Okay, so this is my first attempt at writing Caryl smut (with plot). It's also entirely from Daryl's POV (which was challenging!). It's on the long side because a slow build is always a good thing, right? So strap in, pour a glass of wine, and get comfortable.
For your reading pleasure may I suggest some music? Try Fire Meet Gasoline by Sia, or take it down a notch with Drunk in Love by Beyonce, or really take it down with Burning Up by Scarlett Jane.
10 points to you if you know where I got the title from.
Thanks to Stephtron312 for being my beta and making sure this is hot enough to post.
If you had told Daryl seven years ago that he'd be driving a mini-van full of diapers, cribs, and baby blankets he would have snorted and laughed in your face. Yet here he is in this dust-buster-looking piece of shit, with the windows rolled down in an attempt to cool off. Even with the wind blowing his hair and the sun long gone, the air is so thick you can cut it. He used to think the last summer in Georgia was ruthless, but Virginia is proving to have its share of unbearably hot nights. He'd give anything to turn the air on for a while, but it wastes too much gas.
He pats his hand across his shirt pocket and fishes out a stale cigarette and his Zippo. He ducks his head away from the wind rushing outside the van to light up. The scratch of the lighter is loud enough to wake his co-pilot.
"What the fuck, man! What are you doing?"
"Havin' a smoke. What's it look like."
Glenn reaches over the cup holders and the crossbow between them, to snatch the offending vice from Daryl's lips and chuck it out of his window. Daryl turns his eyes from the road to fix him with a level stare that has Glenn fidgeting in his seat.
"Sorry – just, I don't want this stuff smelling like smoke. Alright?"
The air is tense between them for a few beats before he gives in. Glenn's been a ball of nerves for months, and for good reason. He can forgive this slight – even though that was his last cigarette.
"We're 'bout 30 miles out. Why don't you check in?"
Glenn lets out a small sigh before fumbling with the glove box and pulling out the walkie-talkie, "Alexandria, do you copy?"
They sit in silence, waiting for a response. He tries again, the exhaustion in his voice plain as day.
"Alexandria, this is pizza boy. Do you copy?"
When nothing comes through the speaker, he throws the walkie on the floor in frustration. The effect is ruined, however, by a loud squeak. Glenn jumps in surprise and pulls up the offending noise maker – a stuffed bunny with a squeaker. Daryl can't help it. He chuckles.
"Yuk it up," Glenn says.
"C'mon. You gotta admit – that shit was funny."
The glow from the dashboard lights reveals the small smirk that flashes across Glenn's face. He can see the younger man checking the batteries on the walkie. Soon he is drumming his fingers across it, gripping the bunny tightly with his other hand.
"It ain't no thing. We got enough in the tank to get us back."
"I know. I'm just anxious. We were supposed to be back by noon. Maggie's going to be worried sick."
Glenn was right, but it wasn't just Maggie that would be worried. When he'd left their house that morning, Carol forced a smile when she handed him a full canteen ("Stay safe."). The supply run went a little sideways after they ran into a herd near the Babies 'r Us they were pilfering from. It didn't help that their location took them just out of range from the safe zone – no chance to call for back-up or let anyone know they were okay.
He and Glenn spent the better part of the afternoon camped out behind the cashiers desks waiting for the herd to move on (Glenn read a stack of baby books while he played with a Nerf gun). The fact that the truck wouldn't start when they finally got outside was just the icing on the cake. No small amount of cursing later he'd managed to hot-wire the van.
"Try it again. They might hear us, even if we can't hear them."
Glenn sighs again, but fumbles around the floor for the walkie, "Alexandria, come in. This is pizza boy. Do you copy?"
The walkie blares back static in short bursts. It's a good sign, but does nothing to calm Glenn.
"We never should have gone out today. This was a terrible idea."
Daryl keeps quiet, but agrees with the sentiment. If it hadn't been for Maggie, he probably wouldn't be out here at all. She had come by the house to visit Carol and lament about being eight months pregnant in August. Her chief complaint was that Glenn never left her alone, and it was getting on her nerves. Before he knew it she was turning her big farm-girl eyes on him, pleading, "Can you get him out of here for the day? Go on a run tomorrow? We could use some more things for the baby. So could Terri and Amber."
The whole damn safe zone was full of women about to pop this summer. He'd remarked on it before bed one night and Carol just laughed ("What do you expect? People have to find some way to keep warm in the winter").
His thoughts are interrupted when the walkie-talkie suddenly bursts to life.
"…. Pizza boy. Code red. Copy…"
Glenn grips the walkie tighter, and looks to him with wild eyes. Daryl feels his blood run cold for a second despite the sweat rolling down his neck. Without meaning to his foot drops a little further on the gas pedal.
"Alexandria, please repeat."
"Code red, pizza boy. Over."
It sounds like Tara. She sounds scared. Code red means emergency. It means get your ass back here. It means people are in danger. He sees the flames engulfing the prison. The breached fence. The smell of gun powder. He yanks the walkie out of Glenn's hand.
"Alexandria, you sure you callin' a code red?"
There's a long silence that's only broken by Glenn's muttered curses and the sound of the engine struggling to stay cool as he accelerates.
Tara's voice comes in, "Code red."
"Copy that. We're 20 minutes out. Hold on."
"Roger."
They have rules about the walkies and radio communication. No real names. No information floating on the airwaves for whoever is listening to use against them. Glenn snatches the walkie back.
"Is Maggie okay?" Glenn shouts. He's too focused on driving to chastise his friend for breaking protocol.
There is no reply but static.
He's pretty sure he stops breathing until he sees the gates of Alexandria on the horizon. From the outside it looks alright. No walkers overrunning the place. Thank God for small mercies. Beside him Glenn lets out a breath. Whatever the emergency is, it's inside.
He honks the horn (also against the rules), kicking up dirt when he takes a corner to sharply. Betty and Sasha are already opening the West gate. Glenn is jumping out of the van before he can even put it in park. He kills the engine and follows quickly after him. Tara runs out to meet them from the dispatch office, looking relieved to see them.
"It's Maggie. She's having the baby."
Glenn doesn't stop to hear anything else. He sets off at a dead run in the direction of his house.
"What the fuck, Tara?!"
He surprises himself with the venom behind his words. Her eyebrows draw together in confusion and she opens her mouth to speak. His blood is still pumping hard. He grips his crossbow to keep his hands from shaking – tries to pull back, even though all he wants to do is get in her face and use his body to express his anger like he was taught.
"That weren't no fuckin' code red. Good lord! You try'n to give him a heart attack?"
"I'm sorry! It was the fastest way to get you back."
Her regret is written all over her – her hands are twisted together, and her eyes pleading. It doesn't stop her from being angry too.
"I wouldn't have had to call it if you got back here when you were supposed to!"
He huffs at her.
"Well, shit happens."
He turns away from her abruptly and hurries after Glenn. By the time he makes it to the Rhee residence he's soaked with sweat and out of breath. Just as well he didn't smoke that cigarette. Living in the safe zone is making him soft. He's carrying more weight than he used to.
He bursts in through the front door without knocking. Immediately he's assaulted with the smell of blood and sweat, and the heat that pours out of the space. He expected screams, but all he hears his laughter. Glenn and Maggie are nowhere to be seen, but one look at the living room reveals that this isn't a birth so much as a party in full swing. It seems like half the safe zone is here, passing around bottles of moonshine and Jack. Rick sees him first and smiles. His eyes search the room frantically.
"You made it," he hears from behind.
He turns to see her then. She looks sweaty and tired, but more beautiful than ever. She's okay. He tries to choke down the relief at seeing her face. Her eyes search his before scanning across his body to check for injuries. Without thinking he pulls her into a hug.
"You okay?"
"Am now," he mumbles into her shoulder, "You?"
"I'm good. You missed quite the afternoon."
She pulls away slowly, but keeps close to him, passing the glass of water she's been holding into his hands. He drinks the whole glass in one gulp.
"Sorry I'm late."
"That's okay. I knew you'd be back."
Abe comes by trying to squeeze past them into the kitchen. He pauses long enough to smile at Carol.
"That was some impressive stuff back there. You an army medic or something?"
"Or something," she says.
"What happened?" he asks, leading her back into the living room. Before she can answer, Michonne does.
"What happened is that Carol is amazing. But you know that already."
Carol blushes and gives Michonne a look, "Stop."
"Doctor Davis got heat stroke while he was tending to his precious tomatoes this morning. He couldn't deliver the baby, so Carol did," Michonne continues, undeterred.
He looks to Carol, feeling that same awe and pride he always feels when she does something no one expects, "Is that right."
When Abe returns to the room, he fills up everyone's glass with another shot, before holding up his own.
"To baby Rhee. May he grow up better looking than his daddy."
Glenn emerges from the back bedroom a few minutes later with the baby to the delight of everyone assembled. His face is flushed, eyes bright. He can barely take his eyes off his son.
"I'd like you to meet Hershel," he says quietly. The room goes silent for a moment before Rick speaks.
"Hi, Hershel. Welcome to the world."
Daryl sees tears forming in Carol's eyes – even though she's smiling. He gives her hand a quick squeeze and clears his throat.
"Alright y'all. Lets clear out."
A few minutes later, when they've all said their goodbyes, and Carol stops to give instructions to Glenn about looking after Maggie, they're on their way home. From the light of the stars and the moon overhead he can see the flush on her cheeks from the whiskey. She carries a near empty bottle between them in a loose grip, occasionally bumping it against his leg and giggling. It's the best thing he's heard all day.
"That's it. I'm cuttin you off," he teases.
"No way! This is my midwife fee," she grins, taking a small swig to illustrate her point before passing him the bottle. He takes a sip feeling the heat burn down his throat and into his belly.
"You gonna be well lit by winter if you get a bottle for every baby bein born 'round here."
Her pace slows beside him for a second, and her voice loses some of its joy.
"I don't think I can do it again – help with another delivery. Maggie was bleeding bad at the end. I had to practically sit on her to get it to stop. All I could think about was Glenn coming back to the house and finding-"
"Stop."
They're at the house now, so he puts the bottle on the front step before enveloping her in his arms. She slumps against him and buries her face in his neck.
"Maggie's okay. Baby's okay. We're okay," he assures, running his hands soothingly across her shoulders. He curses himself once more for taking so long to get back. He made a vow a long time ago never to let her face shit like this alone again.
They remain locked together for a few minutes. He hears her sigh and feels her shift her balance from one foot to another. It causes them to sway together a little on the threshold of their home. He thinks of the panic he felt only hours ago at the prospect of losing her. Yet here she is with her breath hot on his neck, arms wrapped around his waist, hips flush with his. Suddenly he wants to reassure himself that they're okay. Even though it's been a long day for them both, he knows there's only one way to ease the ache in his chest.
Like she can sense what he's thinking, she pulls her head away from his neck to look at him. Her eyes are a little glassy from the whiskey, but clear and deep.
"Let's go to bed," she says softly.
There are a thousand thoughts that swirl in his head at her suggestion, each one battling to make its way past his lips and into the space between them. God, yes. I need you. I was so scared. I'm sorry I wasn't there. Show me you're here with me now. None of that makes it through. Instead he follows her through the door into the familiar comfort of their home. It smells like laundry soap and wood smoke—like them.
"I love you," he blurts out- so gruffly he's not sure it even makes sense to her.
She stops dead on her way to the bathroom before turning to him. It's not the first time he's said it, but it is the first time he wasn't inside her at the time. Declarations of love have no place in their day to day interactions and no bearing on their relationship. He knows they both feel it, even if she's never said it. And even though the others have teased them about making it official, getting hitched and calling them "the Dixons," they've always resisted. What they have doesn't need a label. They're already about as married as two people can be without saying some words and signing a piece of paper.
One night Carol told him that Ed used to tell her he loved her every morning before he went to work – even if he'd beat her black and blue the night before. ("The words don't mean anything to me anymore"). Merle and daddy taught him that love was weakness. It made you stupid and caused nothing but pain. He had no reason to believe otherwise until he met her.
She opens her mouth and closes it again before grabbing his hand with a smile.
"I'm a sure thing, Romeo. Come on. Let's get washed up first."
A year ago he would have pulled her down on the floor - to hell with waiting another minute. Maybe lifted her up on the kitchen counter, impatient to be with her. Now he gets it. The anticipation is almost the best part.
She gets one of the oil lamps lit, black smoke darkening the tall glass around the flame, while he pumps cold water into the bathroom sink. With the additional light he can finally see her properly. Her shirt is sticky with blood. With steady hands he unbuttons it and peels it away from her body.
"Might as well burn it. I don't think I can get the stains out," she sighs, unclasping her bra and turning her back to him. He tosses the shirt in the corner of the small bathroom, moves his fingers along her shoulders until he reaches the dip in her collar bone so he can push the straps down her arms. The lamplight casts a shadow down her spine in a curve so mesmerizing he runs his hand down it, caressing each vertebrae. She shivers and her laughter echoes in the small space.
"That tickles."
He pulls her back against his chest and hears her bra hit the rug. Her breath hitches when his hand reaches up, lingering just under her breast, tracing the swell with his thumb. He plants a kiss on her shoulder.
"You're salty," he murmurs, keeping his lips on her skin.
"I'm dirty," she deadpans, trying to keep her voice steady. He chuckles.
"Yeah you are."
She laughs again and turns in his arms. Her nipples are peaked despite the heat, but he resists the urge to kneel down and lick the sweat from them. He feels a familiar tightness in his groin just contemplating the possibilities.
"If I'm dirty, you're filthy," she remarks with a little purse of her lips. She runs a finger down his arm, holding it up for him to see the road dust coating his skin. Before she can blink he's got her finger in his mouth.
"Gross," she says, but her pupils blow wide and she takes a step closer.
The grit in his mouth is worth it for the look in her eyes. He playfully bites the pad of her finger before releasing her. She smirks and pushes his vest off his shoulders before unbuttoning his threadbare shirt. It never fails to surprise him that she likes to look at him. His arms are about ten shades darker than the rest of him. He has no chest hair to speak of, just patches of fluff – not to mention his scars. Her eyes rake across his body, full of want, always returning to his face. It makes him dizzy.
She bends down to untie the laces of his boots, and runs a hand under his pant leg up the back of his calf to his knee. His legs almost give out. The strangest little things she does excites him. He follows her lead, helping her to doff her own shoes. He misses the combat boots sometimes, but he's glad she doesn't feel the need to wear them all the time anymore. They both shimmy out of their pants, and Carol sighs.
"This is the coolest I've been all day."
She puts her arms above her head and stretches, making her rib cage jut out and hips pull back. Her shadow on the wall emphasizes the soft curves of her body – softer now after more than a year of regular meals. She's killing him. He tries to take it all in – the exact colour of her skin (shoulders like the freckled shell of a partridge egg), the dark hair curling at the nape of her neck and the juncture of her thighs. If there is a God, maybe this will be the last thing he sees before he goes.
She sees his face (and the effect her movement has had on his body) and takes pity, pressing up against him and kissing his mouth for the first time today. He hadn't kissed her that morning in a moment of self-consciousness in front of Glenn. Fucking stupid. The skin of their stomachs and chests stick together in the humid air, crushing his erection between them. She tastes like hot whiskey and cinnamon, and he can't get enough. He runs his tongue along the slick flesh of her lips and she lets out a sound somewhere between a moan and a sigh, advancing on him until he feels his back hit the cool tiled wall. It occurs to him dimly that she wants this connection just as much as he does, maybe even more.
Unfortunately, he knows they have to shift down a gear or three or the whole thing will be over in five minutes tops. He doesn't want it to end that quickly tonight. The whiskey is making him feel languid and loose. Playful. They're going to work for it – if he can maintain the willpower (something she's making increasingly difficult with each movement of her hips against his).
While she's busy teasing, he fishes a facecloth off the shelf beside them and dunks it in the cold water from the sink. In one fluid motion he brings the sopping cloth to the base of her neck and squeezes it until the water drips down her back. She pulls away, her face a strange combination of lust and outrage. Her breathing stutters for a second, skin breaking into gooseflesh under his fingers.
"You said you wanna wash up," he says with a smirk.
"I'd be mad, but that actually feels really good," she sighs, as he continues moving the cloth against her back.
They step into their cramped tub to avoid completely ruining the rug. She takes the cloth from him, plunging it back into the sink before pressing it to his chest. The cold is a shock, even though he's expecting it. Rivulets of dirty water carve a path down his stomach. Carol's right (as always). It feels good. Soon they're down to the business of getting clean, passing a bar of pear scented soap between them and scrubbing at the dirt caked to his arms.
"Gonna smell like a fuckin fruit basket. Scare the game away."
"Oh, hush."
"Hmm."
"Did you roll in dirt?" she teases, digging her blunt fingernails into muscle, and coating him in a film of grimy soap. When he's sufficiently scrubbed, she reaches for the pail they keep beside the tub and fills it with sink water before dumping it (a little too gleefully) over his head to rinse him off. She laughs at the picture he makes, hair covering his eyes, sputtering and spitting. She moves his bangs aside with one finger and kisses his cheek with a smile.
"My turn," he says, taking the cloth from her hands and rubbing the soap over it. She raises an eyebrow, but stays still while he works up lather around the column of her neck, across her the delicate curve of her collarbone and down to her breasts. He can feel fresh heat rolling through his body just from touching her.
"I think they're clean," she says with a laugh. He blushes, despite the fact that they're naked and in their bathroom, and moves his soapy hands to her shoulders. Willpower, dumbass. Ain't gonna last if you keep this up. When it's her turn to rinse he tilts her head back taking the weight in one hand, and carefully pouring with the other so she doesn't get water in her eyes. She lets out a contented sigh when the water runs across her scalp and down her back. When she turns around, hair plastered to her head, ears sticking out, she looks like a pixie.
He can't help himself then. He has to kiss her. Before he can reach her lips she throws a towel over his head, giggling to herself while she tousles his hair. He puts his head down to help, and all he can see are their pale bare feet at the bottom of the tub. Even though all he can feel of her is her hands on his head, and her hips under his hands, it's enough to spark his arousal all over again and his body jumps in anticipation.
She pulls the towel off his head and attempts to comb his hair with her fingers, gently separating knots and pushing damp strands off his face.
"You need a haircut," she purrs, trailing a hand down to stroke him softly. The wave of pleasure he feels from her skilled hand renders him momentarily speechless. Two can play at this game. He glides his own hand across her stomach and down to the heat of her sex, cupping her gently.
"Thought you liked it. I like your hair," he whispers in her ear, raking his fingers through her coarse curls. The hand on his head coaxes him forward, granting her the access she wants to his neck. Her lips and teeth graze the skin below his ear sending shivers across his skin. He lets out a puff of air before pressing her back against the tile, their hands trapped between them. The warmth radiating against his hand is too tempting. He runs his middle finger along her, and even though they've barely gotten started she's already swollen and slick for him.
"Christ," he curses into her neck. He can feel her pulse jump under his lips. She retaliates by tightening her grip and stroking him more firmly. A sudden image of the previous morning flashes to his mind of her, splayed out on the bed panting under his mouth. He wants to taste her, but not yet.
With a steadfast resolve he didn't know he had until this moment, he gently pries her hand away from his body and concentrates on touching her. She anchors both hands around his neck and shifts to widen her stance, welcoming the slow circles he makes against her clit with his calloused thumb. It's a miracle, really, that such a small thing can do so much to her. He never gave two shits about making it good for a woman before, but he's been a patient student in the school of pleasuring Carol – knows how to touch her with a confidence he's never felt with anyone else.
He waits for her breathing to go slow and even, bringing a hand to her rib cage and up further to massage her breast in the same slow rhythm. He pauses the movement of his thumb to circle gently around the muscles of her entrance. She's stopped kissing him entirely, too focused on the sensations he's invoking, gripping her fingers harder into the base of his skull. It's almost too easy working her up, drawing her out.
He smiles against her damp skin, licks a drop of water from her throat. He knows he's on the right track when her breathy moans start echoing around them, and the muscles of her stomach clench. Just to be sure he stills his hand entirely and lets out a sigh of his own as she moves her hips against his fingers to make up for the sudden lack of friction. Her movements are increasingly frantic, her legs begin to shake, and it's all he can do not to lift her up and pound into her until they're both spent.
"Daryl," she says, but it sounds more like a desperate plea and a curse jumbled together.
He pulls his hand away abruptly, moving to caress her hips with both hands. She cries out from the loss, relinquishing her grip on his neck and staring at him with eyes dark with pleasure and disappointment, like he just denied her a tall glass of water on a hot day. He smirks and brings his hand up between them, making a show of licking his fingers clean of her. The taste of her, all salty and slick on his fingers, turns him on more than anything. Between them the air smells of pears and her musk.
"Are you trying to kill me?" she huffs.
"All in good time," he drawls, kissing her deeply. He feels drunk, but not from the whiskey. He'd discovered a long time ago that she likes to taste herself. She never said as much out loud (hell, neither of them were that comfortable with talking about their sex life when they weren't right in the thick of it), but she always opened her mouth wider for him after he'd use his mouth on her.
She reaches out to grab him again, wanting to reciprocate or maybe even get right down to it. She has an unwavering sense of fairness when it comes to sex, like she needs to return everything she's given, like she owes him. He doesn't like it.
"Stop," he growls, pinning her hands to the wall beside her ears and pressing his chest into her. She looks at him, puzzled.
"Let me take care of you," she mumbles into his lips.
"Ain't done with you yet."
She shivers a little, so he lets go of her long enough to retrieve the towel they dropped on the floor and wrap it around her. He helps her out of the tub and takes a look around the bathroom. Their dirty clothes are everywhere and there are grimy water marks on the sink and in the tub. He bends down to pick up her soiled shirt and stops short when he feels her hand squeeze his bare ass.
"Leave it," she says with no small amount of impatience. "Take me to bed."
Just to mess with her further he stops by the kitchen on their way upstairs to fill a water bottle. The plan backfires when she drops the towel to the floor. She is bathed in the soft light of the lamp she carries and the moonlight filtering in from the window over the sink. Without taking her eyes off his she reaches down and touches herself brazenly. That's new.
"If you don't hurry up I'm going to finish without you."
Suddenly the idea of taking her on the counter doesn't seem so bad anymore. He forces himself to look away and pay attention to the water he's succeeded in pumping all over his hand and nowhere near the opening of the bottle.
"Need some curtains in here if you're gonna keep doin that," he attempts to joke, but his voice has gone hoarse and needy. Fuck the water. He chugs what he managed to get in the bottle and tosses it back in the sink.
In two strides he's beside her, taking the lamp from her hands and placing it on the table before blowing it out and lifting her up in his arms.
"Oh, I like where this is going," she says, snaking her arms around his neck and pulling him in for another scorching kiss. He's so busy concentrating on her mouth he almost trips on the first step to the loft.
"You okay?" she asks, snapping out of the haze of desire around them long enough to check on him.
"Yep," he says, sprinting up the rest of the stairs as if to prove it.
The loft feel about ten degrees hotter than downstairs. He drops her on the mattress unceremoniously and reaches past their heads, and the books stacked next to their pillows, to shove the window open. A cool breeze filters in that smells of grass and trees. While he's preoccupied she takes the lead, leaving a trail of wet kisses down his chest and stomach, hands sliding up the inside of his thighs. Before she can continue he grabs her shoulders and flips her on her back so he can kneel over her. He can see her face through a curtain of his own hair, and she looks flushed and pissed. It's the hottest thing he's ever seen.
She lets out a huff of frustration, squirming underneath him and running her hands over his ribs. He kisses her deeply, moving down her body to lick and suck her nipples in turn. It was worth the wait. She cries out and grips the back his head.
"Yes!"
The blood is pumping hard and fast in his body. He never thought he'd be harder than a teenager on prom night in his 40s, but having Carol in bed with him always blows his sexual expectations out of the water. Her impatience is infectious, so he wastes no more time in shifting down the mattress and situating his face above her sex. She's as hot as a sauna, and the thought of being encased in that heat forces him to thrust his hips into the bed.
"Please," she moans, while he licks the salty flesh of her inner thigh. He brings his arms up under her legs to anchor her hips to the bed. She gave him a nosebleed once from bucking up into his face when he wasn't expecting it, and he has no desire to repeat that now.
For minutes, or maybe hours, he loses himself in loving her swollen flesh with his mouth. She loves it all tonight – when he flattens his tongue and licks slowly, when he draws away and barely touches her. He opens his eyes to find hers screwed shut, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out over her brow.
"You like that?" he rumbles against her, picking up the pace and clutching her hips harder.
"Yes!" she pants, her legs curling up to trap his arms under her knees. She's teetering over the brink when he pulls his mouth away and kisses her knee.
"You're so mean," she rasps beneath him. He kneels on the mattress taking her in. A flush covers her body from her thighs to the tips of her ears. He's done playing.
"C'mere." He means to say it gently, but it comes out like a demand. She gets up with no small amount of trembling and shifts to straddle his lap, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and sliding her mouth desperately against his. He has to count to ten in his head and take deep breaths to control himself as they finally come together.
Even though it's painful not to move, there is always a moment of relief when he's finally inside her that gives them pause, like he's coming home to her. And everything else, all the bullshit with the truck, the fucking walkie going out of range, the paralyzing fear that she'd be dead when he got back, falls away. She puffs out a long breath, adjusting to the feel of him, before pulling her face back to look in his eyes.
"I love you," she says.
He feels it too. And he'll be damned if he ever thought that a person could cry while fucking - but he is now. He can't say anything. Her face blurs in front of him, and all he can do is keep showing her – proving it to her in the only way he can. Gripping her hips he rocks once into her with a sigh. She brings a hand up to wipe his eyes, and he can see some tears have leaked from her eyes too. Lord, we are a pair.
They're both too far gone to last more than a few minutes, but he's determined to make the most of them. His thrusts turn wild and frenzied as he pushes her back onto the mattress, drawing her legs up around his waist. She clings to him desperately, opens herself wider to take him deeper. It's too much. Just when he thinks he can't hold out a second longer he feels her start to spasm, muscles clutching him, and he lets go.
Afterwards they're laid out side-by-side on the bed, with only their hands touching trying to cool their bodies with the breeze from the window. It's too damn hot tonight to try and stay together in the afterglow. He's not much for cuddling anyway. Right now he needs a cigarette and a nap (and a chance to process what just happened).
"Jesus. What got into you?" she says, still trying to catch her breath.
Nothing he can think to say sums up the weight of what he's feeling, so he settles on trying to lighten the mood instead.
"I dunno. Three - four shots of Jack?"
She laughs.
"I regret not letting you get that bottle of water," she says.
"Want me to get some?"
"No, it's alright."
She sits up then, turns so her tiny feet are tucked under her pillow and her knees are hugged to her chest. He can barely make her out in the dim light. She's quiet for so long he almost drifts off before he hears her speak again.
"I meant it, you know."
"I know," he says softly, running his hand down her leg.
"I think I'm okay with saying it again."
"So say it."
"I love you."
He closes his eyes - lets the words roll around in his ears, savoring the sound of her vowels and the hushed tone of her voice. It's almost like she's saying a prayer.
"I love you too."
Chapter End Notes:
So, did you like it? Feedback of any kind is always appreciated. Thanks for reading!