that fires his senses and makes him waver in his determination to take it slow tonight. Watching her looking down at him, her smooth brown face smiling at him like that, is more erotically disconcerting than he would have imagined.
She runs her hands over his t-shirt – he was not mistaken, she did deliberately linger more than a moment in teasing attention to his nipples - and her fingers curl around the hem, but he grabs both wrists and halts her progress. The t-shirt stays on. If he doesn't keep this barrier between them the game will be lost too early.
He watches a change sweep over her features; her mouth relaxes, her brow smoothes: she is relenting, not submitting exactly, but allowing him to lead this for now.
She runs a palm over his head, in reverse fashion, from nape to front. He assumes that his hair has lost its rigorous shape and when she first eyes and then plays with the damned cowlick at his temple he knows that she is enjoying herself. Enjoying him.
He concentrates on kissing her then. He touches the little furrow at her upper lip with his tongue, tracing the two arms of the bow from center to corner, center to corner. Her lips look soft and they feel soft. They look wet and they let him slide into her without resistance. Her tongue is waiting but doesn't rise to meet his, simply languishes while he runs his tongue along her teeth.
He draws his tongue out and sucks on her bottom lip like he has wanted to do all day. It feels plump and firm, like the lobe of a tangerine. So he draws his lips back and touches his teeth to her lip. He won't bite her, but the pressure of his teeth lets her know he could. He slides both hands around the back of her head to keep her face where he wants it and presses his tongue back into her mouth. Her jaw slackens to receive him and he feels the groan that rumbles through her throat.
She is opening herself to him, giving herself up in this simple act. In a way that is so utterly abandoned that it sends shockwaves to his groin and beyond. He is patient, but goal-oriented and it's more difficult than he had imagined to keep to his original plan.
"I didn't realize I was signing up for just a make-out session."
Her words cut through the fog and re-focus his mind. She might have intended to sound sharp and sassy, but the breathless way the words come out makes desire the most prominent element in her tone.
"Good things come to those who wait."
He was teasing her, but he couldn't keep it up for long, relenting with an admission:
"I've thought about this for a long time."
All of the thoughts he'd had for this moment flood into his mind at once. But only a few of them are explicitly erotic. He saw her open before him, arms up to receive him, her hair spread in a halo across his pillow. He saw her breasts compressed beneath his weight, her stomach falling and rising to mold to his own.
But he also saw himself stretched beside her in bed holding a book over their heads, reading a passage out loud to her. He saw them standing side by side in the kitchen, rolling out dough for Sunday biscuits. He saw them riding on his motorcycle away from the city and its dangers.
When he looks up again, she is studying his face with the devotion of a novice scholar, her eyes roving from his mouth, to his eyes, to his hairline and back to his mouth. The pressure over his erection is intensifying as she moves against his pelvis, the seams and creases of his trousers heightening the delicious sensations coursing through his body.
She seems so serious that he is eager to break her mood and surprise her. So he grabs her ass and lifts her up with him as he stands. Joss wraps her legs around his hips, squeezing tightly as her hands grip his shoulders.
She feels substantial in his arms, muscular and lean. When they get to the bed he places her carefully in the middle, lying down next to her. He positions his left leg between hers and slowly moves his thigh up until he can give her a slight bit of pressure at the fork of her thighs. She moans in appreciation of the contact and moves to try to rub more, but he pulls back.
Propping himself over her, he uses his left hand to draw a line from the corner of her eye to her cheekbones, gently stroking over the slope as it meets the roundness of her cheek.
She imitates his gesture, lifting her hand to trace a line from his cheekbone to the corner of his lips. He watches as her pink tongue darts out from between her swollen flushed lips. The contrast of pink with red is intoxicating and he wants his mouth in contact with her again. But he chooses a different location this time, licking the pads of her fingers one by one and then pulling three of them into his mouth. The sucking is so satisfying that he lets a small moan rumble from his throat.
He returns his mouth to hers, this time coaxing her tongue between his lips. All of his attention, all of his care and concern is focused on making this one kiss convey everything he has inside him.
Dry-humping was an unsatisfactory craft at best, imitating the real thing without the danger or the delight. He never did get beyond second base with the fickle and frustrating high school girls he had known. A woman - twenty-five years old to his seventeen - who worked at the restaurant with his mother, had taken his virginity and left him proud, puzzled, and fiercely craving more.
By now he knew from experiences on several continents that women found him attractive; sometimes he wished he could go back in time and tell his younger self that it would all work out, that the worry is pointless, that it does get better.
But those skills of delayed gratification did have a purpose and he was determined to put them to good use with Joss now.
His erection is pressing hard against her hip; he is eager and ready for her. With an adorable frown, she bends her knee upward and slides her leg under his until he is between her legs. With her stomach pressed to his, her hip jutting against his, she gives him a smug look and begins rocking her hips upward.
He grins down at her desperate action.
"In a hurry?"
To show him just how ready she is, she grips his hips with her thighs; the power of her muscles catches him by surprise as does the tiny growl she emits as his body hits hers at just the right angle.
Now that she is pressing against him, he wants to re-establish his control. He leans in and kisses her again, his tongue thrusting in and out in rude imitation of the movement of their hips rocking together. She moans again as his erection rubs against her. Even through their clothes, he can feel the heat of their friction increasing at every point of contact: chests, groin, thighs, knees, feet. Every inch of skin is crackling with the gorgeous static of their movements.
Joss reaches between their bodies and he prepares to jerk back, but all she does is flutter her fingers along the hem of his t-shirt. As her fingernails skip across his stomach, his muscles there involuntarily contract and he breathes a heavy sigh against her cheek.
He wants this for her, from her, before his passion slips over the edge into incoherence.
So he slides his left hand down, pushing past the waistband of her trousers. He feels the crisp curls at the triangle between her thighs, but then pulls his hand back to unbutton and unzip her pants. Quickly he returns his fingers to their quest and the stroking and caressing soon make her slick and swollen with desire.
His erection is insistent against her hip and he can feel moisture collecting in his mouth. The ache he feels is a good one, low and throbbing in his stomach, spreading in concentric circles through every limb and joint. He doesn't feel close to climax yet, but the certainty of it spurs his gestures as he touches her heated nerve endings.
It excites him to watch her reactions to his caresses: the way her brown fingers first grasp the sheet and then dig into his shoulder as he looms over her, driving her on and on. Her concentration has turned inward, to the sensations he is creating in her body. Her face is focused, its contours softened by passion and expectation. Her lips are pressed together and her eyes are half-closed, glittering with suppressed tension.
He twists his fingers, bringing her closer, closer. Through clenched teeth, she lets out a series of one-syllable words:
"Good. Yes. Please."
He thinksshe is not so much instructing him as communing with herself. Her eyelids drift closed and he is tempted to say her name in order to make her look at him again. He wants her to acknowledge him, to join him, to be with him in this delirious crisis.
As the echoing momentum gathers within him, he wonders if it is possible that he might reach his climax simply by watching the beautiful completion of her own. He decides he wouldn't mind if that were to happen.
He leans closer and scrapes his teeth across her neck, tugging gently at her skin until she falls over the edge with a keening wail.
The throbbing in his body pulses in sympathy with her orgasm. He draws her near to his chest and studies her face as she comes down. After a few moments of quiet Joss opens her eyes again, her round face only a breath away from his.
He knows he is blinking, perhaps to focus his eyes, perhaps to contain a tear. He leans his chest against her body and synchronizes his breathing with hers as she calms. His erection is hard, vital, demanding against her thigh again, but he doesn't want to complete this act yet.
She looks so soft, so vulnerable, so tamed and placid lying in his arms like this. He feels she is truly his at last and he is truly hers. He doesn't know how to say any of this or even if he would say it if he could find the words.
So he breathes against her neck and tells her simply: "You're beautiful."
He is afraid that even that is too much when he sees her half-smile. She deflects the compliment, saying nothing in return. Instead she kisses him gently one more time and then reaches her hand down to undo his trousers.