This one's for Kimmy, as promised, as my end of the bargain ;)
Exactly 1000 words by sheer fluke - never let it be said I can't stick to a word count.
They don't tell anyone they're going. It's the middle of the night and she can't sleep, and he's sprawled on his back looking like something she could eat. They're in the middle of a tour with a couple of days off, staying in a decent hotel, the anonymous kind with sheets that rustle too loudly. Maybe it's the full moon, but she's in a strange mood, something like a caged bird. They've been getting recognised a lot lately, her in particular, and their schedule hasn't given them any time to be who they are without the painted smiles that conceal how tired they are, that they have no idea what city they're in.
He wakes and sees her peeling off her camisole, too hot, and he's all hands and mouth in an instant.
'I can't breathe Deacon,' she gasps, and he pulls back, looks at her for a moment and stands. He knows exactly what she means. 'Then let's blow this place,' he says.
They take off just like that, no note, no knock on anyone's door. The cab driver eyes them in his rear view mirror all the way to Mexico.
The bar they find is half empty and loud, and they don't talk. The corners are dark and the liquor comes in doubles, the bartender well used to asking no questions. She's in a tiny dress that does nothing for her modesty and everything for her figure, generous in all the places that make him hot, and he can't keep his hands off her. The other men settle for voyeurism, and she feels their gazes slide down her skin, watches them lick their lips, gold teeth glinting in the light from the neon window sign. No one knows who they are - no one cares. She feels free, light headed with it, and she lowers herself onto Deacon's lap, slipping her knee between his legs and making it very clear what she wants.
They make it to a shady motel, pay in cash and give false names. He leaves finger marks on her ass before they even get the key in the door, and she has his jeans on the floor the instant he opens it, smirking at the woman in the house coat who peers unashamedly out of the room opposite. 'Sinners,' she hisses, and makes the sign of the cross as Rayna pushes Deacon's boxers off his hips and kicks the door closed.
They've never been able to work out whether it's the sex that makes the music or the other way around, but she breathes snatches of a verse into his mouth and he licks her earlobe and adds lines in whispers. Her voice is teasing, immoral, the good Catholic girl she never was; his is low and rough, sandpaper down her spine. It's hot and humid, no air conditioning, and off-white sheets tangle around their bare limbs, their bodies entwined everywhere possible. Everything mingles - their breath, their sweat, their tongues. They drink cheap red wine from the bottle, the one they ordered from the shifty guy with the crucifix who came when they called room service, and Deacon pours a shot into her belly button and sucks it clean.
'We should send Bucky a postcard,' he says, and she pushes his head back down and lifts her leg over his shoulder.
'Don't talk about Bucky right now,' she pants, digging her fingernails into a deflated pillow and biting her lip. She feels his chuckle all the way through her body.
He writes lyrics on her stomach with a pen he finds in the bedside table. The drawer breaks when he tries to shove it back in, leaving the dog-eared bible to cast judgement, and she asks him coyly what his intentions are. He gives her a wicked look as he pulls the cap off and pins her to the bed by her hips, and she squeals, trying to swat him away.
'There's a perfectly good pad of paper over there you know,' she says, looking down at him, a handful of his hair scrunched in her fist.
'You make a much hotter canvas Ray,' he replies, licking a glistening trail across her skin and pursing his lips in concentration. The pen tickles and she laughs, trying to writhe away from him, but his hold on her is firm and it turns her on like hell. She doesn't know whether it's the feel of the nib moving across her flesh, branding her, or that she loves it when he gets a little rough, a little dominant. She tips her head back, arching her back and letting out a shaky sigh, her toes curling of their own will, and he knows he's got her in the palm of his hand.
When he's satisfied with what he's written, he tosses the pen aside and moves back up her body. She gazes up at him, eyes half closed, the long eyelashes she flutters at him while she sings feathering lazily against her cheeks. And then she leans up and pulls his bottom lip between her teeth and he plunges his tongue into her mouth, but she pulls back when she's got him suitably worked up. He chases her lips, trying to capture her.
'Bad girl,' he growls, grasping her wrists and lifting them above her head. She lets him restrain her for a moment and kisses him again, letting him think he's got her, that he possesses her just like he wants to, but he should know better; she waits until he softens, melting into her, and then shoves him hard and rolls out from under him.
'Baby,' he groans in mock frustration, and she doesn't leave him waiting long before she crawls back to him and pushes him onto his back, straddling him, the pen between her teeth.
By the time they're done they're both covered in ink, and the words are smudged with their sweat, licked to almost nothing by tongues that can't help themselves.