Rage.
He had felt it in the compressed air around him as he felt the fucking urge to rip something apart. To bang Miles into the wall until his brother was done with this whole pathetic Rachel thing that made his brother resemble some dog on a leash these days. He just had a faceoff with Miles in front of another fucking safe house. Another day on the road. Another day of arguing how to win this damn war. He was done. Miles had walked away, he had walked back into the empty silent house.
He had shut the door with one swing of his boot to shut everyone up and out.
He had found himself in an empty room with as a desk in front of him that mocked all the years he once had been behind it. God he knew it had been only a year, but that life was now an echo, his new life crashing in.
Rage.
Rage for Miles, and the fact that he felt his brother wanted to back him up, but when his guilt came around, he kept quiet when Rachel was blazing him away with cold words and her whining you are not him, you are not Monroe crap. The bitch who could look at Miles with those sad hypocritical eyes of hers and without even blinking whine about how she and Miles were not like him. Not like the big bad he was. Was he the only one remebering all the shit Miles did? Was he the only one realising this bitch would shove a screwdriver in somebodies chest?
And all of that coming from the bitch that had left her family and marched her hypocritical ass straight to Philly, where she had walked into stables, where Miles had been busy with strategy and taking care of shit on a early morning. She had left Ben behind. Her son. Always wore that damn wedding ring of hers. She had left them behind.
And Charlie.
And he'd be dammed if they did not both know why she had left them, coming to Philly instead of Ben. And for who.
He let a fast sharp huff of hair out through his nose. The hypocrisy, the choices of that woman. More rage. Rage there most of all because he felt left in the dark by Miles. Rage for finding himself here again, like years had not passed and he was right back at that corner.
There was one more person who he knew for a fact was not dealing well with all of Rachel Matheson's bullshit these days.
Charlie.
He made the mistake of thinking about her too long.
The girl he had found with his kid, as his kid's fingers were moving through her hair there when Connor was sitting with Charlie at the bar, in New Vegas before he had joined them after his meeting with Duncan. They met again in that crowded humid tent. Bass did not know fur fucking sure what happened between Charlie and his kid.
But the look on his kid's face had made him want to kill something. Connor was probably next to her finishing what he had started when he had let her walk out of that tent with his son. Because dammit, he had walked Duncan back to her tent, not missing the look on Charlie's face when he had made sure she was not in that negotiation. He couldn't. Because hell, the history between him and Duncan. It had made him uncomfortable. Swallowing thickly when he had stood in front of Duncan with Connor on his right, and more importantly, her, Charlie on his left before she had pulled her gun and he had felt a combination of rage and getting hard. And to get what he wanted, which was not Duncan but her men, involved not having Charlie around when he turned on the charm.
But hell, walking into that tent, seeing the last moment of Connor brushing through her hair before they realised he was fucking there too, set his muscles on fire with rage. Connor was taking something he shouldn't. He would give him the world.
But not her.
Not Charlie.
Connor so close to her was something he could not fucking take. Which was Connor taking something that he shouldn't. Because she had shared a road with him. And the moment she found some part deep in her that made her save his ass when Texas didn't, she did not even know he had given her a piece of himself
And fuck, if had felt like she was his, his girl, as she had walked close to him when they walked into Vegas. His to protect.
The thoughts that moved so easily and more often and thoughts that grew more intense were there fucking again. In this empty room in a desolated safe house on the road.
He was alone.
His cock started to grow. Hardness was waiting for her without her there to give him the release, the warmth, the touch, the warm stimulating intensity of her breath against his skin.
It was not the first time.
His large hand, his fingers rough by years of swords and guns in his hand, went to his pants. The zipper. Readjusting himself and taking his cock in his hand. Bass looked down as he closed his eyes. The head in the palm of his hand. He saw her. Saw her coming out of a river late at night, when her nipples came through her tank. He saw her.
He placed one hand to steady him in front of him, on the steady wood of the top of the wooden desk and leaned in a bit.
Her hair fighting with the wind as she blew somebody away with a grace and deadly aim that belonged to her, only to her. And then, he saw her. And was that not the fucking image that made him start pumping even harder. Her, willingly, letting her hands go through his hair, as he jerked her hips over his cock, inviting him in, as her eyes were all challenge, to fuck her until she was sated. A challenge he happily accepted every fucking damn time.
And when he started to pump harder, he realised it. He realised it too late. He was not alone in the room anymore.
He felt it, his shoulders tensing. As he turned around, cock still in hand, no time for anything else but to catch her staring at him, in the room with him.
Charlie watched him. She had heard the rustle of faint and deep panting across the hall that came in jerks of taken breath. Everybody else was busy, and she had watched her uncle bud heads with Monroe. The afternoon sun in his eyelashes that were light blonde, his jacket, his casual but raw strength movement of his upper body when boots with sand on it carried him inside. She had followed him after a while, getting up from her place on the porch where no one had seen her.
He had not even seen her. Heard her.
The rush of the image of such a private intense moment getting to her core. She watched Monroe. Face turned away from her. The suggestive movement of his arm, making movements that made her head spin, biting her lip, feeling her hips tense up and her thighs too.
One of his hands, strong long fingers and what they could do many things to her flashing through her mind, rested on the desk. His jacket around his shoulder, his arms making jerking movements that made her panties even more drenched. Because she could not see what he was doing, but that one long arm clad in black leather, fuck, she could come again thinking about that arm, that long tall man standing there. His pants open but still around his ass. His head slightly turned to the table top. His breathing faster, but with contained groaning, waiting and ready to combust.
He jerked of the way he fought.
His boots placed in front of the table, legs apart as he stood there, tall and so steady.
She had almost made a mistake in Vegas. Almost. She almost gave in to a piece of him, that was much like him, but not him. And now she saw him there, him, in the half dark, his strength wrapped in that leather jacket she knew she had waited for him, for all of him.
Monroe's raspy voice broke through her thougts, through her core pulsing and reached her through the room.
'Fucking hell, Charlotte. Can you see it from there or do you need a better look?' Fury raged through his voice as he felt the shift in his cock.
That was until she moved towards him, and she stood now behind him. He watched want burn in her eyes he had given up hope to ever see there for him. She had closed the door already, and now he was not alone anymore. Not with his rage and thoughts and her thighs in his mind wrapped around him, him, her, the desk in front of him.
She was here now too. She moved towards him as she watched him there. So tall, so strong and his boots so firmly on the ground, black leather, black boots, that it made her take in a breath of concentrated want and screaming desire. She told herself to breath, to look, to wait. To play this out. They were only going to do this once.
This torturing slow approach. As she stood behind him, her eyebrow lightly lifted, but her eyes another colour of blue then they normally were.
'This is much better, Monroe.' She said casually and with a smirk that made him even more pissed.
Until she placed her hands on his shoulders and let them flow to his waist as she felt the firmness and hardness of his flanks through his jacket. She let her hands flow over to his thighs. She stopped there.
'God damm...' He cursed something, as his eyes were everywhere, before they turned into an intense steal look.
Bass almost could not think anymore. She was not here to mess with him, she was here for him. For a piece of him as her smaller body stood against his ass and back. Her smaller boots close to his. The weight and curves of her breasts somewhere against his back. He felt her, did not touch her, did not feel all of her through protective layers of leather and pants.
He wanted to fucking stop what he was doing, needing her so fucking her around, over the desk. Crash her into his chest and feel every bit of her, her naked skin under his hands.
But she declined him, her body steady behind him, her heels firmly on the wooden floor.
'Oh no Monroe,' her voice was as deadly silk, before she almost drove him out of his mind with fucking lust as she kept on going, 'I just did the exact same, thinking about a whole lot of things I maybe should not think about.'
She moved her hand over his.
She felt the breath of air Monroe let out, and she felt a glowing content. Seeing and feeling him panic and want her at the same time, was a warm glow of feeling in control.
Bass shook his head, still with his cock in his right hand.
'Don't stop.' She said, this time with a rough paint over her normally so firm voice.
He growled something before he let his hand move over his length as the head of his cock was wet with moist.
The thought of her, doing things to her pussy when she thought of him almost made him come. Her hands moved, one against his inner thigh so damn close to his balls. The other one, her arm now around his upper body, landed on his chest. The hand close to his balls felt like her in control, the other hand felt it was there to catch him.
The drum of her name came with every time he stroked himself, with her so damn close.
Just like she had been there on that day, when they had just came back from Vegas, before the attack Neville and Truman had launched on them, when he had snapped and lost it and she had intervened and had come between him and the old man, there at the river. Just like that moment, when her one hand had been on his arm, the other one on his back.
He had felt it, observed it. He had fucking killed people for looking at him the wrong way, he would have fucking killed anyone else for daring to step in and stop him like that. Not her, not Charlie.
Charlie felt his balls flap against his legs with small strong swings of every time he stroked himself more aggressively. The sound heavy, just like their shape. He was a wall of sheer ego and manly movements.
Bass felt her breath go faster, together with his, her slender body close to his as he leaned into her touch. Her hand, her fingers, digging into his chest, warm. Steady. Comforting. Familiar. Her other hand close to his damn balls and the hand he was using to get off as he whispered her name somewhere in the back of his throat.
And then she went in for the kill.
'I want to see you come Bass.'
Holy hell. It only took one stroke to finish him, as she steadied him with her arm around him, the fingers of her hand on his chest. Her softer belly against hard lines of his chest He slammed into her body with his back as hot cum sprung free.
'Fuck... Charlotte...' He let the words out in that moment when he could not fucking manage anymore to think straight and he came so hard he lost all sense of boundaries.
When he was able to think straight she was still there behind him. Her name, with all that want for her locked inside of it like they locked eyes, still somewhere out there in the air.
Charlie felt him rest into her embrace. There was something about him unguarded, if only for those seconds when he came so hard she felt his thigh, and whole body tense up. Seeing Monroe come, feeling him come, but seeing him too, warm white pearls of coming hard like a damn hurricane, just like the wild storm he was, made her want him to fill her, completely, all of him around her.
Bass swallowed. Looked at the table. Turned his head as he had to close his eyes and let out a breath. He had not even realised her hands were moving away from his chest, until he missed them there.
Charlie watched Monroe, composing himself again, as his breath was almost back to normal. She felt his whole body tense in a different way.
He looked at her. She watched him narrow his eyes as she refused to look away.
Bass looked at her. Looks between them replaced all the words, when they could not speak, or did not want to. And then she looked at him one more time. A deep look, a moment they just shared in there. And he thought of her, liquid warmth waiting for him to have. To make his. To take. To take like he once had taken half the continent. His eyes intense, hers too as she looked back.
And then she turned. And walked out of the room. As he stood there, like he came into the room not ten minutes ago. Alone, with rage boiling, her on his mind next to an empty wooden desk.
Author's note Oh, these two, they are always so full of dynamics. This is for now a one shot, but maybe I add more. As this chapter was a part of him, well there could be one that is called, a part of her. It is nice to know, that the people who love Revolution, the characters, are still here. So, if you have time, a review is always welcome!
Hope you enjoyed this bit of passionate dynamics.
Love from Love