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i wonder if you know i hate sleeping alone
Tonight, at the bottom of a fifth of Glencallan, she gives him what he wants.
He doesn't have to feel bad about it, because he knows it's what she needs: another way of getting some distance on who she used to be, a chance to shake off the sickness of remembering. Mistakes do that, make you want to crawl out of your old skin and into a new one, and you don't get that choice. All you can do is keep a tight grip on who you've become. He's become someone capable, someone who protects and saves and doesn't take shit from anyone. She's become someone who survived Bahrain.
(she was oh so charming, before, all wicked smiles and a warmth that turned hot when he touched her with his steady, steady hands, but he won't tell her he misses her, oh no, because he knows the damage it would do)
Lucky for both of them that the way she torques his arm behind his back and pins him to the mattress makes him hard as hell. He's halfway to reversing their positions when her mouth finds his ear. A hot, deliberate breath undoes him, sends something writhing down his spine and puts him underneath her with nothing more than a moan catching in his throat. There is where he flips over, and she settles onto his hips like she never left. Their clothes start disappearing.
(her mouth used to be soft and teasing like her hands, featherlight, malicious, and she used to undo him just like that but it would take hours, hours, hours of him squirming beneath her and her hiding those wicked smiles against his jaw)
He loves a woman who can give him a run for his money, and she's always done that. Tonight he wants a woman who can give as good as she gets, because he wants to hit her. He does. He raises a hand from its grip on her side and he slams the heel of it into her jaw, knocks her backward. Anyone else would have ended it then and there, but she doesn't take it personally. That's why she left her door open: she understands. She's the only one who does. They're two of a kind, now.
(before bahrain, would she have stopped him? he doesn't know, maybe he can't remember, maybe he doesn't want to, because she's what he needs now, even if she isn't any of what he used to be so fond of)
They fight in silence, half-dressed, without breaking the lamps or the television. Tomorrow he'll wonder if it was her or him who managed that. Right now, he throws her on the bed and comes down on top of her, kisses her until her hand around his throat is too tight to stand, and as soon as he comes up for air, she surrenders. Their next kiss is longer, burns slowly through the last of their clothes and the last of his aggression.
(and then it's a lot like it used to be, except her hands are rougher and she tastes like scotch, and for as long as it takes, he can pretend that she's no different and that he's always been like this, always been good)
He's one more wet collision from getting off when she crosses her ankles in front of his neck and forces him backwards, leaving his cock straining and aching as she rises to her knees at the head of the bed. She doesn't have to ask; she's never let him come first. He's made her fight for it before, but not tonight. Tonight, he lays her back against the headboard and hooks her knees over his shoulders.
(here she tastes just the same, a little tang and a little musk, the salt of sweat, and his mouth on her clit does the same thing it's always done, makes her heels dig into his back and her toes curl)
She rides him out when she's satisfied, and then she's gone, the bathroom light spilling into the room while he catches his breath. He means to stay awake, to find out if she'll come back or if she'll lift his keycard and claim his empty bed for herself. She would have come back, before Bahrain.
(in the morning, she's stretched out beside him, fingers almost touching his where both their guns are hidden beneath the pillows.)
He doesn't have to feel bad about it, because he knows it's what she needs: another way of getting some distance on who she used to be, a chance to shake off the sickness of remembering. Mistakes do that, make you want to crawl out of your old skin and into a new one, and you don't get that choice. All you can do is keep a tight grip on who you've become. He's become someone capable, someone who protects and saves and doesn't take shit from anyone. She's become someone who survived Bahrain.
(she was oh so charming, before, all wicked smiles and a warmth that turned hot when he touched her with his steady, steady hands, but he won't tell her he misses her, oh no, because he knows the damage it would do)
Lucky for both of them that the way she torques his arm behind his back and pins him to the mattress makes him hard as hell. He's halfway to reversing their positions when her mouth finds his ear. A hot, deliberate breath undoes him, sends something writhing down his spine and puts him underneath her with nothing more than a moan catching in his throat. There is where he flips over, and she settles onto his hips like she never left. Their clothes start disappearing.
(her mouth used to be soft and teasing like her hands, featherlight, malicious, and she used to undo him just like that but it would take hours, hours, hours of him squirming beneath her and her hiding those wicked smiles against his jaw)
He loves a woman who can give him a run for his money, and she's always done that. Tonight he wants a woman who can give as good as she gets, because he wants to hit her. He does. He raises a hand from its grip on her side and he slams the heel of it into her jaw, knocks her backward. Anyone else would have ended it then and there, but she doesn't take it personally. That's why she left her door open: she understands. She's the only one who does. They're two of a kind, now.
(before bahrain, would she have stopped him? he doesn't know, maybe he can't remember, maybe he doesn't want to, because she's what he needs now, even if she isn't any of what he used to be so fond of)
They fight in silence, half-dressed, without breaking the lamps or the television. Tomorrow he'll wonder if it was her or him who managed that. Right now, he throws her on the bed and comes down on top of her, kisses her until her hand around his throat is too tight to stand, and as soon as he comes up for air, she surrenders. Their next kiss is longer, burns slowly through the last of their clothes and the last of his aggression.
(and then it's a lot like it used to be, except her hands are rougher and she tastes like scotch, and for as long as it takes, he can pretend that she's no different and that he's always been like this, always been good)
He's one more wet collision from getting off when she crosses her ankles in front of his neck and forces him backwards, leaving his cock straining and aching as she rises to her knees at the head of the bed. She doesn't have to ask; she's never let him come first. He's made her fight for it before, but not tonight. Tonight, he lays her back against the headboard and hooks her knees over his shoulders.
(here she tastes just the same, a little tang and a little musk, the salt of sweat, and his mouth on her clit does the same thing it's always done, makes her heels dig into his back and her toes curl)
She rides him out when she's satisfied, and then she's gone, the bathroom light spilling into the room while he catches his breath. He means to stay awake, to find out if she'll come back or if she'll lift his keycard and claim his empty bed for herself. She would have come back, before Bahrain.
(in the morning, she's stretched out beside him, fingers almost touching his where both their guns are hidden beneath the pillows.)