Title: Your Turn
AN: As a writer, I take it upon myself to write as much as possible in as many varieties and styles as possible, and it occurred to me that I am a very skittish type when it comes to writing romantic scenes. With that inexperience in mind, I decided to try writing something I've never had the guts to do before: smut. HavocXRebecca seemed like a safe, noncontroversial pairing to write about (I wouldn't want to do Royai or Edvy or AlWin or anything that has a lot of picky fans, you understand). So as you're reading please keep in mind that this is my first time attempting this type of thing, and if you leave a review be nice (or, even better, be constructive).
"Um..." I hesitate at the door to my apartment and look back at him. I don't want to go inside and I don't want him to go home, either. I wonder what he'll say if I ask him to stay here tonight. For the moment, I give him a small smile and make a note to myself to thank Riza for the millionth time for introducing us. "I had a really good time tonight, Jean," I say, softly so my voice doesn't carry and break the spell of the evening.
"I'm glad," he says simply, giving me a somewhat glazed I-can't-believe-this-is-really-happening look, the same look I've seen on his face almost the whole time we've been together. There is a silence between us in which I'm sure a similar look graces my features as well.
I lick my lips ever so slowly, daring him not to notice. He does, of course, and his gaze drops slightly. "Ah..." he stutters, and I realize it's been quite a long moment since anyone last spoke. I am in a haze of happiness and those two glasses of wine from earlier. "Can I come in... Rebecca?"
I smile. "Thought you'd never ask." I unlock the door and walk into the darkened front hallway, flicking on the light and dropping my keys into the basket by the door. It's quiet for the moment, subdued, but I'm not uncomfortable and neither is Jean, judging by his next question:
"Mind if I smoke?"
"I haven't minded yet," I tell him. "If the ashtrays aren't enough indication." I gesture to the room beyond, and there is an ashtray on the coffee table. There are others scattered around the house, too: my mom is a smoker, and whenever family visits I set them out. Since I'd started dating Jean, I'd kept the trays out around the house again.
"Wine?" I offer, though we've just had some at the restaurant, but after Jean has lighted up, he doesn't say no.
I pour two glasses and make myself comfortable on my couch, then hold his glass out to him, inviting him to sit beside me. If he can't tell by my body language that I want him, he's too simple for me to bother myself with.
We sit on the couch and talk and drink our wine, but I can see that he is hesitating to make his move. That's okay with me. We have all the time in the world.
I have a chessboard, but I've never done anything about it. It occurs to us that we should play a game. I don't know whose idea it is. It doesn't matter. What's really happening is that we are both flirting as heavily as we are able, but not a word has to be spoken: Nothing except the occasional "Your turn" —with the occasional seductive smirk. Our bodies do the talking, and they're saying a lot.
His cigarette is ash in the tray and both of us have drained our glasses, so I take his from him and head into the kitchen to put them in the sink. He follows me in and watches as I turn on the faucet and rinse them. As I am washing out the glasses he silently comes up behind me and snakes his hands around my waist, then pushes my mass of dark hair aside and plants a series of light kisses on my neck. (I wanted this to be the night: that's why I am wearing a strapless dress.) I can tell this is something he has been waiting for too.
And ah, he is so slow, so patient, so unlike the rambunctious subordinate persona he puts on when he's at work. I am somewhat the same way: a different person when I am alone.
I dry my hands on the dishcloth and turn so we are face-to-face. He is taller than me, but just the right height for me to tilt his head down and kiss him on the lips. He is clean-shaven today, for our date, but if I catch him off-guard some days I can feel the light pricks of stubble, so uniquely manly.
He tastes like wine and smells like cigarettes, but underneath it all there is something else, something indescribable and which I have only ever been able to define as "the taste of a man." It's the taste of Jean.
The taste on my lips and the wine in my system makes the decision I made weeks ago easier to follow through. My hands reach up and unbutton his shirt. I get through the first, then the second, then the third, before Jean figures me out and hesitates. I understand why: Jean has learned the hard way what happens when he goes too fast; it's a lesson I myself have learned over time as well.
But we aren't moving too fast. In fact, Jean is just my speed... So I continue making my way down the buttons, and without having to say anything at all I have told him what he needs to know.
When I have freed every button of its proper place, I break this long kiss and admire his body for a moment, long and lean. He's looking at me looking at him, and with a small playful smirk I run my hand down his chest, all the way down, stopping just as he thinks it's going to get interesting. This makes him smirk as well.
"Which way?" he asks, and I take his hand and lead him down the hall to my bedroom. Here he can slide his shirt off and drop it on the floor, and suddenly it is forgotten. We enter the room and he wastes no time pulling me close again for a darker kiss, not as sweet as that first hesitant one, but I can taste his lust and it lights my own on fire. Jean's hands go from their innocent place at the sides of my face, to my body, sliding down the sides of my waist and pausing momentarily at my hips. The exploration is Jean's way of saying, "My turn."
After much deliberation over clothes I had decided to go with the infallible Little Black Dress, and the bonus feature of this one was the 'easy-access' zipper down the back. I had literally gotten dressed with taking off my clothes in mind. And now, my forethought was coming in handy. Zippers make the nicest sound when someone is pulling yours down, do they not?
"I haven't done this in awhile," I confess, the alcohol loosening my tongue.
"That makes two of us."
I giggle a bit and play with the waistband of his pants, going oh-so-teasingly slow. My dress hits the floor with the soft floomph of clothing as it goes from necessity to surplus. Jean's pants join them a moment later, and we step away from our clothes together. In stepping away from them we move closer to the bed, and the motion of stepping out of our clothes becomes the motion of stepping toward the bed. Perhaps the wine made this movement feel more fluid, but in the next moment, I fall onto the covers and Jean is above me. Perhaps we had both taken the dive at the same moment.
Our undergarments are now the last barriers that prevent Jean and I from fully viewing each other. Even that impediment goes fast though, as experienced and unafraid fingers reach around and unhook the clasp of my bra. It, too, becomes floor decoration.
Ah, the expression on a man's face when he is allowed that first glimpse of a woman's breasts! He becomes an overeager teenager, if only for a moment. But that's all the time I need to catch his pleased expression. And then suddenly, I can no longer see his face, because his head has dipped down to steal a taste.
My stomach contracts and I take a short, gasplike breath, to Jean's amusement. His body rumbles against mine as he chuckles.
His lips make their way down my stomach but I stop him at my bellybutton. He doesn't get to remove my panties yet.
It's my turn.
He is a little surprised when I stop his movements, and even more so when I flip him over and relieve him of his boxers, but it's not his fault. The alcohol makes it harder to keep up.
I trail my palm down his chest again, but I don't stop as I did earlier. Now I continue all the way down and stroke the trail of hair down his bellybutton and finally I come to the part of him that wants me most.
He reacts to my every movement, tensing as my hand wraps around his shaft, twitching when my thumb brushes across his tip. Oh, but here comes the real torture. I dip my head and close my mouth around his manhood, and glancing up I can watch myself making him lose it. I can't help smiling a little around his length. Too soon, Jean's voice is husky with arousal and begging for a reprieve. "All right, Becca, that's enough. I won't last." I relieve him of his torture and he promptly flips us over again.
Now it's his turn.
And wow, does he know what he's doing! So much for having not done this in awhile. I'm already so ready for him that it doesn't take long before I'm quivering and close to climax myself. However, I know I don't have to make him stop, so I let him go on until everything goes white and I come not-so-quietly, with his name on my lips.
Still Jean's turn.
He enters me and it's not long before he pushes himself to climax as well—blame those three glasses of wine for the quickness. When he comes, he growls just a bit—then blinks as if in surprise—I don't know why—kisses me gently on the forehead, and says my name. "Rebecca." So short, so simple, so sweet.
The haze of sleep and satisfaction descends over our consciousnesses and I disappear.