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family don't end with blood —
CLUB FREE WILL MASTERPOST
— welcome to the losers club, asshole!
STARRING
BABY
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Beverly wonders what would happen if she scooted over just a little to the left, if they sat shoulder to shoulder instead. She wonders if she'd have to say anything then, or if that would be enough, just a gentle nudge in the direction they're all but careening towards. Would his hand leaving the steering wheel and lace with hers, or rest on her knee? Would the conversation — what are they even talking about? She's only half paying attention — peter out or would it meander on, as painfully casual as they're trying to keep it? Because it is a dance, isn't it, and they're still figuring out the steps; a little faltering, some uncertainty, careful not to overstep in a dozen different ways, but no doubt eager to see it through.
Holy shit. She has to tuck her hands under her thighs for the rest of the drive, she feels like she's vibrating so much that they're probably trembling. Blame it on the cold November night. Sure.
They pull up to her place. (That was fast.) She looks out the window just as he does, as if she doesn't know what her own home looks like, and huffs out a breathless yeah at his initial quip. God, the bar. She's got booze in her living room. Why is she being so goddamn polite about this? Isn't it fucking obvious what they want by now? The thought of having to share his company with a cramped, crowded room is almost infuriating; all she wants is more of this, just the two of them, exploring what could be in privacy. Even if it's just talking and one of her own records playing over the speakers, it could sustain her until after his case is done.
Right? ]
Uh, five-ish blocks? [ she answers after a delay, clearly having second thoughts. Bev takes a breath and shifts to face him now, hand braced between them, leaning back against the seat just as she brings her left leg up to rest the flat of her thigh on the bench. Completely casually. Like this is her couch. Somehow, her voice and smile are steadier than her fluttering nerves. ] Hey, [ she says, catching his gaze in the half-lit shadows, ] thanks for breakfast, by the way. And for making time to see me — I know it's kind of a trek for you, even if it is for work.
[ There's no I was just in the neighbourhood when you live and work primarily in the midwest. She thinks back to her realisation in the diner, lips parting for a few seconds before she asks the question she's been wondering the whole drive over: ]
Is it just for work?
[ Not just this time, maybe not even every time, but most of the times he's been in town. She's not crazy, right? It's not vain to think that maybe, maybe — ]
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is it just for work?
— and everything he might have said goes floating out of his head. none of it seems relevant anymore, the shift in the air growing almost unbearable.
the question lingers heavily, palpable. it's about time she caught on, huh. there aren't many reasons he'd drive halfway across the country, and most of them don't involve hunting. it's an easy excuse, but it's never been the real reason. her laugh, the the way her eyes crinkle at the edges, the brightness of her smile — can he really be blamed for wanting more of that? for wanting to see her in person and not on the other side of a screen? for wanting to memorize every freckle, every smile, every angle and curve of her body? she makes him feel alive in a way he hasn't felt in a long, long time. maybe it's selfish to chase that feeling, but then he thinks maybe she's chasing something too.
he lets out a short huff of breathless laughter that gets caught somewhere between them, the space he wishes were closer. wishes she was closer. his hand is practically itching to touch her, to reach out and hold her face, brush the hair behind her ear, but something about the way she parts her lips, steadies her gaze on him keeps him frozen in place. he's never really known restraint until he met her, never really needed it — it's always been so obvious, no room for doubt; comparatively, picking up girls in a bar is easy, no question about where they're going or what they're doing. but this isn't a bar, and she isn't just some random encounter.
is it just for work? echoes in his head, leaving him almost dizzy. he almost says if it was, i wouldn't have bought you breakfast, but something about it doesn't feel right. there's something about this moment that feels important, like he's standing at a crossroads trying to decide which way to go. if he forges ahead, will she be right there with him? )
It never really was. ( which isn't something he'd normally admit, the truth of it ballooning his his chest, and suddenly he feels too warm, color rising to his cheeks (it's just the heat, but they both know it isn't), something coiling hot and low in his belly, stoking a flame that's been begging to come to life. and maybe it's the way she's looking at him, or the ambiance of foreigner, or the thrill of something new that spurs him on, feeling lighter than he has in ages. it's a leap of faith, really; maybe he can't name it just yet, but there's something between them worth believing in, worth taking a chance on. ) Gotta be honest, Bev, New York ain't exactly worth the trip unless you're here.
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Yeah? [ Faint, with a helpless smile spreading like the dawn. Warmth and delight flood her face, an airy laugh breaking free before she can stop it. ] Well, [ she breathes, pulse quickening, ] it's something else when you're here, too.
[ His answer is as much a surprise as it isn't. She's sure there's a part of her that knew, on some hopeful, subconscious level, that this thing brewing between them has been there a lot longer than either of them dared to admit. She knew, but she didn't let herself see these visits for what they really were until now, until they both had permission to act freely and unselfishly on the real reason behind each rendezvous. Oh, sure, maybe it started out platonically enough; she wasn't ready to pursue romantic notions for a long time, not so soon after being betrayed and confused by those feelings. She wanted to figure herself out first, really get to know who she was before getting to know anyone else with the same intimacy. Like Dean.
Dean, who snuck up on her in a way she never could have anticipated. Dean, who was there for her just like the Losers — but with a lifetime of experience behind the support he offered when the nights got too bad. (When did she start to imagine what it would be like to hear the soothing murmur of his voice against the shell of her ear, instead of the hard press of her phone?) He always managed to make her laugh and forget, even for a little while, about the dreams and Tom and the fucking clown. She never felt guilty for unloading all her crap on him, not in the way she did with the others. He took everything she was in his cupped hands and offered himself right back. He was — is — right in that weird world with her and still outside of it, as familiar as he is new.
He slotted into the whirlwind of her life so neatly, she barely even noticed until now how well he fit. It should scare her. Past experience has taught her to be so wary of moments exactly like this one. But she's learned to trust her gut again, and nothing feels out of place here. In fact, it's the opposite — his place is right here, with her, and she wants him there. Wants him closer. Wants him.
Fuck it. ]
Dean? [ she murmurs after a stretch, his name softer than she's ever said it. ] Can I...
[ Her nerves may be alight with a dozen emotions she can't name, but it's resolve that keeps them steady as she gazes back at him, his expression, open and honest in the streetlight's glow. His lips. Distantly, she's aware of the silence as the music fades out, and she thinks her heart is beating loud enough to fill it. (Be brave, she thinks suddenly, Stanley's letter flashing to her mind's eye.) And somewhere, in the space between memory and the present (where she so often lives), she takes a breath and closes the space between them.
It happens slowly, gently, like everything else about their relationship: Beverly leans in, eyes falling closed, and kisses him. It's sweet, almost chaste, but it's the match strike that sets the kindling between them ablaze. ]
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and then like the strike of a match it happens — dean? — and he loves when she says his name, the way it catches on her breath before the start of a question she doesn't quite finish. she doesn't have to. his answer is clear on his face, the steadiness of his gaze, the breath he forgets to take before she leans in and —
if dean didn't have personal experience with death and the afterlife, he might have thought he'd died and gone to heaven the way the moment hits him like a train, practically knocks the breath right out of him, because as much as he'd been hoping for it, he hadn't expected it, and somehow it still catches him unawares, like he isn't entirely sure it's real. but dean's been to heaven before, has seen with his own two eyes exactly which memories he'd be replaying for eternity if he were to kick the bucket right now — fireworks on the fourth of july, early morning breakfasts with mom — and, honestly, he's pretty sure this one, the moment they're creating right now, he'd live in for years, decades, a lifetime. bev kisses him and it's like those fourth of july fireworks are exploding right inside his chest, lighting him up from the inside like a damn lite-brite. her lips are soft, sweet with a hint of syrup, and when dean leans in, his mouth pliant beneath hers, opening slowly almost as if in question, he knows this is real. she's real and so is the thing curling in his abdomen, the warmth of desire for something more.
his hand reaches out, settling against her neck, brushing under her ear, gently pulling her forward, closer. how long has he waited for this? how many times has he dreamed about this exact moment and what's sure to follow? (sometimes in the bunker, sometimes in her apartment, sometimes in the backseat.) distantly, he's aware of the track changing, lou gramm belting i have waited oh so long; he knew when they pulled up exactly what track was next, but it's not like he'd planned for bev to kiss him at that exact moment (hadn't planned on bev kissing him at all). his mouth curves against hers, a silent laugh pressed to her mouth, and when he pulls away just enough to take a breath, he can't help the delighted chuckle that rises from his throat. it's like his own car is calling him out. )
I swear I didn't set that up to come on just now. ( it's not like he picked double vision on purpose; it was all luck of the draw, really. maybe his box of cassettes is trying to tell him something (open your fucking eyes, winchester, the best thing that's ever happened to you is right in front of you). dreaming of you every night, holding back until the time was right — christ, he's practically blushing like a schoolgirl. ) But you have no idea how long I've been waiting for this.
( since the first time i saw you he can't say. the weight of a confession like that — it's too soon, it's too complicated. she was married, he was just passing through. nothing could have happened. dean gave her his card and never expected to hear from her again, never thought his phone would ring and he'd hear her voice on the other end. (he never forgot about her, either, would find himself every now and then letting his thoughts drift back to the fashion designer from new york with hair like the dawn sky and eyes like a bright summer afternoon, never for too long, but long enough to wonder.) and yet ... somehow they've found their way back into each other's lives, despite all the odds that should have been working against them. their lives shouldn't be compatible: he doesn't even have a home address and spends most of his time in an underground bunker when he isn't hunting down things that most people don't even believe exist; and bev? she's practically famous, a household name in the right circles. she should be his total opposite, and maybe in a different life she would be, but in this one — well, she's got the hunter's spirit, even if that isn't her life.
he pulls her in for another kiss, his other hand coming to rest on her calf, resisting the urge to slide it up her thigh. his next words come in between their lips meeting, like he can barely stand to retreat from her mouth. )
I hope we're not gonna sit here getting serenaded by Foreigner all night. ( not that he'd mind that much, but — ) What do you say? Wanna get out of here?
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God, she's wanted this for so long, been afraid for so long, but she's never felt more certain or more alive than she does right here, right now. There's something about kissing him and being kissed that really kicks off the feedback loop of he wants me he wants me he wants me in her buzzing mind. When he breaks away, she chases after him instinctively, his laugh rumbling against her lips instead. Whether it's that, the kiss, or his words that make her smile, it's hard to say; but she does rest her forehead against his, eyes drifting open to half-mast like that'll help jolt her back to reality enough to pay attention. She tips her head just enough to look at the radio without drawing away, curled into him as she is, then huffs a laugh of her own when the lyrics hit. Right on cue, huh? ]
Very smooth, [ she teases on a whisper, eyes flicking back to meet his. The hand on his cheek shifts, thumb resting at the corner of his mouth as her gaze drops back to his lips. ] And I think I've got some idea.
[ Maybe she doesn't have the full picture yet, doesn't know just how far or how deep this goes for him — but she's beginning to understand; how could she not? She can feel the exhilaration radiating from him (she's not the only one glowing), pouring into the first kiss, the second, and it leaves her breathless. Even if Dean wanted her longer, Beverly sure as hell wasn't far behind once she realised she was ready to run, to meet him right in the middle with her heart in hand and a wide stretch of road before them.
She could lose herself in this, in him, their kisses no less reverent but certainly more searing, too, as the want for something more than this swirls between them; at some point her leg drops so she can slide along the leather seat until they're pressed flush, thigh to thigh, her hand slipping under his jacket so that it can rest just there on his waist. Bold. Deliberate. When they pause for breath, she doesn't move, cheeks flushed and suddenly feeling too damn hot in her sweater. ]
You saying we're too old to make out in your dad's car?
[ She grins, nose brushing against his just before she tips her head to press another kiss to his lips. It's just a peck, but with the way her hand is curled into his hair at the nape of his neck, it's clear she could go for more. And then — Wanna get out of here? Oh. Oh, fuck. Her stomach swoops at the question, more with arousal than nerves this time, as she realises — yeah. Yeah, she really, really does. Her worries about rushing into this seem so far away, now that they're more than on the same page about... all of it. ]
Yeah, [ she sighs, eyes closed, full of longing. Her next words ride on a groan. ] God, honey, I do, more than anything. But what about your case?
[ This is not a Real Excuse. But even though she knows, now, that she's the reason for his trips to the northeast, there's still genuine concern and consideration for the job and his brother. Because yeah — their lives shouldn't intersect the way they do, but it works because they get it. This is part of that. She kisses him again to soften it. ]
I want you to stay. But if you've gotta go...
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he laughs against her mouth, a low rumble of hot air trapped between them. )
You know what he'd say if he were here? "This ain't a motel, son."
( but he hopes john is looking down on him and smiling, at least, that he was able to carve out some slice of happiness in this crapshoot of a life they've been handed. every time bev kisses him it feels like a damn prayer to all the powers that be — let him have this. let him have her. his entire life, he's never asked for much; he's taken what he could get, lost so much more, never asked for anything in return for everything he gave (and gave and gave). bev feels like something real. hell, bev makes him feel things he never thought he'd feel again, and he sure as hell isn't about to let her go that easy. )
Hey. ( softly, his hand on her calf reaching up to settle against her wrist, solid and sure. ) Does it look like I'm going anywhere?
( which is more of a rhetorical question, because the answer lies firmly within his eyes, his steady gaze. he wants this, the case be damned. sam can handle a night on his own, can handle the damn coroner in the morning, too. sure, he'll probably be pissed, but this is the least stupid thing dean has done in the middle of a case. it's to be expected, really (though he usually wouldn't stay the night, come crashing back into the motel room at three or four in the morning; bev's certainly the exception there because dean has no intention of dining and dashing, so to speak). )
I don't wanna think about work, Bev. ( he tips his mouth toward her neck, peppering light kisses beneath her ear, along her jawline. his breath is warm against her ear when he whispers, ) I just want you.
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God, she wants him and she knows it's really fucking mutual, but she had to ask. She had to check. It's been so long for her and it's always gone so wrong; she can't remember the last time she's ever trusted a man intimately like this. Trusted herself with him. This is worth slowing down for, at least for a few moments on the threshold, before they go tumbling through together. Point of no return.
She's always been afraid of floating away. With a touch, he brings her right back to earth. Does it look like I'm going anywhere? With a glance, she gets her answer, and she can feel her blush washing down her chest with how unwavering he is. (Oh.) She shakes her head once, barely a twitch, their noses brushing, the air warm and shivery between them. When his lips graze her throat, her eyes flutter closed with a silent exhale; when he whispers into the curve of her ear, her hand curls through his hair, heat spiking straight through her core.
Oh. Holy shit. ]
Okay. [ Whispered, a little lightheaded with joy and thrumming arousal. She turns her head just enough to kiss his temple, breathing him in for a heartbeat, before repeating on an airy laugh, ] Okay. Fuck.
[ Untangling herself from him is... difficult. (She doesn't manage it without at least two more fleeting, heated kisses.) Baby's parked safely right up front; stepping out into the icy air for the brief walk from the curb to the lobby is the shock Beverly's brain needs to keep her shit together until they get upstairs. She tries to look cool in front of her grizzly, sharp-eyed doorman Baz. He knows her usual guests. He even knows Dean. And judging by the Look he shoots them, he definitely knows this is the first time Dean's come up — that he's the first to come up at this hour at all. (God, she's gonna be interrogated tomorrow.)
Beverly's aching to wind her arm around Dean as they wait for the elevator. It's only until the doors close and they're on their way up that she gives in to that urge at the exact same time he does, pulling each other flush together for another fervent kiss until the ding announces their arrival to the tenth floor. (The doors almost close on them again until Dean throws out an arm out to stop them, Beverly laughing against his mouth.) And then it's a matter of getting to her front door, rummaging in her purse for her keys, nerves and anticipation and every emotion in between making her fingers fumble.
— or no, no, it's not just the nerves. It's the fact that Dean goddamn Winchester has his hands around her waist, his lips at the nape of her neck, and — ]
Oh my God, [ oh my fucking God, she's — ] Gonna drop my keys, [ she mumbles, leaning back into the circle of his arms. It's a valiant effort, getting her keys into the lock anyway; she gets one, forgets the deadbolt until the door rattles in its frame when she tries to open it. Very smooth. ] Dean.
[ Damn near a moan, low in her throat, like a half-hearted warning. She tries again, key scraping into the lock like she's drunk. She feels like she is. Click, click, click, and then they're finally in, Beverly turning to curl her free hand into his jacket to tug him in gently after her, walking backwards. Keys and purse drop, both hands now free to roam, her voice hushed against his lips. ]
Honey, you're driving me crazy.
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What? Am I distracting you? ( he whispers behind her ear, nipping lightly at the cartilage. he knows exactly how distracting he's being, but she manages to get the door unlocked nonetheless, and maybe he's a little proud of her for being able to ignore him enough to do that much. he's being tugged inside before he knows it, the door shutting closed behind them. god, this is it, isn't it? this is really happening. he barely gets a good look at her place before they're moving, her hands on him, her mouth pressed soft against his, but even a cursory glance tells him a few things that do funny things to his stomach: the lamp that was already on, a mug of something that was hot at one point sitting cold next to her laptop open on her coffee table. just how quickly had she rushed out to meet him when he texted? )
Feeling's mutual, babe. ( he shrugs out of his jacket, heavy with all the hidden weapons tucked away in its pockets, drapes it over the nearest piece of furniture, rushing forward to meet her lips again, his hands slipping under her sweater. he feels like he might combust if he doesn't get out of all these layers; there's too much separating them, too much fabric. he pushes her sweater up, coaxing her out of it. they haven't even made it to the bedroom or out of most of their clothes, but he feels it's important to add: ) God, you're beautiful.
( he's not just saying it to say it, he really means it. there's warmth in the way it comes out of his mouth that's seeped in the feelings he doesn't quite know how to express yet, the feelings he doesn't have a name for because he never thought he'd be allowed to have those feelings again, let alone explore them with someone like bev — who, by all rights, he doesn't deserve. that she wants him at all is a fucking miracle; she knows who he is, what he does, and still she wants to take him to bed, all strings attached. he doesn't know what road they're on together yet, or where it might ultimately lead, but he's glad to be on it with her.
he bends down for a second to loosen his laces, nearly crashes back into her when he tries to kick of his boots with one foot. )
Fuck, ( he laughs, catching himself on her shoulder, his face flushed with equal parts arousal and embarrassment. ) Damn boots.
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Babe. He says it so easily, in the same warm cadence that he calls her Bev, but it's new and it makes her stomach swoop, a surprised smile tugging at her lips just before he presses his to them again. He's right; too many clothes, too warm under them, and being free of her sweater is like a breath of air — one she needs when she emerges from it with tousled curls to be met with you're beautiful. Again that effortless charm buoyed by the sincerity in his gaze, and even under the warm lamplight it's clear how that compliment lands: Eyes bright and pupils blown, cheeks blooming with colour, kiss-swollen lips parted and breathless.
It hangs there for a moment before she has to duck her head with a smile that's almost, suddenly, self-conscious, tucking her hair behind her ear. Standing here in the first home she's ever been able to decorate and call her own, bare-faced and tshirt-clad, she's never felt more unapologetically herself or more seen. What surprises her more is how much she doesn't mind it; how she's glad it's Dean, how it's okay it's Dean. The spell is broken when he tries to get out of his boots — whatever she's feeling releases in a bright peal of laughter, jolting her back to the present. ]
Okay, okay, [ she's saying, catching the hand at her shoulder only to lift it to her lips in a sudden impulse to kiss it, ] slow down, cowboy, I got you.
[ And she does. Bev bends to unzip her own boots, getting them and her socks off in one smooth motion before shoving them aside to kneel on one knee, helping Dean out of his. Unlike with the keys, she's steadier here, slender fingers unpicking knotted laces before easing off one boot then the other. ]
There, [ she murmurs, glancing up at him with a quirk of her lips before rising again, trailing her hands slowly up his legs before settling on his waist like an anchor point as she meets his gaze. It's another moment to breathe, slow the tempo of this dance just a little, and she rises up on her toes to kiss him again — but this time it's softer, slower, more languid.
This is new territory for them both after months of will-they-won't-they friendship and even with her heart hammering in anticipation, she wants to do this right. Feels like she's never had a chance to do this right before, but she's also never cared about it — the guy — as much as she does now. She breaks away after a moment, lips brushing and lashes fluttering open to look at him, thumbs sweeping back and forth over the edge of his ribs as though to soothe both him and herself. (Okay, she's a little nervous.) ] This is okay, right?
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You're something else, you know that?
( it's rhetorical, mostly, but it is still a valid question. he hopes she knows exactly how incredible she is, that she's the one doing this to him, making him practically weak at the knees. it's been a long time since he was this into someone, more than just casually. he thinks he could probably get off on her undressing him alone, but if they're really doing this, he'd rather hold out for the main event. (maybe another time; he can't imagine after this that there won't be another time. some people are meant to be savored, to be appreciated to their fullest. he doesn't think this will sate either of them, not with the way their desire and hunger go hand in hand, the way he already feels drunk from kissing her. how could he ever get enough of her?)
she pulls him in again, his mouth pliant under hers as he eases out of his flannel, letting it drop haphazardly on the floor. her hands on his waist sends a wave of heat down his spine and he wishes desperately that they were lower. his teeth tug lightly at her lower lip as she breaks the kiss, a feeble attempt to draw her back in. if it occurs to him she might be nervous, he doesn't say anything about it (it's only natural to be a little nervous). )
More than okay. ( there aren't words for how okay this is. his skin feels like is buzzing; all he wants to do is touch her, everywhere, feel the heat of her under his palms, and he can now, but there's still an element of too much, too soon he has to be aware of. the last man she was with was tom, her abusive shithead of an ex-husband, so he wants to do this right as much as she does. he doesn't want to overwhelm her, scare her off, make her feel like she's just another notch on his belt — not that it's ever been like that; she's never been that to him, but he can never be too sure. maybe he's leading this particular dance, but they're both in it together, easing into the steps with each other, learning how they fit, finding a balance.
and just in case his answer wasn't convincing enough, he smiles softly, his eyes creasing at the edges, brushing her hair behind her ear. his voice is low when he speaks again, rough with want but still gentle. ) If it gets too much, we don't have to.
( he doesn't want her to feel obligated to do anything. if it turns out they get to the bedroom and she changes her mind, he's more than happy to just stay the night and spoon. at the end of the day, he's here for her, regardless of what form that takes. )
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She won't let it. Not after everything. This kiss burns, the catch of teeth stokes that fire in her belly, makes her hands curl into his shirt. She feels like she's vibrating from the inside-out, thinks she can feel the waves of desire and anticipation rolling off him too, but she's still holding her breath until he tells her it's okay. Moments like these have always been twisted in her past; she has to know she hasn't tricked him or herself into this. She doesn't even realise how much is hinging on his answer until she hears it, until he softens it with a smile and an offer she's heard before but trusts now. (God, she trusts him so much. They wouldn't be here if she didn't.)
Beverly closes her eyes, tipping her cheek into the warm curve of his hand even as she nods against it, letting him know what he's said has landed gently, as intended. For the first time, it's not shame but gratitude she feels for how much he understands the ghosts she's carrying with her; it bleeds into the sliver of space between them, overwhelming and unspoken, and though she doesn't thank him in so many words, she does it with a kiss to his open palm instead. ]
I want to, [ she whispers against it a moment later, eyes drifting open to look at him in the half light. Her voice doesn't shake; it smoulders. She means it, body and soul. Beverly takes a breath, cheek hot against his skin as her blush deepens and she murmurs, ] Come on.
[ She smiles, a quiet and almost shy thing, then tips her head towards the open door just a few steps away in a silent invitation, pulse pounding in her ears.
Her bedroom reflects the simple elegance of the rest of her apartment, all a far cry from the dark and oppressive home she lived in when they first met. Her unmade bed is the king-sized centrepiece in ivory sheets, lit by the warm glow of a single lamp in the far corner and sitting parallel to a wide window overlooking Central Park (twinkling in the distance, the Upper East Side). Even at midnight, it's a killer view, but Beverly only has eyes for the man in front of her. She's drinking in the sight of him, the way his eyes catch the light, her hands sliding under the hem of his shirt to push it up (and, ideally, off), eager to press her lips against the electric heat of his bare skin — and then backs of her thighs hit the edge of the mattress.
A laugh bubbles free then, a little release of nerves — good nerves — and she looks behind her and back to him, bottom lip caught between her teeth in a grin. ]
Sorry about the mess, [ she says a little breathlessly, and maybe she means her room, but maybe she means herself too, a little. ] It's just... it's been a while.
[ In every possible way. ]
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he barely parts from her on the way to her bedroom, chasing after her mouth as she draws them in further. under normal circumstances, he'd be surveying the space around him, checking quickly for points of entry and exit (single entrance, one window, tenth floor, roughly a hundred foot drop to street level), but he knows bev is safe, which gives him more opportunity to really appreciate her without worrying about whether or not she might secretly be a monster out to get him (it's happened more than once, which is one too many times in his book, even if that is technically par for the course for a hunter as infamous as he is). under her heady gaze he feels naked already; her hands against his bare skin send a pleasant tingle down his spine and further still. he catches her as she backs into the mattress, his hands settling at her back to keep her from toppling over just yet.
a smile creeps onto his face when she laughs and his gaze doesn't falter from her even when she casts a look at the room behind her. he tips his head to the side to meet her halfway when she turns back to him with an apology. he leans in to kiss her as if to say don't worry about it, but what comes out when he pulls away is simply a soft: )
I know. ( which is true. he's been there since ... well, the beginning of her post-derry life, hasn't he? he knows just how long it's been since that phone call, how long she's been fighting this agonizing divorce battle with tom. if they hadn't been separated by fourteen-hundred miles, if he'd been in any way more involved in her life beyond late night phone calls and the occasional surprise visit to new york, someone might have considered him the homewrecker (never mind the fact that tom barely qualifies as human and had it coming long before dean was ever in the picture). and as satisfying as it would be to be the reason she left tom, it's more satisfying knowing she left him for herself. it was never about anyone else; even this is about her agency, taking back her life and her choices, and dean would be a damn fool not to recognize that. he's just glad to be a destination on her journey of re-self-discovery.
it hasn't been as long for him, but that doesn't mean this doesn't still feel ... new, like this is just the first stop on a tour of each other. there's ... potential brimming right under the surface, waiting for the right time to bloom; a giddy kind of hope that he's never felt with anyone else, because there's never been room for what comes after — lisa was an anomaly in dean's casual lifestyle of hookups, but even then he never realistically thought he'd find himself living in her home and becoming part of her family after reconnecting with her on a whim. he doesn't expect that from bev, either, not in the same way — he knows now he can't just give up the life — but he realizes suddenly he wants to be part of her life beyond the bedroom all the same, despite every instinct telling him not to be delusional (hunters don't get happy endings, but maybe they can, just once). ) We'll take it slow.
( he peels his shirt off, reaching behind his head to pull it free, tossing it to the side, his tattoo now on full display on his bare chest. it doesn't necessarily occur to him that she's never seen it before, so he keeps the momentum going, his hands dragging her shirt up without another thought. )
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It may be winter outside but she feels warm all over when the air hits her bare skin, his callused hands skimming up her sides and leaving goosebumps in their wake as they chase her shirt up and off. Beverly's still smiling as she emerges with tousled curls and bright eyes. She hasn't been undressed in front of anyone in a long time, not like this, and the vulnerability does register like a resonant chord but the heady rush of excitement drowns it out — that's new. That's nice. Nicer still is seeing Dean shirtless and, okay, it's not that she's imagined this moment before but goddamn she's definitely imagined this moment before and somehow the reality is — ]
Wow. [ Unbidden, riding on an exhale. Her hands hover over his skin like they don't know where to land, skimming over flat planes of muscles before finally settling her fingertips lightly on the tattoo above his heart. Her brows knit faintly, tracing over the unfamiliar symbol and she catches herself a half-second later, gaze flicking upwards to meet his with a look that's equal parts amusement and — yeah, arousal, what is she, blind? ] I was fifty-fifty on you being a tattoo guy.
[ Her free hand drifts back down his stomach to unfasten his belt buckle, even as she leans in to press a kiss to his bare skin just like she'd been dying to, lips soft and lingering over the ink under her fingertips. She trails them north, dropping an open-mouthed kiss to the slope where neck meets shoulder, then higher to the soft spot under his jaw. She breathes him in as his belt comes undone, that hand skimming lower now over his jeans. ]
Gotta say, [ she murmurs, lips brushing over his ear now, ] it's pretty hot.
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he's used to being stared at, of course; he knows what he looks like and he knows what people say about him (male model type, pretty boy, ken doll), so it's not surprising that bev is impressed, but it still does something to him, in a way most people's casual attraction never quite has. it makes him feel seen almost in the same way as her grand new york tour plan fully designed with him in mind made him feel seen — like he isn't just some pretty face meant to be admired (not that he hasn't always eaten up every scrap of attention regardless), but a real, whole person.
when she brings her hand to his chest to trace over his tattoo, his heart practically skips a beat and he feels it warrants at least some explanation, but not enough to derail what's happening. )
No demon's jumping these bones. Just you. ( which gracefully excludes that time the mark of cain turned him into a demon, but that's kind of a huge mood-killer and it's not exactly relevant to the matter at hand, anyway. that whole business with the mark and the violent rage killing is probably best left unsaid for the foreseeable future; it's a long and complicated story he'd rather not get into, especially not now. maybe someday, if it ever happens to come up (he can't imagine why), but until then ...
until then, he's extremely distracted by, well, bev — to the point he finds himself with his hands idle on her hips, practically frozen by the attention she's giving him: the way her lips press to his chest almost reverently, her hand trailing down his stomach, his abdomen tensing as it passes. he cranes his neck under her mouth, his eyes fluttering shut, his tongue dragging over his bottom lip when she finally gets his belt undone. he huffs a short laugh that comes in the wake of sharp inhale; even the lightest of touches are driving him absolutely wild, mostly just because it's bev touching him. and then she's whispering in his ear and the faintest groan escapes his throat, finally driving him to action again.
he slides a hand up her bare back, his fingers trailing over the notches of her spine until he reaches her bra strap, working it open one-handed with practiced ease. he's been with enough women to know exactly how to multitask: he brushes one strap off her shoulder, his other hand meeting bev's below his belt, pressing it firmly against the hard line of his cock trapped beneath the rigid fabric of his jeans, a pleased little grunt rumbling to life in the back of his throat. he bends forward, his forehead touching hers, his mouth parting in an open smirk. )
Feel that? That's all you, babe. ( that is: you did this to me and i fucking love it. ) You sure know how to get a guy going, huh?
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There's a distant part of her that still anticipates the old fight-or-flight reflex that used to accompany moments like this with lesser, meaner men, and she arches up into him like she's trying to ward that off, remind herself of where she is and who she's with. But she can feel the care in how he holds her, the thrumming desire, and the reflex doesn't come because it has no place here. Everything about this is different down to the choice, and this is one she didn't make lightly. This is Dean, who said he understood, who said they'd take it slow, who said it was okay. She shouldn't feel ashamed of what she wants, of making him feel good, of enjoying how he makes her feel. She knows that.
She exhales softly when he guides their hands between his legs, fingers instinctively curving to cup him there and God, feeling how much he wants her, how just being this close to her got him this hard, sends a spike of heat straight between her own thighs. His forehead drops to hers and her eyes fall closed, smirking at what he says, satisfaction and flattery coursing through her veins as she gives him an experimental, teasing stroke, laughing an uh-huh in the hot and heavy air between them because yeah, she does know, it's fucking obvious.
Both hands make quick work of unfastening his jeans even as she tips her chin up to crush her lips to his. This kiss is fervent, open-mouthed with a slip of tongue; button and zip taken care of, she curls her hands into the waistband like she means to shove it down — and uses it to tug him closer instead. Her bra slips between them until the straps catch on the crook of her elbows and now they're pressed flush, skin to skin; she breaks away only to whisper against his mouth: ]
It's okay. [ Because she can read the caution in the care, too, in the way his hands haven't dipped below her waist. It occurs to her now that she should say something (but God, she can barely think straight and he's still so aware; how did she get this lucky?), her voice warm and coaxing in invitation. ] You can touch me, honey, I'm not gonna break.
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maybe he'd just been waiting for the invitation, as if all of this wasn't invitation enough — but hearing her voice it (you can touch me), spurs him on further and he leans into her, his knee digging into the mattress as he lays her down, pulls her bra free, releasing it to join the rest of their scattered clothes on the floor. his mouth is hot where he presses it to the dip of her throat, one hand tracing the curves of her waist, over the rise of her breast (kneading, the pads of his fingers dragging over her nipple) — while the other trails lower, ghosting over her navel, pushes gently past the waistband of her leggings.
and even though she just told him he could, he glances up at her from where his teeth have tugged at the soft flesh below her collarbone, soothed the bright bloom of color with his tongue, just to make sure. he doesn't want to overwhelm her, but he does want to make her feel good — and he's pretty fucking sure he's succeeding on that front.
slowly, he presses his fingers against her underwear, the heat of her sending a wave of arousal crashing into him. he can tell how wet she already is, even with a thin layer of fabric between, and the thought of that alone is almost enough to send him careening toward the edge, but he's not eighteen anymore and he likes to think he has a little more self-control than that (hard-earned, well-fought-for control). still, there's no denying just how easily she could make him come undone if he really let himself go — and he will, later, when he's less focused on memorizing every inch of her. )
Good? ( he asks, his voice husky, and he means it more as does that feel good? rather than am i doing good? — he's confident enough in this particular department to know he is good at this, but on a deeper, subconscious level he needs real confirmation of the latter just as much as the former. there's power in validation and, frankly, he's been starved of it for most of his life. so while he's more interested in how she feels at the moment, there is some intrinsic part of him that yearns for praise, especially from someone whose pleasure he's so devoted to. )
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He lays her back gently and the press of his lips at her throat is met with precisely that gasp, eyes falling closed to savour the heat of his kisses to her fluttering pulse, her back arching a little to chase that shivery sensation as his hand glides down the length of her body. Beverly tries to keep her breath steady but she honest to God thinks even this much could be enough, it's been so damn long, and it's intoxicating to feel the clear affection in his touch. Because he does know her history, and not every scar faded like the one on her palm — his fingertips skim an old burn (small, round, cigarette-sized) in the well of her breasts. Pale pink, nearly the colour of her skin, almost shiny in the half-light. Yes, it's been a long time since anyone's touched her with such reverence.
Beverly gasps again when his fingers press between her thighs, hips bucking up into the curl of his hand before she can stop herself. That breath releases in a laugh, almost but not quite embarrassed by how sensitive she is, how wet she already is. Because even if he doesn't want to overwhelm her, she does feel overwhelmed — by every kiss from the car to her bed, the hot press of his body against hers, the gravel in his voice. She feels crazy with how crazy he makes her feel. Good? she repeats almost deliriously in her mind. ]
Fuck, Dean, [ she says breathlessly, almost on a groan, ] you don't know how good.
[ Really fucking good and they're just getting started. One hand comes up to thread her fingers through his short hair, not guiding so much as just holding while the other lands somewhere in the sheets because that bit of encouragement seems to be all they need to keep going. She hisses when he starts to stroke her through her underwear, already damp and clinging with her arousal; it drives her close to the edge just imagining what it would feel like if he pushed the fabric aside, dragged his callused fingertips over the slick heat of her. He doesn't — or, rather, he doesn't get the chance to, because Beverly can't help grinding herself on his hand, lips pressed together, breath coming in little puffs through her nose, eager for more of that delicious friction.
God, it doesn't take long, not with how turned on she is, not with how long it's been, not with her imagination crashing into reality, the way he's covering her with his hands and mouth and how much she wants more of it. (Overwhelming. Very.) Her orgasm crashes into her without warning, arching off the bed and into him with a startled little oh, lashes fluttering like her nerves. Gasping breaths dissolve into incredulous laughter in the comedown, her hand releasing the sheets to come up to cover her blushing face. Holy shit. Was that a record? ]
Jesus Christ, [ she mumbles, and it almost sounds like an apology. ]
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It's okay, babe, I know. ( he knows the subtle tones of her apologies, even when she isn't saying i'm sorry. but he wants her to know there's nothing to feel sorry for or embarrassed about. it's all perfectly natural and he knows she hasn't done this in a long time (and definitely not with anyone who made her feel this good). all that really matters to him is that she's enjoying herself; he's got all night to make sure she keeps enjoying herself. he pushes himself up just enough to kiss her, brushing her hand away from her face. ) Ride it out, babe. I promise, there's more where that came from.
( his his hand retreats from her underwear (despite how badly he wants to slip his fingers past the fabric; not yet), sliding up her side to cup her other breast, taking it into his mouth, his tongue swirling over her nipple, pulling it between his teeth and tugging lightly before releasing it. this close, he can see the scars she carries — his stomach clenches instinctively in a fierce desire to cause great harm to the men who gave her those scars — and like recognizes like: the scars mean she survived, mean she overcame, that she's stronger because of them. how could he not find the beauty in that? his lips are gentle, reverent as he kisses them, eager to replace bad memories with good ones. his teeth catch on sensitive skin, working it under his mouth until pink blossoms with purple.
and then he works his way lower, trailing kisses down her abdomen until he's planted himself on his knees between her at the foot of her bed. his hands brush over her thighs, finally catching the fabric of her leggings and pulling them off, leaving her in nothing but her underwear. he can't help but take a moment to take in the sight of her: face flushed, the faint glow of her bliss drawn into the curve of her mouth, messy curls, splashes of freckles like stardust from head to torso lit by the dim glow of the lamp. something warm takes root inside his chest, something he can't quite name.
he presses a gentle kiss to the curve of her knee, his hands settling tenderly on her thighs to ease them open. when he looks up at her, his expression seems to say you can still tell me to stop but the want is bright and clear all the same. )
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Beverly huffs out a breath against him, eyes alight as she searches his face in the whisper of space between them, thumb winging his cheekbone. ]
You really are something else, you know that? [ And when he starts to travel down the length of her body, trailing kisses in his wake, she closes her eyes, skin tingling, hand moving again to stroke through his hair. She gasps when his lips close over her nipple, already stiff in the heated air, and when he catches it in his teeth she arches into his mouth, the sensation shooting straight between her thighs. Fuck. In a voice that's half-airy laugh, half-moan: ] Yeah, guess you do. [ She feels like her heartbeat is hammering in her throat, like it's making her breath shudder when she realises where he's headed, the way his lips brush over her scar and the impulse to cover it dies with the gentle scrape of teeth, slip of tongue. ] Oh, Dean —
[ Hushed, touched. He's made it clear there's no need for shame or apology here. If she wasn't so caught up in how good it all feels, she might cry from the sheer tenderness of it all. It's easy to get lost in what he's doing to her and she is, her other hand moving to smooth over his bare back, sweeps of her palm and trailing her nails down the curve of his spine. Breathy little encouragements slip past her lips, some wordless. Her stomach goes tense and ticklish under his lips and then suddenly he's peeling off her leggings and her hazy thoughts catch up to where he's heading with this when he goes still.
Beverly pushes herself up slowly on her elbows, looking down at him with parted lips and eyes dark. Jesus, the sight of him kneeling between her legs. She watches him kiss her (God, why does the simplicity of it light her up from the inside?), ease her thighs open, and it feels like it's happening in slow motion. Their eyes meet and she throbs with arousal at the way he's looking at her, his hair mussed by her fingers, lips swollen from their kisses, the desire and question in his eyes. She knows what he's asking, her mouth goes dry just thinking about it; she has to wet her lips before speaking and even then, her voice comes out in a whisper. ]
You don't have to. [ But there's no strength behind the words. She wants just as much as he does, it's vibrating off her in waves, but she caresses his face again, gaze searching: because just like Dean, she doesn't want him to feel obligated to do anything. And in her experience, this always seemed — indulgent, to her. ] You sure?
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her nails at his back stoke the coals of desire in his chest; the caress of her hand forges it into a shape he once knew (familiar enough to recognize but not enough to name).
you don't have to, she says, giving him an out she knows he won't take. he's never been more sure of anything in his life (and, he thinks, that includes more than just tonight; in some buried part of his heart he's sure of her, sure of possibility of them). so there's no obligation in the way he smiles against her palm, or the way he presses his mouth into the tender flesh of her thigh. there's no obligation in any of this, but he understands why she wants to make sure. he'd do the same if it was the other way around, if she was the one on her knees instead (he wouldn't ever expect that of her, wouldn't want her to even just to return the favor unless she wanted to). )
I want to. Got no idea how bad I've wanted to. ( it's safe to admit that now, right? maybe not the specifics of just how long; or the number of nights he's gotten off just thinking about it: the taste of her, the heat of her, the twitch of her thighs at the edge. but they've made it this far; it should be pretty fucking obvious now that there's a well of desire pooled between them that's just been waiting to be tapped into — and if he's going to set a record tonight, eating her out is a surefire way to coax his name in the wake of a moan. so, yeah, it is a little indulgent, but this is just as much for him as it is for her. when was the last time someone put her pleasure before their own? he can't imagine it was anytime recently (knows tom was definitely not the kind of man to get down on his knees). he wonders if anyone ever has — being that particular first is all the more reason to treat her.
he inches his way closer, peppering her thigh with lingering kisses, some with enough bite to leave behind blooms of color. his nose brushes the hem of her underwear before he rises just enough to press one final kiss below her navel. slowly, his hands come to slide over smooth fabric, taking his time in peeling the last layer away, leaving her breathtaking and bare and beautiful. how could any man not want to give her the world? how could any man not fall at her feet and worship her?
her legs spread open for him again, and he reaches a hand to touch her, wetting his thumb in the heat of her, stroking a gentle circle into her clit. fuck, she's so wet he can barely stand it; his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then he leans in to wet his lips on her, the taste of her on his tongue sending a shockwave of heat down his spine, his abdomen twitching as he presses her thigh further open. maybe leaving his jeans on was a mistake; he feels like he might combust at any moment. (the groan he releases when he shoves a hand under his boxers is one of relief.) his tongue darts over her clit, his teeth dragging over it lightly, but not enough to hurt (never enough to hurt), all while he slips two fingers into her (coating his fingers with the satisfaction of knowing this is what he does to her), curling them inside her, desperate to find that sweet spot, to feel the squeeze of her, a prelude to filling her up, to being that close and still not close enough. )
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He's right — he's the first lover to treat her so well, to put her first. She's used to being used, to her needs coming last, to putting them aside for the wants of others. She's working hard to unlearn that, to believe she's worth the same generosity she bestows on others. So rather than give in to those old doubts, Beverly watches him lavish kisses along the insides of her thighs, mesmerised, savouring the sight just as he seems to savour the act. It strikes her like lightning, makes her feel electrified to her fingertips: Each glance, touch, kiss, is filled with adoration. And God, suddenly he feels too far away; all she wants to do is pull him back up, kiss him until he can taste every feeling she can't find the words for, until this fire in her burns a brand on his heart. But she's anchored by his attention — her lips part for breath, a sharp inhale when his mouth lingers long enough to leave a mark, hips squirming on the bed when he inches higher, closer, the anticipation nearly at a fever pitch. Her underwear is practically soaked when he finally draws them down and off; and when her thighs fall open for him, her hand returns to his hair, desire thrumming under her skin as the moment suspends for a heartbeat. Two. And then —
The first brush of his thumb makes her breath hitch with her hips, free hand curling into the edge of the mattress. (He wets his lips, and so does she, swallowing hard.) The first brush of his tongue punches the breath right out of her, makes her hips buck up to his mouth. ]
Oh, fuck. [ Tremulous, whispered with feeling. She can't look away, riveted by the sight of his head buried between her thighs, a shiver bolting down her spine and making her back arch with a whimper as his tongue swirls over her clit. Holy shit. Even if it's been years since anyone's gone down on her, she's still so sensitive from her last orgasm, she can't keep still. ] God, look at you, you look so good like — [ voice breaking at the touch of teeth, her eyes fluttering closed as she cants her hips up to his mouth with a little whine, fingers restless in his hair. ] Oh, sweetheart, yeah.
[ The endearment sounds like a plea as much as encouragement, and she's rewarded with his groan vibrating over her and then — shit, fuck, the slip of his fingers. Her toes press into the floor just as she drops back onto the bed only to arch up again when he slides one into the tight heat of her and then two, and God, it's good, it feels so good, but it's not enough, she's aching for more, but the words don't come. She rocks her hips to meet the thrust of his fingers instead, fucking herself slowly on them, gasping when they brush something exquisite inside her. ]
Dean... [ His name rides a low moan, the hand in his hair jerking unconsciously, tugging him closer as her hips roll up to his mouth. Her free hand leaves the bed to join him between her trembling thighs, her fingers parting her lips for him, the back of her head digging into the bed as her lashes flutter, nerves buzzing like a livewire. ] Right there, babe, right there — feels so good when you do that.
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that voice is surprisingly absent tonight, or maybe he's just better at ignoring it because bev really is that distracting, that mesmerizing — and, god, she makes him want to stay. when was the last time he felt like this? like chasing someone? (like there was something at the end of the road worth running toward? something flutters to life in his chest, a tiny spark of hope.) she's so much more than just a fuck and he wants her to know that with every kiss, every touch. they could have jumped right into it, but he wasn't lying when he said they'll take it slow. he wants to take his time with this, wants to lavish her, wants her to know that this means something. because it does, even if he hasn't fully realized that himself yet.
he wishes he could see her better, wishes he could see the flush lighting up her freckles, tiny galaxies burning across her cheeks and shoulders; but the view from where he is is just as spectacular: the flat plane of her abdomen twitching with every stroke of his tongue, the arch of her back when her hips buck into his mouth. every hitch of her breath, every needy little whine spurs him on, and distantly he's aware of her telling him how good he looks, calling him sweetheart, her fingers dragging through his hair; it takes nearly all his reserve not to stroke himself to the sound of her voice, the way it cracks with pleasure, pitches low into moans that pool hot in his belly. just to remove the temptation, he slides his free hand under her other thigh, fingers digging into the soft muscle for purchase, to keep him steady.
his name on her lips draws his mouth open wider, practically a smirk pressed to the most sensitive part of her. he'd say something like yeah? you like that? if his mouth wasn't otherwise occupied, but he does take a moment to detour to her hand, leaving a delicate kiss on her knuckles as if to say i got you, baby before he returns to lap her up, his tongue hungry to taste every inch of her, practically daring her to tug his hair again when he starts in on her clit again, sucking it between his teeth, soothing it with his tongue, his fingers fucking her slow, right where told him it felt good. she's close; he can tell from the way she tightens around his fingers, but he keeps his pace even, keeps her chasing it all the way to the edge. )
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Jesus fucking Christ, his mouth. The wet heat of it pressed into the apex of her thighs, the slick glide of his tongue and fingers working in tandem, working her to the precipice just minutes after the first, the way he teases her just shy of that edge with sucking pressure, eases her back again with a flat lick of feeling — her breath stutters with each shift, her hips following suit, twitching with a gasping moan whenever he gets her close then reels her back. God, he is good at this, he's driving her crazy with each hungry groan she can feel humming around her clit, and even if she distantly notices the wet kiss he drops to her hand, it's washed away when his fingers curl just so and brush that sweet spot; not hard for him to elicit a breathless whine from her then, rocking her hips to try and repeat the angle, her hand fisting tight in his hair. ]
Please, [ she gasps after a stretch filled with nothing but the sounds of their pleasure. She feels dizzy with want no matter how many times she's tried to catch her breath. ] Oh, fuck, baby, please, you're so good, I'm so close, I'm... [ Her voice dissolves into a broken moan, back bowing as they hit that perfect angle together, her fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh where they meet. ] Yeah, there, God, don't stop, don't —
[ Her words fragment into nothing, but the tug of her hand conveys what she can't find the presence of mind to say: More, faster, now. Well past asking for permission, well past worrying about being too much too soon — she's never had it so good, never felt she was allowed to embrace or chase that feeling until now, until Dean (Dean, Dean, his name is a breathless litany). Her toes curl against the floor with the effort of holding out as long as she could, but she can feel the tension coiling inside her, low and hot and tight, and it doesn't take long for him to unravel her one more time. Close. So fucking close.
All it takes is the gentlest graze of teeth and suddenly she's coming again with a soft cry, arching off the bed as her climax raches through her with white-hot pleasure; her free hand flies from between her thighs to the bed, clutching at the sheets for purchase, her toes digging into the floor while one leg lifts, curling against herself as though she's trying to hold on to the sensation for as long as possible. Fuck. Fuck. She's barely shuddered her way through it before she's tugging at his hair again, shaky but impatient, urgent. ]
Dean, [ she whispers, breathless, gaze unfocused and skin flushed from cheeks to chest as she looks down at him, finally releasing his hair only to cup his jaw, ] honey, come here, wanna kiss you, need — you're so fucking far, c'mere, please —
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hearing her tell him how good he is, her vocal insistence, don't stop — it makes his chest swell with pride he hasn't felt in a long, long time. he is good at this, he's good for her, and he doesn't want to stop — god, she's so close, her breath coming in airy whines and moans, his name a plea on her lips —
and he feels it this time, the pulse between her legs when she comes, the way she tightens around his fingers even as they reach into her in the height of her climax, eager to drag this one out longer than the last (won't have to imagine for long what she'll feel like with his cock this deep into her). he pulls his mouth back while she rocks through it, delicately kissing the expanse of the thigh he's still holding, watching her arch off the mattress, leg lifting to chase that white hot feeling no doubt coursing through her. it's breathtaking; he wishes he could watch it again in slow motion: memorize every twitch of her belly, the exact arch of her back, the breathy cries of pleasure shuddering from her throat, the pinch of her brow, the way she bites her lip and lets it go when her mouth falls open, nearly silent as the last wave of pleasure crashes over her. no piece of art could ever compare to her in this exact moment.
her fingers tugging at his hair draws him out of the spell he'd caught himself in, shocks him back to the reality of his cock throbbing between his legs, desperate for release. fuck, he wants her so bad — and she wants him too, pleading for him to come closer. he presses one last kiss to her thigh before he pulls his fingers from her, looking up at her from between her legs, holding her gaze while he sucks his fingers clean, savoring the taste of her. he wants her to know exactly what she tastes like when he kisses her —
but not yet. there's still the matter of his fucking jeans, which definitely need to come off now. but first, he pulls his wallet out just to fish for the condom he always keeps there (for times like this: unexpected but always prepared), bites it between his teeth to free up his hands, wallet tucked back into his back pocket. the corner of his mouth upturns into an easy smirk as he rises, his eyes never leaving hers even as he bends to shove his jeans down. his boxers are wet from where his cock has already begun to leak (she should be proud of herself that this is what she does to him); it's a fucking relief to finally ease out of them, peeling them away from his cock inch by inch while she watches — and he wants her to watch, craves the heady attention of her gaze, the needy want in her eyes. it's surely some kind of torture for the both of them being this far away even as long as it takes him to undress, but it's deliberate on his part to draw this out, despite every fiber of his being craving to touch her. he needs to find his restraint or he'll crumble as soon as their bodies are pressed flush, fully removed of all layers.
by the time he finally steps out of his boxers, the pounding in his chest has practically reached his ears, but his hands remain steady as he tears the packet open against his teeth, rolling the condom on in one smooth motion, with all the practiced ease of someone who's been through quite a lot of them, fighting against the urge to keep touching himself. he can't just leave her waiting like that, spread out for him, aching for him. god, his head is reeling with desire when he finally joins her on the bed again, easing himself back between her legs, skin brushing skin, his cock hard against her. his hand finds hers, drawing their fingers together above her head as he dives in slowly to kiss her, the taste of her lingering on his tongue as it passes her lips. he only parts briefly to whisper against her mouth: )
Think you can come for me again, baby? Need you so bad.
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He draws back to undress. There's no swallowing the disappointed (frustrated) little noise that escapes the back of her throat, just short of repeating his name again like that will call him back to her. The protest dies almost immediately when his hands go to the waistband of his undone jeans, her eyes widening and breath catching. She expects him to shuck them off without preamble but when he lingers instead, drawing it out for her enjoyment as he has done all night, her flush deepens, her eyes darken. It's somehow equal parts endearing and incredibly sexy that he does this with a condom caught between his teeth and she can't help but laugh, even if it comes out breathless, face warm. He's preening a little, she thinks; who is she to deny him the pleasure of being watched, admired, the same way he looks at her? Beverly drops her gaze from his to explore the rest of him; the broad, strong planes of his torso nicked with old scars; the proud jut of his cock, finally free of his boxers; his steady hand as it slides down the length. God.
She lingers there the longest, before traveling back up north to his face. What was it he said in the diner? Fuck me. God, she'd echo those sentiments right now if she had the presence of mind to do so. Fuck her indeed, in all senses of the phrase. They breathe together, some unspoken signal, and as he climbs back into bed with her, Beverly slides back on the mattress so that they can sprawl across the sheets in comfort, lacing their hands together without a second thought as she tips her chin up to meet his lips in a searing kiss; she sighs into it like it's their first, like she's waited just as long for this as the last. Feels like it.
God, this is what she wants. The hot press of his body against hers, covering her as her arm wind around him, her free hand gliding down his back to cup the curve of his ass, the electric thrill of their bare skin flush together, the taste of her arousal on his tongue, the feel of his as the hard line of his cock slides over her, still slick and hot and aching for more. It's instinct, the way her hips grind up to his, teasing them both as they kiss, deep and languid and a little messy. ]
Yeah, fuck yeah, [ she gasps between kisses, legs twining with his now, as though she wants him closer because even like this, they aren't close enough. Something like a groan and a laugh bubbles out of her next, ] As many times as I can stand. [ Another kiss, her breath hot against his mouth, ] God, you drive me crazy, babe. Want you, need to feel you inside me. [ Her hips rock up to his, impatient, needy. She's ready and so is he. ] Please.
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