So this is a James/Bella lemon set in the middle of The Backs of Hurricanes. (Originally posted as part of the story, but due to confusion, I'm just making it a standalone.)
NOTE: This is set a few hours after the scene where Bella and James are dancing outside and they fight/end up nearly having sex against a tree.
There was a motel, finally. By the time we pulled into the same gravel-spattered asphalt lot as each one before it, exhaustion had spread and risen, overtaking each separate piece of me until I felt it all over, draining me down. James opened my door for me, an oddly civil habit of his. My feet stung hitting the pavement. We'd danced for longer than I'd first thought we would, long enough for the echoes of movement to reverberate through my legs even now, an hour after leaving. Considering how much my body ached as it was, I was almost grateful that we'd been cut off when we had, even if it had taken... well, extreme measures.
"You look tired," he said with interest, touching the circles under my eyes. I smiled in spite of myself, bemused.
"What, you haven't been tired before?"
"I'm sure it's like riding a bike," he said thoughtfully, turning to lead me into the motel.
"Not that you'll get the chance to see." He shook his head slightly, nostrils flaring. My mouth twisted wryly. It was times like these that I felt short-changed in the evolutionary pool. I would never breathe in and smell, from miles away, trees. A deer. Anything. He would never feel the joys of complete exhaustion. Damn.
I drifted as James bought a room, or charmed one out of the girl behind the counter, disgustingly accustomed to the mellifluous way he could say a perfectly ordinary sentence and turn it into something irresistible. There was a large corkboard on one wall studded with lone pushpins, scraps of paper torn away at the corner, advertisements for local attractions. Missing persons. A girl my age, her dark eyes staring out from a smudged, pixilated distortion of what was probably, in life, a pretty face. I scanned the sheet, looking for a name. Christy Hanes. Seventeen. She'd gone missing two years ago, from a mall in a nearby town, wearing jeans and a purple sweatshirt. Her family offered a reward for any news. The writing was short, sparse, to the point. No pleading, no desperation. Somebody knew Christy Hanes wasn't coming home.
I looked at those blank black eyes and felt a thrill.
Somewhere on a dirty corkboard in Washington State, I was on a wall staring out.
Charlie would be driving himself slowly insane. The window, the window of time in which I would be found, was closing. His hope would be slight by now, a tiny clear spot through which, just maybe, he could make out some blurred reflection of my face. He would be looking, of course. Still.
James's hand closed around my elbow, then slid across my back to the curve of my waist. He followed my gaze.
"She looks like you," he commented blandly. And we went upstairs.
The room, like the drive, was like every other room of its kind. Small, cold, the air vaguely old-tasting. I wrinkled my nose, and went to one of the two beds.
"I'm going to sleep," I announced, stripping off my jeans and collapsing face-down onto the mattress.
It was only seconds before I felt his hand, light as air, trace from the bottom of my spine to the nape of my neck.
"No," James told me quietly, his fingers cool and steady at the corners of my jaw, the pressure just enough that my eyes fluttered open. He could snap my neck in an instant. "You're not." I rolled over, his hand staying on the back of my neck to cushion it as he knelt, shirtless, over me on the bed. His eyes went from my face to my throat to lower, tracing over my chest and stomach as if the bra and shirt I wore were made of transparent silk instead of cheap cotton. I frowned.
"You may not get tired," I reminded him, "but I do. We were dancing for hours!"
"And we're not done," he replied roughly, lips curling in a feral smile that showed little humor and many teeth. Sweeping his arms up my sides, James caught my wrists in his hands and pinned them against the headboard behind me. Despite the aching of my legs and back, a thrill sent my body trembling and my breath quickened. Damn you for that, I thought, a kind of quiet violence. Damn you for making me want you so fucking much.
My thighs slid up, my legs wrapping around his waist as he shifted to kneel between them. James bent to kiss me, and I moved before my stinging muscles could talk me out of it. With a sharp twist of my hips, I used the fact that James had no hold on the bed itself to jerk him around to the side, yanking my hands down out of his grasp in his moment of surprise. A second after I'd moved, our positions were reversed, me straddling his hips, my hands holding his above his head. I knew he could get out of the hold quicker than it would take for me to even consider trying to keep him there, but with the adrenaline of taking control rushing through me, I didn't even feel the nervousness, let alone my sore body.
"I've had enough of you being on top for a while," I said breathlessly, my heart pounding.
"Oh?" I rocked my hips, feeling James's erection press against me, and his eyes slid shut for a long moment.
"That's right," I agreed, a smile beginning to play at the corners of my lips, letting go of his wrists to rake my nails down the soft insides of his forearms, all the way down to his chest. Of course there was no skin beneath my nails when I was done, but pale pink welts rose along his flesh, a visible mark of our kind of love.
"Mm," James murmured, eyes slitting open to watch me lazily, catlike, half-purring as I bent and took his left nipple between my teeth. I bit just hard enough to feel the skin begin to give, and then swirled my tongue around the hard nub before lifting my head to gauge his reaction. He was holding onto the headboard, his clenched knuckles the only sign of any loss of control. Closing my teeth briefly on my lower lip, I felt his hips thrust up involuntarily and ducked forward to lick his cheek with one swift, rough swipe. Licking my lips, I tasted him on my tongue and rolled my hips again. His nostrils flared wildly, and I knew he was being bombarded with my lust and my excitement. I ran my nails down his sides, digging into each dip of the ribcage, feeling the muscles of his stomach clench as I neared the waistband of his jeans. I dipped my fingers beneath the denim, then undid the button and slid down his thighs to take the tab of his zipper in my teeth. Slowly, my fingers tracing heavy spirals on his stomach and chest, I pulled the zipper down and pressed my mouth against the strained cotton boxers beneath. His erection jumped in response, his belly contracting beneath my hands, and I chuckled before working my way back up his chest with my lips, finding the contours of musculature with my tongue and the tiny, hard balls of his nipples with my teeth.
"If you're going to fuck me," I told him, face pressed into his throat, breath hot on his skin, "I'm going to have to fuck you first."
My teeth closing on the skin of his throat, I reached one hand down and pushed my fingers through the slit in his boxers, gripping his dick and stroking it up, bringing it out into the now-heated air.
"Yes," James breathed, letting go of the headboard and running his fingers roughly through my hair before moving his grip to my waist, then up to my breasts. He palmed them, thumbs teasing my nipples, and I shoved my underwear aside against my inner thigh. Without letting him thrust inside me, I rocked my hips over him, feeling him slide through the wetness there. He closed his eyes, rumbling with pleasure, upper lip curling up in frustration as I tortured him with my hips and teeth.
"Do you want it?" I asked, voice low and sugar-hot. He said nothing, lifting his head to take my breast in his mouth. His tongue worked my nipple, and I felt that tongue straight down inside me. I reached back and stroked his balls, my fingers dipping inside my own wetness and then sliding across his erection. James pulled away from my breast, eyes glinting.
"Shit," he gasped, and then slid his eyes shut. "Give it to me," he said then, hoarse. "Fuck me, B."
I smiled, triumphant, and thrust down onto him.
When he came, finally, it was with one hand between my legs, fingers playing with my clit, our mouths pressed together and open, my warm breath heating us both. My body rocked with my own climax, the shudders forcing me to cry out with the explosion. I collapsed against his chest, feeling him still inside me, my lips in the hollow of his neck and shoulder.
"Jesus," I muttered, trembling.
"I think I like you on top," James replied, the words vibrating through his chest and into mine.
"Me, too," I said, unwilling to move. "Me, too."
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