Written by request for the ones who make me brave; you know who you are. Thank you and enjoy!
Catch
Vic thinks about the sexual tension on the way to the cabin. These first few days it's been a constant with her. Sometimes when she watches him talking to Ruby, or hanging up his hat, she remembers how he felt under her hands hours ago, and her fingertips start to throb. She is conscious of clenching and unclenching her hands to relieve the new awareness. Who does this?
Is it because they were friends first? Because he's her boss? 'I wanted you for so long before I knew it...' as her truck pulls in behind his.
Walt is a sentry on the porch as he has been each day so far that they've done this. Though today he is not even pretending to read the Courant. He puts down a beer that he isn't drinking, watching her.
"Don't watch me." Jesus, with that smile. "And don't smile." Fingers clench.
As she reaches the top step and her eyes finish their ascent to meet his molten gaze, there is an awareness of having fallen the rest of the way from grace.
"Hello." Quiet thunder.
Vic knows this is the only honest relationship she's ever had; there is no way to hide a want when your body betrays you, no way to hold back a thought when he can read it in your face...
"You made me want to touch you all day." Accusing. But reaching.
In one fluid motion Walt steps in and puts a hand firmly between her shoulder and neck, bracing her for what comes next: his other hand moving hers to the front of him.
"Try walking around with this."
"Oh my god-"
And his mouth is on hers. Wet heat. Holding the back of her head to prevent retreat. She lives for this first one, when his tongue asks hers the questions. 'How was your day? Miss me?' Survival is knowing how to breathe through these, and Vic does it so well.
Walt is full in her hand, the front of his jeans are tight. He is pulling her ponytail down and her shirt tail out; how many hands does he have?
Kissing. Alternating head-turning for maximum coverage. His hand on her neck. God, his hand on her neck. This always gives him complete control of her spine. All she can do is grip his ass with both hands and hold on tight...
On the porch? Now as she fumbles with his buckle and then jeans button, Walt is brought to awareness, and is characteristically economic with his words: "Inside."
Vic can hardly stop to move. Unzips. "Walt-"
"Okay-" and the door is open.
There are sounds of hardware now, of holsters and cuffs and leather piled (not gently) on the table by the door; of Vic's belt and Walt's boots; the wooden desk chair being moved back a bit. Snaps being split apart and breathy, grumbly kissing, struggling with sleeves.
There are smells too. Last night's log fire, Walt's salty neck, the beginning-of-their-sex smell. As Walt's hand moves quickly into her jeans and Vic calls out to the cabin walls, her hand grabs the top of his shoulder; this is generally when her knees miss their cue. He loves to see her mouth twitch when his finger slips in. Her breathing is directly proportionate to his pulsing and her eye-roll tells him she doesn't have long to stand up.
"Please-" Her whisper is so small, and generates a new thought. He is amazed by the wealth of new thoughts these last few days.
"I need to taste you."
That's it, catch her.