NOTE: I STARTED AND FINISHED WRITING THIS SERIES BEFORE S2 ENDED. It is pretty much all smut at first. If you're a "smut, all smut, and nothing but the smut," type reader, you'll wanna quit after Ch.6. I kinda tripped and fell into a plot. But the smut does stay around. Lots of it.
If you don't look at an elephant in the room, or even talk about it, it's not there. No elephant. Not even a teeny one. Luckily, fighting the armies of doom full time made it easy to ignore just about anything without even realizing it.
Abbie and Ichabod's proverbial elephant could probably go unnoticed if it grew to the size of fucking Godzilla. Nothing derailed their routine. Fight, fight, fight, banter, banter, bloodshed, bond, detective stuff, more fighting, and sometimes a second of downtime.
Enter mistletoe.
The previous year was different. They were still getting to know one another. It would have been too awkward. But now they were such good friends it would be weird not to do it-what's a tiny little peck on the mouth between friends, after all? The mistletoe doesn't expect full on making out or groping. A quick smooch, and you're done. No biggie.
Officer Rankin always threw great Christmas parties. Casual. Like, 'beer in red plastic cups' casual. A great way to shake off the stress of cop life.
Abbie and Ichabod were chatting on the back porch. Ichabod remarked (again) on the ubiquity of plastic in the modern world as they wandered to the railing to set down their cups. It was only them and a small huddle of people at the far end of the yard outside.
Katrina was elsewhere with a few witch friends she'd managed to meet since her escape from the horseman. They'd all agreed to spend as little time as possible focused on, or talking about, the Apocalypse during the holiday.
Nope. 'Twas the season to pretend life was mellow.
Being a witch, Katrina's winter rituals were mostly unrelated to the traditional trappings of an American Christmas, so Ichabod understood completely when she asked if he'd mind her not attending Rankin's party.
"We needn't be joined in all things, my love. You sing to the moon, I shall drink nog. Apologies in advance if I stumble home a fool." They both knew he wasn't generally the type to overindulge, but there had been a few occasions when a festive mood ran away with his better judgment. Better to cover his bases than risk an irate wife.
So Abbie and Ichabod found themselves leaning on a porch railing by themselves, breezily meandering from one topic to the next. The miracle of airplanes, a vivid description of 18th century dentistry (terrifying), various errors in modern historical education, etc.
Abbie tossed her head back to laugh at something Ichabod said-and there it was. Mistletoe.
"Of course," she said with a sigh.
Ichabod followed her upward gaze. "Ah." He clasped his hands behind his back. "And we so carefully avoided the other two." He half-grinned down at her. "It appears we are trapped. So what to do?" The question was asked without a hint of tension or nervousness. Friend to friend
She rolled her eyes and shrugged. "Oh, what the hell." She'd gotten to know Katrina pretty well, and felt confident the woman wouldn't mind her sharing an innocent, tradition-mandated little kiss with her husband.
Ichabod began to lean down toward her, but paused halfway there. "May I make an observation first?"
"Um . . . okay."
He smiled. "You are comically tiny."
She smirked, her dark eyes lit with fun. "Yeah? Well you're comically old. Can we please get this over with?"
Ichabod nodded as he closed the remaining distance between them, his right hand resting lightly at her midsection, the way a fifteen year old boy would do for an end-of-first-date kiss. His left hand remained behind his back.
Abbie's arms hung at her sides, relaxed as loose thread.
Their lips met in exactly the chaste manner of the usual 'mistletoe moment," but things changed instantly. Neither of them attempted to deepen the kiss, but both leaned into the contact. Ichabod gasped involuntarily. Abbie rose up on her toes just the slightest bit, her upper lip sliding between Ichabod's as their mouths softened against one another.
He tilted his head to the left, and slid his hand down her side. The other hand remained behind his back, twitching as though uncertain how to behave. Wrap around her? Pull her into a full embrace?
Absolutely not!
He knew if he let that happen there would be no stopping. The moment would become un-changeably passionate, and he'd be helpless. He mustered up all his restraint and pulled away just far enough to speak. His lips still brushed against hers as he spoke, they were so close. "This may have been a terrible idea," he whispered.
"Uh-huh," Abbie breathed in response, unable to recall a time when such a tame kiss made her feel so . . . something.
Hello, elephant. Please go away.
Both took a full step back. After a moment of hemming and hawing, Abbie spoke up. "You should probably find another ride home, right?" She cleared her throat again. "We'll just sleep off the weirdness and tomorrow it's all back to normal, yeah?"
"Agreed," replied Ichabod, hands once again clasped behind his back, posture rigid, eyes fixed on a point just above Abbie's head. He was sure the lustful urge would go away when the booze wore off, but he also knew he was doomed to spend the whole night dreaming of having her against the porch railing.
He got a ride home with Irving, who was tactful enough not to ask the obvious question.
The next morning he arrived at their 'office,' the archives room, to find Abbie combing through a stack of stupidly thick books.
"Hey," she greeted him with a small smile and wave.
He nodded politely, sat opposite her, and unfurled the scroll he'd spent the last three days trying to translate. "Any progress on your end?" He asked in regard to her search for information about the talisman they'd found the previous week.
"Not yet," she replied. "But I'll take this over translating the . . . whatever the hell dead language you got there, Crane. Good luck with that."
Ichabod chuckled. He tried to focus on his work, but casting glances at Abbie took up more and more of his time as the hours ticked by. It wasn't the kiss that had him so troubled, or the graphic and surprising dreams that followed. It was everything the kiss had forced him to confront about his past, his present, and most importantly, his marriage.
The Ichabod Crane of the past had wanted nothing more than to spend his life as Katrina's ardent lover, and steadfast husband. Before they were so joyfully reunited, he assumed there was no great difference between Ichabod of the past and Ichabod of the present. Indeed, aside from having to carry the burden of witness, he felt no change to his personality or temperament at all. He was the same man. The man who longed for Katrina.
True, Abbie had become his rock, foundation, and dearest friend in that first year, but she was no substitute for the woman he so vividly recalled as his soulmate. His one and only. Then, against all odds, God granted his fondest wish. After a hard-fought battle, there stood his beloved Katrina. Right there by his side.
Everything is fixed, he thought. At least in regard to the state of his soul, he felt all had been righted. He did not allow the euphoria to distract him from his ordained mission, of course. But he took it for granted that he and his wife would thrive, their marriage unaffected by anything they'd been through.
However, pure euphoria can only last so long. When it did fade away, a growing list of things he tried not to dwell on began to emerge. When they weren't focused on apocalypse, Katrina spoke ceaselessly of how taxing it was to be so out of place, out of time. How everything would be perfect if they could only go back 'home.' He knew he should feel the same. All their friends, their way of life, customs, etiquette. How could he not want to return? Why was he so willing to accept life in such an alien world?
He decided the best way to ease her lament was to teach her. Show her all the good things this era had to offer. Take-out, baseball, he'd even learned his way around Netflix. Films fascinated him. He would help his wife get the hang of it all, and she'd come to enjoy the modern world as he had, despite all its flaws. She had no patience for the cell phone, take out made her feel like a lazy wife, yelling at the umpire was too rude, and films held only her mild interest.
Loathe to censure or unfairly judge his wife, he tried to see things from her point of view-which was not an invalid one. Perhaps he'd acclimated with an unusual ease. Perhaps Katrina's was the more normal reaction. He had no point of comparison, so how would he know? He reminded himself of this every time he caught himself getting annoyed with her, or worse, snapping at her. His Katrina was intelligent, strong, and loyal. She possessed an endless list of qualities any sane husband would be grateful to have in a wife. Actually, if not for Katrina's cleverness he'd never have ended up here in the first place.
No automobiles.
No Thai food.
No Abbie.
No Abbie. The thought always made his insides go cold. Before the mistletoe incident, he chalked it up to their bond as witnesses and looked no deeper. Pushed it out of his mind in favor of demons and horsemen. He also told himself that their mutual response to the mistletoe incident was nothing more than a combination of human nature and alcohol.
Katrina had been waiting up for him when Irving dropped him off.
Wonderful Katrina. His beautiful, devoted wife. She smiled lovingly as warm, romantic candlelight flickered over her face. In that moment, the long-avoided elephant planted itself firmly in front of him and refused to be ignored. His last shred of denial fell away, and all that remained was a sad, simple fact. He would always, always love his dear Katrina, but he would never be in love with her again. The Ichabod Crane who'd sworn his body and soul to her was dead. Buried over two hundred years ago, and risen a different man. Or perhaps he'd changed bit by bit. Either way, he went to bed certain that Mr. and Mrs. Crane no longer belonged together. He suspected she felt it as well, but he was in no condition for a serious conversation.
They climbed into bed. They slept.
Abbie on the porch did indeed consume his ceaseless dreams. But then the sun rose, and off he went to work. He was almost close enough to touch her. He kept trying to give a damn about the scroll, or being a witness, or the Apocalypse in general, but all he could think about was the previous night's dreams.
Abbie closed the book with an annoyed huff, and selected another one from the stack at random.
Work dammit! Ichabod scolded himself.
The first dream had started innocently enough. Ichabod was fetching a blanket from the house to keep them warm.
"I thought you were gonna get our coats." said Abbie. She was sitting on the railing rubbing her hands together.
"The coat racks are a disaster, I didn't feel like digging though them. Besides-" he unfurled the giant blanket. "This looks much warmer, don't you think?"
"Certainly bigger," Abbie laughed. "I could swaddle my car in that thing."
They weren't under the mistletoe in this dream. They were on the upstairs balcony, tucked away in a small alcove around the side of the house. A little nook about the size of an elevator. They'd chosen this spot for its near-total darkness because that's when a starlit sky looks most impressive. When everything else is dark.
"Here," Ichabod said as he draped the blanket over his own shoulders. Abbie scooted forward on the railing as he crisscrossed each side of the blanket around her back. Abbie pulled the corners snug around her arms. Rankin did have several outdoor heaters running on the the up and downstairs porches but she was wearing a thin, knee length dress. More warmth was needed, and a giant blanket was perfect. It easily encircled them both, one end pooling around Abbie on the railing, the other falling just above Ichabod's calves. He had to move in close to her, but they weren't bound together. Both had room to move.
"Hey!" Abbie exclaimed, pointing at the sky to her right. "I think I know that constellation. Is it Orion?" Ichabod had to lean forward a bit to follow the line of where Abbie was pointing to. He rested his hand on the railing next to her, still under their generous nest of blanket.
He sighed. "I should know for sure, but alas, festive beverages have me just addled enough. I am . . . fuzzy."
Abbie smiled and gently tossed her head back to shake hair away from her face. Ichabod always appreciated the elegant line of her neck. A feature on full display in her choice of dress, as well as a necklace to further draw in one's attention.
For a woman with such a no-nonsense attitude, thought Ichabod, she's certainly knows how to flatter her figure.
Fuzzy.
It was then he realized that his thumb was touching Abbie's thigh, just below the slightly bunched up hem of her dress, where it was unconsciously tracing small lines. He could tell by Abbie's slight change in posture she'd realized it to. He meant to cease the movement and withdraw his hand, but in fact the exact opposite happened. His thumb snuck forward under the hem of her dress.
"It might be Orion," he continued, pointedly ignoring what he couldn't seem to stop. She likewise failed to push him away.
"I could look it up if I had my phone, but it's in my coat pocket," she said, her breath growing shallow as Ichabod's hand went on creeping forward, his thumb tracing longer and longer lines. "You should've gotten our coats."
"Quite the error." His voice was thin and shaky. "I apologize."
"S'okay," Abbie replied, her tone almost identical to Ichabod's as her legs began to scoot forward and draw up toward his waist. She placed her hands on the railing to keep from pitching over, and locked eyes with her partner for the first time since the strangeness began.
"I could go get them," he offered, his restraint quickly evaporating. When Abbie didn't reply, he gave up. Surrendered fully to the intoxicating thrall, and leaned forward, also clutching the railing for support. He pushed his hips forward, spreading her compliant thighs apart until he felt her dampening sex against his own growing hardness.
They could hear other party goers on the ground below them, and even around the corner in the well lit area of the balcony. Ichabod had never even considered doing such a thing as this. He looked over Abbie's shoulder and saw small group of people down in the yard, well within his view. They were having a grand ol' time. 'Ive done dumber shit than you,' was the general gist of their conversation.
"They seem to be enjoying themselves," he mused against Abbie's ear.
"Good for them," she whispered, spreading her legs wider.
Ichabod took the hint. He gripped the railing and began rocking his hips against her for more friction.
Abbie grabbed the front of his shirt and kept her eyes fixed on his chest while he made quick work of the drawstrings on his pants. He had himself freed in seconds, and Abbie reached down between them to run her hand over his length, other hand still fisted in his shirt. A low moan escaped him, masked by the crowd of loud revelers. She stroked him with expert precision while he dipped down to softly nuzzle and run his lips over her neck. Eventually her skilled hand became more of a frustration than a pleasure, so he hooked two fingers through the crotch of her panties and moved it out of the way (an easy task, as there was hardly any fabric there to begin with).
Abbie didn't need any prompting. She maneuvered herself into place, and Ichabod thrust forward with a bit more purpose than he'd intended. She gasped and cried out before she could stop herself.
They instantly sat up straight, and tucked the blanket back around Abbie and over his shoulders to hide the evidence of their brazen indiscretion.
"Y'okay back there?" asked a random party goer, her head poking around the corner. She squinted into the darkness facing her. "Sounded like someone got hurt."
"No," Abbie answered, her voice shockingly steady. "I'm fine."
"Okay. Good." The stranger looked up at the sky. "Pretty night, isn't it?"
"Very," Ichabod replied, feeling oddly emboldened. He was sure the woman couldn't see more than the vague outline of their bodies, if that, so he leaned into Abbie just enough to rub the tip of his erection against her well-lubricated clit. She jerked with surprise. Ichabod knew she was inwardly cursing him, but he'd found himself ridiculously aroused by their situation, and he wanted to make sure Abbie's mind didn't clear enough to realize they should stop. He rubbed over her again, this time using a hand to guide himself along. Meanwhile, he went on speaking to the woman. "I thank you for your concern, kind lady, And I do hope you enjoy the night's festivities."
Ichabod prayed the woman would realize she was being politely shooed away.
"Will do," she said with a grin before wandering off.
"How lovely," said Ichabod in a low, teasing voice as he pulled Abbie back into position. She seemed only a tad hesitant. Certainly not wary enough to give him pause. "One does," he thrust, eliciting from her a needy whimper. "Appreciate," (thrust) "an outstanding," (thrust), "occasion."He gripped her thighs and buried himself inside her with great enthusiasm.
Abbie sucked in a ragged gasp and began to roll her hips, barely able to restrain herself from crying out. "Outstanding," she panted. "Yeah."
Ichabod delighted in the look and sound of her so close to cumming. When the muscles inside her began to shudder, he curled one arm around her waist while the other slipped between her legs. He pressed thumb against her clit. The natural motion of her hips did the rest for him. He pressed his face in the crook of her neck as she clenched tight around him, doing his best to remain quiet.
Inhuman, he thought as he felt her relax against him.
He was trying to catch his breath and think of something to say when the dream ended.
The next dream was completely different. Things were already well underway from the moment it began. They slammed into the wall a few feet shy of the porch door, flushed and frantic. Nothing mattered but venting a year's worth of pent up lust.
Unlike his previous dream, Dreamscape Logic was in play here. No one was outside, nor did anyone come outside outside despite the obvious sounds of entirely unrestrained rutting right next to the damn door.
Abbie drug her nails down Ichabod's back just hard enough to hurt a little, and Ichabod responded by grinding against her, harshly attacking her mouth. They both wanted victory. Wanted to leave each other not only spent of all energy, but able to see and feel the evidence of their illicit encounter for days.
(It occurred to him upon waking that Real Abbie probably didn't think Ichabod capable of, much less interested in, that sort of thing. Too '18th century.' God, how he wished to prove her wrong, to show her how far he'd go to please his partner. The wish grew stronger when he woke, as his gut told him that each version of Dream Abbie he'd experienced was a different, genuine aspect of Real Abbie's sexual personality. A perk of the witness bond, perhaps?)
Dream Ichabod was determined to satisfy and surpass Dream Abbie's clear expectations. He yanked her panties down to her knees and demanded she do the rest. She obeyed. He had a strong feeling her previous lovers tended to hold back when it came to this sort of thing. Treated her as though she might be too fragile to handle it, being such a petite woman and all. A delicate thing. He knew better. If his Abbie leveled a challenge of any sort, she damn well wanted it met. And meet it he would. In spades.
The second her panties were tossed away, he wedged a leg between her thighs and thrust against her as he went to work undoing his pants. "Just so you know," he purred, glancing down at the thoroughly wet, discarded scrap of fabric, "I'll be taking those with me when I leave." He could tell she was intentionally holding back every sound her body wanted to release. Too stubborn.
I will hear you, Abbie, he promised himself. You will cry out for me before this ends.
A new tactic suddenly occurred to him. He pulled the second to last drawstring on his pants as slowly as possible while placing his other hand flat against her chest. He pushed without warning, pinning her forcefully against the wall. "Do not move," he instructed while loosening the knot of his final drawstring. "Remain as still as you can, Abbie, or I will walk away and leave you here unfinished." He bit at her earlobe and added, "I won't even take the panties. Even your imagination shall be left in wanting." The threat won him an excited whimper. He rewarded them both with a generous thrust of his leg.
She didn't move, but her eyes darkened with arousal. "Watch me," he breathed as he withdrew and stroked himself with no hint of modesty. He let her watch for a long time before he pried her legs apart with his own and growled into her ear, "You may move!"
Abbie immediately grabbed his waist and hitched herself up the wall, legs splayed out at his sides. The second they were properly aligned he surged into her, burying every inch of himself in her inviting warmth, and went on thrusting with aggressive vigor. He wanted to leave Abbie feeling thoroughly spent for a damn long time, and trusted she would speak up if things got too rough. The thought of her daintily unwrapping Christmas presents while still feeling the aftermath of what they'd done drove him wild.
He pulled at the spaghetti straps of her dress. They broke easily. A bit of fabric tore as well.
"I have to walk back through the house to get to the car, you know."
He abandoned the task of pushing her strapless bra out of the way in favor of pressing a hand to her throat with just enough grip to convey authority. He tilted her head up and brought his face in close to hers. "Not my problem," he informed her quietly. She drew in a ragged breath. "You shall receive no quarter from me in regards to your modesty, Abbie." He ground himself against her to underline the point. She answered the move with an impossibly loud cry of approval.
Well done, Ichabod.
"Is that clear?"
"No quarter," she whispered with a compliant nod. The look on her face was nothing short of obscene.
He returned to what he'd been doing, and as soon as her breast was fully free he placed a series of kisses everywhere he could. Sometimes he bit down a little. Not hard enough to leave a mark, just enough to deliver a slight sting. It was his first real gamble. When Abbie responded by throwing her head back and sucking in a long, unsteady gasp, he figured it was safe to keep going. He pushed the bra and dress down so he could kiss, suck, bite, and scrape his teeth along as much of her body as possible without pulling out of her. A few bites did leave an impression, and were her skin not already gorgeously dark, those marks would've been accompanied by evidence of where he'd sucked at her flesh. Nothing seemed too much for her. In fact, not only was nothing too much-it wasn't enough. The rougher he got, the more she moaned, keened, and bucked forward shamelessly.
God, how those other lovers must have neglected this aspect of her appetite.
Ichabod felt it safe to take things up a notch. What lay ahead was new territory for him, but Abbie's satisfaction was more than worth the venture as far as he was concerned.
He flung open her legs, withdrew himself fully, and took a step back, much to her obvious displeasure. She opened her mouth ready to say something, but he cut her off. "Put your hands over your head and cross your wrists," he ordered. "Now."
Her eyes darkened even more as she followed the command.
Ichabod let his gaze wander over her.
"Well?" She asked, shivering.
"Quiet," he replied before crouching down to retrieve her panties. He used the scant garment to tie her wrists together, then pressed her hands firmly against the wall. "Do not. Lower. Your arms."
"Promise."
He gripped her thighs and hoisted her up again. She took the hint and wrapped her legs around his waist.
"Too tight?" He asked of her bindings.
She angled her mouth just beyond touching distance, and flicked her tongue over his lips. "You tell me. Sir."
He grabbed a generous fistful of her hair and forced her mouth against his-an attack she accepted with a deep sigh. He rocked forward and slowly slid his erection along the length of her center. "Say please," he ordered, his unblinking eyes boring into her. She met his stare, and grit her teeth.
A battle, interesting.
He pressed against her harder. "It would be a mistake to think I'm too far gone to abandon you," he warned, his voice low and serious. Ichabod doubted it was true, but he needed Abbie to believe he was complete control of her pleasure.
"Please," she panted. "Please, please! Evil sonofabitch!"
Always the mouthy one. God, I love you.
He pulled her hips forward and drove into her, then held absolutely still. A false start. "Please what?"
Abbie ground her teeth even harder, trapped somewhere between frustration and lust. "Please," she drew in a deep breath, and exhaled, "screw me. I mentioned evil, right?" She cocked her head to the side, a bit of everyday, snarky Abbie shining through.
Just for that, he decided to push her further. "'Screw' you how?"
Abbie writhed against him, glaring, desperate for friction. "As hard. As you fucking. Can."
He obliged with enthusiasm. As per his command, her arms stayed firmly above her head with every thrust. Ichabod was impressed. A lesser woman would have let them fall a bit by now. It seemed to go on for ages. Several times he pulled her down to plunge his tongue into her mouth, allowing her just enough leeway to do the same. She tasted like stubbornness and fire.
Finally, all control lost, he ripped her hands free of their binding. She responded by tearing his (apparently flimsy) shirt down and biting all along his shoulders and throat without restraint. She teased at his jaw for a moment before fisting both hands in his long, soft hair, and pulling his eager mouth against hers with a lack of restraint to rival his own.
He snaked a hand between their bodies, and slid down toward the engorged head of her clit. He had to to lean back for the right angle to service her properly, so brutal kisses instead became a search for what fleeting mouth against mouth contact they could get as he circled and stroked.
Her every moan and gasp shook with frantic need.
Days, he reminded himself. She needs to feel it for days.
"I'm close," Abbie rasped as Ichabod's searching mouth came within reach, sighing as he ran his tongue over hers. "So Damn close."
The words were barely out of her mouth when he felt her walls quiver around him. He rubbed his fingers over her clit again and again while she clawed at his hips in an effort to pull him deeper as she rode out every gasping, growling burst of pure electric orgasm. It coursed through her, each wave fading only to be chased by another. And another. And another.
When it was over, she wrapped her arms around his neck. Even in her afterglow, Ichabod could see how eager she was to feel him swell inside her and tumble to his finish.
He awoke from the dream as he came, quieting himself just in time to keep from waking Katrina.
More dreams followed the first two.
Given the situation, trying to get work done while in such close proximity to Real Abbie was a monumental challenge. At first. Then it became blistering hell.
No, he decided finally. I am putting an end to this absurd farce. He dropped the scroll and stood up, bracing himself for the impending conversation.
"Done already?" Abbie asked, impressed.
"Not nearly." He strode around to her side of the desk. "Abbie, I cannot abide ignoring what happened between-"
"Ichabod," she said as she rose to her feet, "it's gonna make things weird if-"
"Things are already 'weird,'" he cut her off. "I have tried several times since the 'incident' to spend at least full minute, a mere sixty seconds, thinking of anything but you. All to no avail whatsoever."
"Ichabod!" She shouted as if scolding a child. "You don't break up a marriage over one mildly inappropriate mistletoe kiss!"
"Katrina and I were broken already. Deep down we've both known it for a while, I think. All that's left to do is face facts and formally release one another. Add to that . . ." he paused, uncertain whether or not to go on. You've taken things this far, he thought, and it's Abbie. You tell her everything. He cleared his throat and continued. "Add to that, I don't know what you dreamt of last night, but-"
She averted her gaze, suddenly finding the floor to her left incredibly interesting.
The reaction bolstered his courage. His voice dropped a full octave, and he stepped closer. "-but my dreams were vivid," he paused, "and detailed," stepped even closer, and dropped another octave, "and highly enjoyable."
He could see her beginning to unravel.
"Abbie," he whispered, cradling her face in his hands, loving the feel of her chest rising and falling against his own. He turned her face gently toward him, tilting her head up so she had to look him in the eye. "Last night was merely the final straw. And I could not be more glad it happened."
She swallowed hard, struggling to keep her eyes from welling up. The world could literally end if we ruin our friendship, she reminded herself. It's an awful lot to risk for a standing Saturday night dinner date.
Ichabod brushed his nose alongside hers, his mouth hovering less than an inch away. "If Katrina and I agreed to dissolve what little is left of our marriage," they sighed in unison as his body arched into hers of its own free will, "would you still insist we settle for dreams?"
Abbie stared at him silently for a long time. He knew her well enough to read her expression. Conflicted. Their bond. Their mission. What might happen? It was all right there on her face, and in her beautiful eyes. Finally, a tiny smile defeated those concerns.
Ichabod smiled back. "No more dreams?"
"No more dreams."
He brushed his lips as close to hers as he dared without risk of once again breaking his still-standing vows to Katrina. Though he was glad of what had happened between he and Abbie it was a literal, physical violation of his promise, and he was determined not to insult his wife any further. He was certain she felt the same as he did with regard to their marriage, but they both owed each other, and God, a final declaration of its ending. As well as a plea for his benevolent forgiveness.
He pressed a delicate kiss to Abbie's cheek. "Then I swear to you," one more feather-light kiss, "the next time you see me I shall be a free man."
She folded her hands over his as her smile grew wider. "Good to know," she gave his hands a squeeze. "I'll see you then."
Such a sensible woman.
Ichabod nodded and left the room without another word, or backward glance. He was resolute in his purpose. Public transportation got him within a few miles of his home, and he walked the rest of the way. All the while praying he was correct in his assessment of Katrina's feelings.
Back at the archives room Abbie struggled through a few more books before she gave up and went home. Thank God for Angry Birds and a thousand other pointless games, or she'd have gone crazy waiting to be tired enough for sleep.
She was enjoying the sight of Ichabod beneath her, his glazed eyes taking in every detail of her body, when a thundering knock at the door jarred her awake. "Whoever the hell that is, I will rip them a new one," she mumbled, seething frustration as she shimmied into a pair of pj pants. "Three new ones! And shove a grenade up all of 'em!" She stomped to the door and threw it open ready to bust out some serious wrath.
There stood Ichabod, leaning against the doorframe and panting heavily. "I realize this is horribly indelicate-no, crude," his breathing began to slow a bit, "blatantly crude of me. I intended to take at least one night, truly, if only for propriety's sake. I thought I could bear it, but-" he stepped over the threshold, and pulled Abbie into exactly the same embrace they'd shared when he left her in Purgatory. "I am free." he said softly.
Abbie was instantly dizzy with joy, but she couldn't resist the chance to tease him. She pulled back and raised an eyebrow. "2:15, Ichabod? Really?"
He shrugged, a delirious grin spreading over his face. "I said it was crude. To be honest, Katrina more or less ordered me here. Or at least out of the house. Apparently her powers extend to sensing the heightened emotions of anyone nearby."
"Oh, that sounds like fun," Abbie deadpanned.
Ichabod chuckled. A lifetime of this woman's wit. I can't wait. "I was quite proud of her when she ejected me, actually. She said my emotions were, quote: 'driving her nuts.' Modern slang. I've never heard her use it before."
Abbie wracked her brain and came up empty. "Hey, why are you so outta breath?"
"Ah," he ran his hands down her arms and threaded his fingers through hers. "Well, the busses don't run at this hour, so . . . "
Abbie's jaw dropped. "You walked?! It's eight miles!"
He nodded. "I ran the last three."
She was so amazed she had to grip his shirt to keep her balance. Is this a swoon? Am I seriously fucking swooning?
"Don't feel too flattered, Miss Mills. We used to walk fifteen, even twenty miles a day during the war."
She let go of his shirt and launched a playful punch at his left arm.
"Really, I've walked further to drop off letters."
"I will send you back to the cabin!" She threatened.
The playful spark in his eyes vanished, replaced by something almost dangerous. "No you won't."
Abbie's stomach did cartwheels.
He slid one hand down the length of her spine as the other held her in place, and met her in a kiss not soft enough to be gentle, nor rough enough to be hard. Depth, however? This kiss did not want for depth. Ichabod was half convinced Abbie meant to devour him. He matched her enthusiasm, lifted her off the ground in one effortless swoop, and kicked the door closed behind him. She wrapped her legs around him and went on stroking his tongue with her own as he walked toward the hallway with a determined stride. He was fairly sure he knew where Abbie's bedroom was, and figured she would let him know if he had it wrong. Second door on the right. Correct guess.
He set her down on the bed and crawled up the length of her, settling in as her knees rose up on either side of him. She arched into the satisfying hardness pressed against her with a long sigh, and he responded by kissing and nibbling his way down her neck. When he reached her collarbone, he slid a hand beneath the thin fabric of her shirt, and slowly hitched it upward as he went on ghosting kisses over her body. Every time he returned to her mouth she reveled in the taste and feel of him. He teased at her breasts as he kissed, long fingers caressing gently. Occasionally he'd run his long, intuitive tongue over a nipple.
Abbie pulled the shirt off while he worked, and writhed as he traveled south to her belly. "Ichabod," she whined, trying to coax him back upward.
"My apologies, Miss Mills," he said with a wicked grin, "but with your permission. . . " he hooked his fingers under the waistband of her pj pants and sat back on his knees.
Her eyelids fluttered.
He shimmied the pants off with her complete cooperation. The pants discarded, he moved to the line just above her panties, licking, nibbling, and nuzzling with reverent affection. She gasped and sighed beneath his attentions. He loved the honor of pleasing her this way, and promised himself he would give her as much as humanly possible. Whatever it took to ensure his Abbie's absolute satisfaction.
He pulled off the panties as if they were toxic, and flung them aside. His mind flashed back to the previous night's dream, and a delightful new thought came to life. He pushed her legs apart and spent a few minutes running his tongue over every drenched inch between them while Abbie threaded her fingers through his hair, moaning her approval. When he reared up and lifted himself off the bed, she moved to follow him.
"No," he said in a gentle yet commanding tone. "Just point me to where you keep your underthings." He glanced around the room. "Which drawer?"
Abbie frowned, confused.
He bent down and placed a lingering kiss on her forehead. "Trust me, dearest," he whispered.
She pointed to a dresser against the wall behind him. "Top drawer on the right."
He kissed her with all the feeling he had. Tried to pour all of his devotion, his sincerity, his soul, into the kiss. But when he stood again, it was time to play. He walked to the drawer she had indicated, and rifled through it until he found a pair of panties similar to the ones he'd bound her hands with in his dream.
"Here," he flung them to her as he walked back to the bedside. "Put them on."
"You want me to put clothes on? Do you get how this-"
"Do it!" he ordered, determined to eradicate every last one of her assumptions regarding his sexual sensibilities. He lowered himself to the edge of the bed and trailed his hand up the inside of her thigh, then he slowly ran his fingers along the length of her core before pushing his index finger into her, gently massaging as he went. "I assure you I know what I'm doing." His voice dripped pure sex.
She leaned back with a sigh and nodded.
"Then put them on." He withdrew his hand and stood up again. She did as he asked, and watched with great interest as he undressed himself. They broke eye contact as little as possible.
He did love the thought of her removing his clothes, but he figured she'd need some training to handle all the knots, especially in the dark. And he would crawl through hell before he let anything spoil the mood of their first time together. No. 'How To Undress An 18th Century Gentleman' could wait.
He moved to the middle of the bed and sat crossed legged. "Come here." He held out a hand, helped her up, and guided her to straddle him. He could see she was still confused about the underwear thing. "They'll be removed shortly," he promised as he rubbed her through the fabric. She rocked into his hand. "I want them drowning in you first." She rose higher and lower as she rode him, picking up speed, panties wetter by the second.
Their mouths couldn't get enough of each other, either. So much new territory to explore. A whole world discovered. Though her every lustful sound tempted him to scrap the plan, tear away the panties, and plunge into her, he held strong. Reminded himself how delicious it would be to see her frenzied and desperate. Completely worth the wait.
He kept himself sane by mentally blocking out the feel of his damp fingers rubbing against her heated sex, and focused instead on how wonderfully she kissed. The way she nipped at his lips, and danced in his mouth. The way her tongue pushed against his as if wrestling for a prize. Confident and powerful. The physical equivalent of her whole personality. Of everything he'd fallen so in love with.
"I don't know what you have planned, Crane," she said breathlessly, "but please tell me the damn panties are wet enough!"
He brought his hand to his mouth, and licked the tip of his middle finger. It was slick with arousal, as were his index and ring fingers. He grinned lasciviously. "This will do." He felt a shiver go through her. "Take them off, and come back to me."
"One thing first," she whispered in reply as she brought his hand to her mouth, running her tongue along the length of his fingers, and gently sucking the tip of each one.
Again Ichabod almost lost control. Dream Abbie did not show me this, he thought. A pleasured sigh roll out of him as her tongue caressed each digit. "Many thanks," he whispered.
She leaned forward and hovered over his lips. "I keep a clean house."
"Yet such a dirty woman. Quite the contradiction."
She released his hand, slid off his lap with a deep sigh, then leaned back and pulled off the panties. "What now?" She asked, the garment dangling from her fingers.
"Hand them to me."
She obliged.
"Come back."
"Just a second," she said. She reared up on her knees, pressed her own hands between her legs, and rolled her hips in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
Ichabod's eyes went wide. Dream Abbie could learn a thing or two . . .
She half-smiled mischievously, clearly enjoying his reaction as she went on pleasuring herself.
"God, you're stunning," Ichabod warbled, amazed he was still able to speak. He took several deep breaths in an effort to collect his senses. What he had planned next would require him to take command. "Abbie," he said firmly, motioning her forward. "You're needed. Do cooperate, or stern measures will be taken."
It was Abbie's turn to look surprised. Ichabod motioned again. She crawled to his lap and straddled him, curious and eager.
"Hands behind your back," he ordered.
"You're a damn surprising man, Crane," she said while doing as instructed.
"You're a damn surprising woman," he replied as he tied her off. He lifted her at the waist and angled her back, kissing all along her body-always ignoring her attempts to pull him to her mouth.
"Mean," she muttered.
Ichabod chuckled. "Oh no," he shook his head, "this . . . " he trailed his fingers down her body . . . " this is mean." He easily slid two fingers inside her, and let them wander forward in no real hurry. She bucked against them with a needy whine.
Ichabod briefly allowed her within kissing distance, enjoying the taste of her for a moment before pulling away again. "You're so warm," he told her the lowest octave he could manage, his skilled fingers stroking her walls, "and wet." He pushed in a third finger, and ran his thumb over her clit in slow circles. "So incredibly wet, Abbie. I imagine you could cum right now if I let you." He allowed her to dive forward and kiss him again-this time a ferocious attack, as if she wanted to punish him for all the torture. "But I'm saving that for later," his voice rumbled as he pulled his fingers out of her and wrapped them around his shaft.
"Mmm," Abbie moaned as she watched him stroke himself. "I'd like to help with that."
"Maybe next time," he replied as he adjusted their bodies.
Abbie needed no prompting. She spread her legs wider, and shifted around until she felt him flush against her entrance. He gripped her waist, and brought her down on him slowly. They both gasped as he sunk into her soft depths, and he cried out again and again when she began to rock her hips. Her strong thighs set an ambitious pace. She kissed and sucked along his neck, savoring the sound of every lust-drunk noise he made. She kept at it for what felt like forever. When she couldn't take it another second, she licked at his earlobe and asked, "can I touch you now?"
He reached behind her to rip away the binding as fast as he could, hands shaking, and practically threw her down on the bed as her newly freed hands swept over his body. He plunged himself back into her incredible heat without pause, and took a moment to relish the feel of her wandering touch before he resumed thrusting.
He filled her perfectly, moving precisely against the spot that made her thrash and mewl like a wild animal. He dedicated every ounce of willpower to holding back his own release. She wasn't screaming his name yet, which meant it wasn't time. Abbie deserved nothing less than the full extent of his abilities-and he'd be damned if he failed to deliver. She made a mournful sound when he withdrew and sat back, admiring the result of his handiwork.
"Nonono," she rasped as she gulped down air-which only became a priority when he wasn't inside her.
He pushed her thighs apart, opening her wide, and lowered his head between her legs. He brushed his tongue over her glistening clit, and ended each brush with a firm flick. Her breath hitched each time, and he grinned with pride when he felt her leg muscles begin to shake. He increased pressure on her clit, running his tongue in small circles as his index and middle fingers slid inside her and began to curl forward in time to the barely-controlled roll of her hips. She was already writhing when they found their destination, the perfect spot. With that he sent her barreling into oblivion, screaming his name as she went.
He used his other hand to get himself off, never losing focus on the primary mission. Keep Abbie cumming, his name on her lips, for as long as possible. He more than met his goal. Kept her cresting and falling for several minutes before she began to calm down. It was only when he knew she was in her final throes that he abandoned her clit. He kissed his way up her body, stopping at the curve of her shoulder to wipe his face on a bunched-up blanket and rose to her mouth.
"Was that to your liking, Miss Mills?" he inquired softly, tongue darting between her parted lips. "If not, I am happy to try again. All I need is a moment to gather myself, and perhaps a glass of water."
Abbie's head lolled around on the pillow. "Liking. To. Yes," she paused to track down more words. "We're good."
Ichabod stretched out on his side next to her. He pushed a mat of sweat-soaked hair away from her face and pressed a kiss to her temple. "I shall have to have you in the archives room at some point."
Abbie replied with an exhausted giggle. She curled up against Ichabod and drifted off to sleep. Her dreams featured the archives room.