They've been sleeping together for nearly three months now.
Just sleeping. That's all.
Technically, they've been "together" for five months. A couple. Boyfriend and girlfriend.
Courting, as he would say.
And Ichabod Crane does know how to court a lady. Abbie cannot deny that. Her life is now filled with softly-spoken words of adoration, unexpected gifts, handwritten notes, and tender (but chaste) caresses.
And kisses. Abbie remembers being surprised he would kiss her, since they are only courting and not betrothed. But, Crane kisses her. Every chance he gets, in fact. Never in public, never in the presence of another. But, when they are alone, he seizes every opportunity to press his lips to her hand, her cheek, her lips. Sometimes, if he is feeling particularly bold, or, more often, lost in the moment, he will kiss her neck.
However, those times are rare.
But, Abbie does know one thing: Crane can kiss. There are times when he surrenders a bit to his desires and lingers over her lips, parting them gently with his tongue to dip in and taste the soft sweetness of her mouth. Abbie clings to him in those moments, her fingers in his hair, her body pressed against his, silently telling him it's okay. He's not dishonoring or scandalizing her or going against any of the things he may remember from his former life about how to behave with a lady. Silently telling him how much she wants him. Because she knows he wants her just as badly. She can see it on his face, feel it in those kisses.
Sometimes, she wishes he could let go.
She won't push him. She would never push him.
Abbie always knew a romantic relationship would be an adjustment for both of them. She always knew, from the moment the thought first came into her head, dating him would be an exercise in compromise. He would have to take a step forward, she, a step back.
They are bound to meet in the middle somewhere. Aren't they?
Abbie tells herself to be patient. She tells herself he is worth the wait. She tells herself it's a good thing they're waiting to take that step.
Then, she sees the way he looks at her, his eyes full of pure, unconditional love mixed with raw, unbridled desire, and that ache returns.
There are times where she just wants to climb him and bend him to her lustful will.
Because that's how he always looks at her.
Stop being such a slut, she chides herself, burying her nose into whatever ancient text or scroll or carving at which she happens to be looking.
You're not being a slut. You love him and want to be able to share yourself with him in every way.
It's a debate she has with herself nearly every day.
What she doesn't know is Crane is waging the exact same battle with himself.
What she doesn't know is each night when he lovingly pulls her into his arms in the warmth of their bed, he is fighting the urge to peel her pajamas from her small body and lose himself in her until the sun peeks over the horizon.
What she doesn't know is his willpower is getting weaker each day.
If Abbie knew any of those things, she wouldn't have to resort to covert coping mechanisms to deal with her pent-up feelings.
Crane takes long showers. In the years since his return, the one modern convenience that has not lost its novelty is the hot shower.
He is also an early riser, always awake and out of bed before Abbie, who stubbornly clings to every nanosecond of sleep she can.
So, when Crane drops a kiss on Abbie's cheek and slips out of bed, Abbie often drops her hand between her legs and Copes.
She's always a little conflicted about it, but, damn it, his lips. His voice. Hishands.Those damnable eyebrows.
At night, he'll kiss her senseless for several delicious minutes, his large hands roaming her back. Occasionally, one will grow adventurous and skim her hip. Once, he brushed against the side of her breast, but she's almost certain it was unintentional.
Almost certain.
He makes her warm and damp and wanting, and then just... stops. Gives her one more kiss and whispers, "Good night, Treasure, I love you."
Then, he goes to sleep.
Abbie doesn't know how he manages it. She can feel his desire for her. She can feel it in her heart as well as against her hip.
If she were a weaker person, she would wonder if there was something wrong. If she wasn't so certain he loved her as irrevocably as she loved him, she would question her allure.
If he were anyone else, she might have walked.
So, while Crane is luxuriating in modern marvels like instant hot water and soap that doesn't leave his skin feeling as though it has been flayed, Abbie does what she needs to do to take the edge off of her sexual frustration.
Her knees part and her fingers slip inside her panties. She pretends they're his fingers, though his are twice the size of hers. She's almost always wet, if not from the previous night, then from her dreams, which are usually of Crane.
She knows how long she has. It's more than enough time. When she finishes, sated for the moment, she'll curl up on his side of the bed and play possum until he emerges from the shower to kiss her awake.
Her mind is full of him as her fingers circle that spot between her legs, her other hand snaked up under her t-shirt (his t-shirt, actually), toying with a nipple. She's so distracted she doesn't hear the shower turn off.
Crane stops in the doorway, silent and staring, trying to process what he is seeing. Abbie, her head thrown back, lips parted, eyes closed. The blankets have ridden down a bit, her t-shirt is hitched up, and her hand is on her breast. Beneath the covers, he can see her other hand moving. But, his eyes are glued to her breasts. One is partially covered by her shirt; the other is obscured by her hand.
His mouth goes dry.
Several options simultaneously flash through his brain.
Before he can process any of these options, his feet decide for him, striding noiselessly across the carpet, his towel falling away as he walks.
Abbie's body arches slightly and her head turns away from him, eyes closed. "Ichabod," she whispers. If there were any remaining threads of reticence within him, that whisper shattered them.
He kneels and softly presses his lips to her neck, his tongue slipping out to taste her skin. He slides his hand over her stomach in a gentle caress.
For about three seconds, she doesn't notice him.
Then, she jumps. She shouts a short, wordless cry, trying to gather her wits, scrambling for excuses and blankets.
"Shh," Crane hushes, capturing her shocked lips with his, his hand sliding up to cover her breast before she is able to yank her shirt back down.
"I—" she tries again, pulling her lips away.
"Don't be embarrassed," he mutters, moving his lips back to her neck as he moves onto the bed, lifting the covers to slide beneath them.
Hovering over her, he drops his head and kisses her lips. "Did you never wonder why I often take such long showers?" he whispers against her lips, unable to stop his grin as he admits he's been doing the same thing as she all this time.
Abbie laughs, suddenly and loudly, and Crane chuckles, smiling sheepishly. He moves, burying his face in her neck, trailing kisses, running his tongue along the tendon.
Her laughter dies away as her hands start traveling his body, his skin warm, fragrant, and just slightly damp from his shower. "Ichabod," she softly moans his name. He's nudging the t-shirt out of his way with his nose, his beard brushing her suddenly over-sensitive skin.
"Shirt," he mumbles, and Abbie sits up just enough to pull it off. She tosses it unceremoniously to the floor. He moves lower and closes his lips around a stiff nipple, flicking it with his tongue while his hand attends her other breast.
"Crane..." she croaks, a pebble of sense returning to her, "Crane, are you sure you want..."
"Yes, Abbie," he says, lifting his head. "I've been wanting to share myself with you in this way for some time now." He kisses her, caressing her cheek. "It's just... a difficult adjustment for me, my love." He kisses her again. "I apologize for making you wait."
"You don't need to apologize, Ichabod. You haven't done anything wrong," she answers, her voice soft. "I was willing to wait as long as you needed."
"Truly?" he asks, his eyes searching hers.
She nods. Then, a mischievous smile curves her full lips. "Well, I was hoping the wait wouldn't be too long..." she teases.
"Hmm," he rumbles, catching those smiling lips in a hungry kiss before moving to her ear. He kisses the outer shell, then sucks her earlobe into his mouth, biting softly. "I hope you will not find something else to be too long," he purrs, his voice low, his lips brushing her ear. To illustrate his statement, he drops his hips, rather pointedly pressing himself against her.
"Oh, God," she gasps. The surprising lewdness of his comment is nothing compared to the surprising realization that his words were no idle threat. He chuckles into her ear, kissing it again.
Crane kisses his way down her body again, leaving fire in his wake, while Abbie writhes beneath him. He is everywhere. His lips, his tongue, his hands... just him. And she wants all of him.
He's heading north again, so she drags her hand down his chest, making her intentions quite plain as she maneuvers her hand towards his manhood. He gasps when she wraps her fingers around him, stroking, squeezing gently. Then, he groans.
"You can touch me, too," she whispers, taking her opportunity to kiss and nip at his ear. The silken threads of his long hair, still damp, tickle her nose, but she doesn't mind it. She moves down his neck, placing wet, biting kisses on his skin.
Crane's hand immediately finds her thigh, long fingers caressing. He slides his hand up, hooking his fingers into the waistband of her panties. She shifts her hips to allow him to pull them off. He tosses them mindlessly aside, then slowly glides his hand up her leg until he connects with her hot, wet center, her coarse curls brushing his knuckles.
Abbie moans softly, angling her hips in an attempt to bring them closer to his hand. "Ichabod..." she pleads.
He kisses her and slips one finger between her folds, then another. He is rewarded with a delicious moan that inflames him further.
A little too much, because a moment later, he is reaching for her hand, gently removing it from his shaft. "You are too wonderful," he says, hoping she understands his meaning.
She smiles, and he kisses her again, sliding two fingers deep inside her. Abbie hums her approval, threading her fingers into his hair. He moves his lips to her neck, caressing her sensitive spots while he caresses that spot below.
"Oh..." she gasps, "yes..."
He kisses her breasts, sucking, licking, biting gently. His beard rubs against her skin, leaving it raw and tingling, but she doesn't mind.
Because he's every bit as wonderful as she's fantasized. No. More so.
"Crane," she gasps, "please... now... I need you..."
"I am ever at your command, Lieutenant," he purrs, smiling impishly, settling between her thighs. They don't bother inquiring about things like birth control or disease. He knows about the little packet of pills in her purse and what purpose they serve. And they've both been in and out of hospitals often enough to know that neither of them has anything that's going to harm the other.
They know everything about one another. Almost.
Abbie raises her knees, sliding her smooth legs against his hips, enticing him.
Crane gives her a searing kiss, gazes down into her eyes, and just before he slides into her, he whispers, "I love you, Abbie."
"Oh," she breathes, lifting her hips to meet him, moaning as he fills her so completely. "I love you, Ichabod," she answers, her voice only a breath.
He moves over her in long, smooth strokes, his back bending with each thrust as his lips travel over her skin. She feels completely surrounded by – her senses filled with – him. It would be overwhelming if it wasn't so perfect.
"Oh, damn..." she gasps, meeting his every thrust, "Damn..."
Crane can only grin, his face pressed into her neck again. He knows her well enough after four years of near-constant companionship to know that her exclamation is most definitely not one of dismay or dissatisfaction.
Quite the contrary, in fact.
He grunts something unintelligible and picks up his pace, his thrusts becoming more urgent, a little harder.
"Yes..." Abbie clutches his shoulders, digging her fingers in. She's warm all over and her whole body feels like it is reaching for something just beyond her grasp. "More... harder..."
"Oh, yes," he agrees, his voice deep and rumbling, and complies, driving into her. She's tiny, so much smaller than he, but he knows he will not break her.
"Oh... mmm... ah... ohhhh..." Abbie's moans become cries, and Crane lifts his head to watch her unravel, wishing to see her in her throes, wishing to see if the reality is as good as the fantasy.
It's better.
She explodes, crying out his name, her hips bucking beneath him, and he unravels, combusting right behind her.
"Abig..." he chokes out her name and it dies halfway out as he comes, his body stilling, his forehead pressed against hers.
Crane is braced on his forearms, pressed into the mattress on either side of Abbie's head, not moving save for his breathing, which gradually slows to normal. She lifts her chin and kisses him softly.
"Abbie," he whispers her name like it's a prayer. She reaches up and caresses his face, still resting against her forehead.
"Hi," she says, smiling stupidly.
"Good morning, my love," he answers. He kisses her once more, then gently rolls off of her, immediately pulling her to his side.
She rests her head on his shoulder, his long arm wrapped around her.
"I hope I did not surprise you too much," Crane says, his fingers trailing idle circles on her skin.
She chuckles, still a little embarrassed at being caught. "I was quite surprised," she admits. Then, she looks up at him. "You didn't take a long shower today."
"Um... no. I did not. I was attempting to... exercise a measure of self-control. For once," he confesses, looking guiltily away.
"'For once'? Seriously, Crane, you have more self-control than any man I know." She pokes his ribs. He jumps, then captures her wayward finger, kisses it, and keeps her hand in his, resting them both over his heart.
"Well, it all, as they say, flew out of the window once I saw you... here... anyway," he answers.
"Shoot, if I had known that's all it would take..." she says, laughing again.
He chuckles with her, then sighs. "It feels good."
"Certainly hope so," Abbie says, a bit confused at his specific meaning.
"No, I didn't mean that," he says. "Well, yes, it was amazingly wonderful, but what I meant is, it feels good to love again. To truly be with someone in every sense of the word."
"Oh," she answers, nodding against his shoulder. "I see."
"After Katrina died, I..." he stops. "Forgive me. It would be most un-gentlemanly to discuss my relationship with my late wife with my current love. Especially right now."
"It's all right," Abbie says. Katrina died two years ago. The Horseman got his prize, and he made damn sure no one was going to take her from him again. "What were you going to say?"
"I did not think I would be able to love again," he says softly. "I did not think my heart would heal... but, it did." He presses her hand against his heart.
"I'm glad it did," she says. "God, you have no idea how glad," she adds. She suspects she realized her feelings for him before he did for her, but won't ask.
"I think I have some idea," he chuckles, squeezing her small, delectable body tight to his side in an awkward hug, delighting in her soft laughter.
She turns her face and kisses the large scar on his chest, his 200-plus-year-old mark from the Horseman. "I love you so much, Ichabod," she whispers.
"I love you, Abbie," he answers, kissing the top of her head. "And, provided we are not interrupted by anything... demonic, it is my intent to stay right here in this bed with you, showing you exactly how much. All day."
"That's... quite a promise," Abbie says turning and shifting herself up to kiss him tenderly. She smirks down at him. "But, who says we have to stay limited to the bed?"