"Maxon," America whined from her spot on her bed. Her fiancé sat across from her in a chair, still looking vaguely stiff and uneasy despite the numerous times he'd been in her room. And her bed. And getting quite close to breaking Illéan law.
"What, love?" Maxon asked. For an eighteen year old, he was remarkably suave at times, and his nicknaming of her was one of those. He never resorted to babe or sweetie like some of her friends' boyfriends back in Carolina would have, although that was likely partially a product of his education as well.
"I'm cold," she said, exaggerating her pout a bit. Enough that he'd hopefully get off that stupid chair and come curl up with her.
Maxon glanced around for a moment. "Here's a blanket," he offered, tossing it to her. It landed, still neatly folded, in her lap.
"Not what I meant," she grumbled, but took the blanket anyway. It really was a bit chilly, especially for May, and the blanket allowed her to wriggle out of her horridly uncomfortable skinny jeans without totally alarming Maxon.
"What're you doing?" he asked as she yanked the tight ankles over her foot. To be fair, all the squirming happening under the blanket probably did look a bit odd. Instead of answering, she balled up the jeans and tossed them at him.
"Stripping," she teased, watching him go red as he realized her implication. She couldn't help it sometimes. Celeste or no, apparently he'd never gotten over girls being very direct with him.
He carefully folded the pants and placed them on top of her dresser. They looked out of place with the expensive, hand carved furniture. He looked at her for a long moment afterwards.
"Why?" he finally asked.
"Because," she said slowly, drawing out the word, "You really didn't seem to get the hint the first time. I thought I needed to be more obvious." She sat up, letting the blanket fall to her waist. The long sweater she was wearing did cover most everything, but still. A little teasing never hurt anyone, and it wasn't as if they were actually going to do anything. Probably.
A lightbulb clicked in his eyes, and he stood up, pulling off his suit coat and dress shirt and leaving just a white undershirt. The t-shirts really did do wonderful things for his arms, as she'd been fortunate enough to be able to note up close and personal over the last few months. America rolled her eyes, sighing out a "Finally" as he sat down next to her, hip-checking her until she moved over enough that they had plenty of room.
"Get under the covers, loser," she said, laughing. He had very carefully perched atop them, and it was both restricting her movement and not getting her any warmer. Luckily, Maxon didn't need a whole lot of convincing. She scooted the blanket from under him and then held it up enough that he could slide his legs, still in his suit pants, next to hers. It took a moment, and then suddenly they were both wonderfully comfortable. He tucked his arm around her shoulders and she leaned into his chest, letting her ear rest just above his heart. She wrapped her right arm around his waist and tangled her left hand with his right.
"You smell nice," Maxon mumbled into her hair. His left hand picked up a few strands that were dangling over her shoulder and twisted and tugged them for a moment, just lightly, before letting go.
America hummed softly into his skin, too content to respond. She might smell nice, but his cologne was heavenly like it always was. He was the only man she knew that wore reasonable cologne, rather than whatever nasty, "musky" scent covered in pictures of Manly Men could be found in the drugstore. Most others, like Aspen, wore none at all. His, though, was a wonderful scent, and he wouldn't tell her what it was. Something about keeping at least one secret, and also preventing her from likely buying a bottle for herself and just keeping it. Which, to be fair, was mildly creepy. But it was a perfect scent; light, with actual musk, hints of sandalwood, and a few other things she could never quite identify. Whatever it was, it was amazing, and she regularly stole t-shirts from him for the reminder. At least, she took them until the last whiffs of him wore off and then he'd mysteriously find them back in his laundry basket the next day.
"What're you thinking about?" he said quietly, sliding down the pillows just a bit, so they were on a more comfortable angle.
She twisted to look up at him. "How lucky I am." It was sappy, yes, but… she wouldn't trade this.
Maxon let a little smile fall onto his face as he tugged her a bit closer, pressing a kiss to her hair. America could feel herself drooping as he did so. She was positively exhausted, and everything was so nice right then, that her blinks were becoming longer and longer, and she twisted a bit so that she could tuck her right leg under his left and lay down properly. He let her let go of his hand and moved to run his fingers through her hair instead, occasionally brushing down her shoulder and across her ribs, feather-light little touches. In a minute, she fell fast asleep against him with a soft sigh.
Maxon was fading too, and he let his hands still, one falling across her stomach and the other over her shoulder. He moved a bit, as carefully as possible, so that he wouldn't wake her, and then let himself go as well. It barely took two minutes before he was soundly asleep.
A few hours later, when the last reaches of the early summer sun were fading away, Maxon began to wake. With a sleepy sigh, he picked up one of the loose strands of her hair that were spread across his stomach and twisted it around his fingers, admiring the coppery glint that played off the fading light. After a moment his hand drifted to her face, and he brushed his thumb over her lips. She exhaled softly, a puff of warm air against his skin.
"Ames," he whispered. He let his fingers drift over her skin, pressing against the sharp angle of her cheekbone and the delicate curve of her chin. "C'mon, love." She turned into his hand, but didn't open her eyes. A little breathy hum came from her lips and she seemed to settle further, ready to go back to deep sleep. He tucked her hair away from her face carefully, then repeated her name, more insistently.
"No-o," she hummed, pressing her face against his chest. "Max, no." He couldn't help but smile at her, so obviously determined to ignore him.
"Max yes," he said, a bit more loudly. She stuck her bottom lip out and slowly shook her head. "It's nearly seven, Ames, people will wonder."
"Which people?" she mumbled. He considered the fact that she was now speaking in full words a win, at least.
"All of them," he said grandly. "The King himself will wonder what's become of us." He curled his fingers through hers, then wandered further, dipping cool fingertips under the warm cuff of her sweater and brushing them over her wrist. He toyed with the little bracelet resting there, one he'd given her not long ago.
"Well, you can call your office-" there America paused, her words broken by a yawn- "and tell them to tell the King to wait a while."
He smiled at her words. "I don't think that would work."
"Try it?" She turned to look at him, mascara smudged under her eyes and sleep flushing her face. "For me?"
Maxon moved from her wrist to her cheek, feeling the flush of her skin under his fingertips. "For you," he allowed. She smiled then, turning to kiss his palm.
"So, I don't have to get up then?"
Maxon sighed deeply and dramatically. "I suppose I must admit defeat." He pulled her up so that her head rested next to his on the cotton pillowcase, which was printed with tiny blue flowers. The color matched her eyes.
"Yes," she said happily, taking her right hand, which was trapped between them, and gently running her fingertips over his jaw. He sighed at the contact, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment.
"Tease," he mumbled when her fingers pressed over his lips. His hand slid under the covers and landed on her thigh, still bare. He gently pinched a spot where he knew she was ticklish, and he was right; she jumped and shrieked, kicking at his legs before dissolving into giggles.
"Maxon! Stop!" she said, nearly yelling. He grinned at her instead and did it again.
"Better be quieter, love, lest you get the guards in here," he teased, running his hand up to her ribs and then back to her knee. America kept laughing, trying to roll away from him, but he managed to keep her trapped with his free hand.
After a minute he did stop, propping himself up on his elbow instead. She lay next to him, eyes bright and chest heaving, with a beatific smile spread across her face. The sleepy warmth was gone, replaced by bright pink high on her cheeks from the apparent exertion of laughing too hard. When she noticed the look in his eyes, she bit her lip, perfect teeth tugging on the pink skin for just a moment before letting go again.
Carefully, Maxon pressed his thumb on the same spot on her lips, resting it there for a heartbeat before sweeping down her throat and across her collarbones, feather-light touch raising goosebumps across her body.
He leaned across her then, fully trapping her between both arms, one leg laying between hers. He had carefully shifted so that none of his weight laid on her, but she could still feel the heat of his skin and some unidentifiable pressure keeping her pinned like a butterfly in a glass case. As gently as if he were picking a flower, he kissed her, just once. His eyes were dark but still soft as he moved away again, only to push another kiss onto her jaw, then her lips a second time.
"Maxon," she whispered into his mouth on the last, and he kissed her harder, shifting so that a bit more of his weight pressed on her, but not too much. Not enough. She reached up and grabbed the collar of his shirt, tugging him down so that she could return the kiss, her whole body arching in an attempt to be closer to him. Finally he gave in, moving so that he could run his hands down her body and at the same time resting more of his body against hers. Not so much that she was smothered or trapped, of course; Maxon was far too careful for that. But enough.
America sighed against his lips, a whole-body shivering breath, when his hands skated the curve of her hip under her sweater and the delicate skin stretched over her ribs. She laced her fingers in his hair and then he sighed too at the luxurious feel of her hands, moving from his temples to the top of his spine, just barely touching him.
"C'mon," he muttered, sitting up and tugging her with him. She sat with her knees folded under her as he took the opportunity to run her hair through his hands, ever gentle. Then he moved to her sweater, reaching for the hem hastily and beginning to tug it up.
"There's buttons," she said then, a gleam in her eyes as she turned around. Indeed, there was a row of hand-carved wooden buttons all the way down the back of the sweater, and quickly Maxon began to play at them.
"My favorite," he breathed into her ear, but with no hint of annoyance in his voice. America hummed at the feel of his lips brushing her skin and turned to kiss him, but he moved away too quickly, smiling.
"Maxon," she complained as he began to undo the sweater's buttons, the larger size much easier to deal with than those of her gowns.
He laughed, the same ridiculous notes as ever evident in the sound. "Not until I'm done." It only took a few seconds until she could feel the back of the sweater open, cool air rushing against her skin. Maxon's fingers grazed her spine, toying with the thin, lace straps of her bra. She arched into his touch, nearly purring at the feeling.
He pulled away for a second, and she could see his shirt sail across the room from the corner of her eye, then after a moment of shuffling, his suit pants as well. Then he carefully slid the sleeves of her sweater down her arms, touching every new piece of skin revealed. The cream cashmere crumpled in front of her when he let go of it, and she tossed it off the bed as well, right before he caught her up in his arms.
Maxon's chest was firm against her back, and he turned her so that he could bend down and kiss her, more urgently than he'd done before. He cradled her against him, his free hand touching every sensitive spot on her torso that he could reach. They stayed that way for a long handful of minutes, America's breathing getting closer and closer to panting as they explored each other, her hands cupping his cheeks, loving the deliciously rough stubble against her palms.
Finally he paused. "You're killing me," he muttered, lips against her throat, her head thrown back to allow him closer. Her hair cascaded in red waves over his bare arm, so long that it brushed against his thighs.
"Oh, I am?" she returned between harsh breaths that ruffled his hair.
"Yes," he said, sucking at the paper-thin skin by her collarbone, not long enough to leave a mark but enough to prompt America to let her hands wander further, skimming his chest and the sharp bones of his hips.
"I think," she arched her spine as he hit a particularly sensitive spot, "I think you're- ahhh- Maxon-" she swallowed hard, "-killing me, actually." She could feel his smile as he moved to tug at her bra strap, the lace sliding off her shoulder with one quick movement.
"That was the intention," he said, once more moving both of them so that his back was against the pillows and she faced him fully. For a moment he stared, unable to move his eyes away from the flush across her cheeks and her smudged makeup. It was his turn for a slow shudder when she smiled and moved so that she straddled him. Quickly he moved his hands to her hips, amazed as always at how tiny she was. It wasn't frailty; he knew that all too well. But for her large personality, America was really quite small physically, all thin, birdlike legs and delicate bones. He let himself move lower, sliding a finger under the edge of her lacy underwear, but no further. Her skin was so soft and smooth, every inch perfect. He ran his thumbs over the crease at the tops of her legs, too unsure to move farther. Still, though, she moved involuntarily at the sensation, a short and breathy moan following. Her hands, which had frozen on his shoulders, began a slow path down his chest, wanting to tease him the same way he was doing with her. She met his eyes, and both pairs were dark, hers half lidded with sensation.
"Maxon," she whispered, just as he returned to tugging at her other bra strap. Quickly, it too slid down her shoulder, the lace rough against her skin. He groaned when she leaned down to kiss him, wanting so badly to keep going but knowing they shouldn't. She pulled away, looking at him through her eyelashes, lips parted enough that he could see the flash of white teeth and pink tongue. "Maxon, I wanna-" She interrupted herself with another humming moan when he tugged her closer, kissed a column along her throat and right to the edge of her bra.
"I know, love," he said, the words buzzing against her skin.
"But we can't," she said, sighing.
"But we can't," he agreed, his hands now resting on her hips. "I'm sorry."
She took a moment to slow her breathing before answering. "That would be an awkward- ahhh- law to change." In the middle of her sentence, he had lightly ran fingertips along the edge of her bra, purposefully disrupting her.
"It would be," he said, but god, how he wished he could. Before he could say anything further, she retaliated, leaning down and kissing gently along his jawline, little butterfly kisses that gave him none of what he truly wanted.
"Hmm," she said against his skin. "Not much longer, though." He could feel her little smile as she pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, a hairsbreadth away from his lips.
"Two weeks," he said. "I might die beforehand, America, if you- oh- keep this up." She had lain down fully against him, the roughness of her lace bra exquisite against his skin.
"That's the point," she said, smiling now. She wiggled a bit, and it was all he could to to keep from grabbing her. Instead he settled for twisting her hair between his fingers, the strands soft as silk.
Maxon frowned at her, but he couldn't keep the pose for long, and soon it broke to a soft smile. "It's a good thing I love you."
"It sounds so nice when you say it like that," she said, finally managing to slow her breathing, to let every nerve settle back from the edge.
"Like how?"
"All deep," she started, pressing another kiss to his lips, "and sexy," another to his jaw, "like there's nothing better to say."
"Because there's not anything better," he said, meeting her gaze. Her pupils were still blown out, like his, he was sure. America hummed, a pleased little noise, and folded her arms across his chest, propping her head up on them. Maxon watched as she tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, then settled back down, her chin resting where her wrists crossed. He wrapped his arms around her, setting one at the base of her neck where he could play with her hair and the second lower, at the dip in her spine. He couldn't imagine anything better than this.
"I love you," America whispered through her smile. He could feel her heart beating against his, still racing but starting to slow, and he couldn't keep himself from gently touching the pulse on her throat. It thrummed under his fingertips, physical proof of how much he had affected her, and in return she splayed her fingers across his own heart, her hand cool against his skin.
"I love you," he said, just as quiet, as if saying it any louder would break the world. And it would, likely. His love for her was so great that if he yelled loud enough, he felt as though he could break the world apart at its very seams, tearing away oceans and earth down to the very core.
America reached for his hair, running her fingers through the golden strands. He'd let it grow out since they had become engaged, after she'd told him she liked it longer. It did look quite nice on him, long enough that he could have it styled back or, in time like this, long enough that it flopped into his eyes when she played with it, a sigh of contentment coming to his face.
"You're so handsome," she said as her fingers knotted in his hair and his in hers. He smiled at this, pleased. She suspected few people had ever told him that, just as few people had ever really touched him growing up.
"Thank you, love," he said, tightening the arm he had around her waist for a brief moment.
"I mean it, Maxon," she said, a note of warning in her tone. "I know how you are, all modest. Don't brush it off. You are the most handsome man I've ever met." At that, the smile grew into a proper grin.
"Really?" he asked, a note of boyish curiosity in his words. He brushed the back of his hand over her cheek, pushing a few loose strands of hair aside.
"Really," she said. America grabbed his hand and pressed a kiss to the palm, before glancing back up at Maxon. "Also the kindest."
Now there was a bit of preening in his words when he thanked her, but that was okay. For so long, he'd been haunted by the idea that he was inherently less for his kindness and his willingness to love. But she wanted him to be proud of that now, because she was.
They stared at each other for a long while then, silent, caught up in something as simple as a blink or soft breath. Soon America's neck began to get sore from the rather awkward pose, and she slid off Maxon, both of them turning onto their sides so they could keep their gaze. Maxon tangled his hand in hers, bringing their hands between them and kissing her knuckles. It was long enough like that that America's eyes began to droop, ready to fall back to sleep now that it was late again. They had been distracted for long enough that the last bits of sunshine coming through the windows were long gone, and the palace grounds' lights were beginning to come on. No one had come knocking for them, which was both peaceful and embarrassing, that the staff so quickly assumed they ought not interrupt for fear of what might be going on.
"Max?" America questioned, dragging herself from the warm edge of sleep long enough to meet his eyes fully.
"Yes, love?" He pressed one more kiss to her ring finger, just above her engagement ring, and smiled.
"Can we stay?" Normally the answer was no; often both of them worked late into the night, despite America's technical lack of a formal title and their overwhelming and desperate need for sleep. The advisors seemed to forget that there'd been multiple recent studies, ones America had seen cross her own desk, stating that teenagers needed at least eight hours of sleep. They were still, technically, teenagers, although they were teenagers that carried the country on their shoulders. Still, though. She would appreciate a little more consideration for the fact that people did require sleep to operate properly.
Maxon thought about it for a minute. She could see in his eyes the mounds of paperwork surely waiting for the both of them, the multiple meetings and discussions and conferences that filled their schedules.
"Just this once," he said, reaching down and tugging the comforter over them.
Instead of answering, she kissed him, soft and sweet.