Title: Crave
Author: Scribere Est Agere
Pairing: Goren/Eames
Rating: M
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Summary: Always someone marches brave/here beneath my skin/
//
A/N: For Squarey. She knows why.
//
He kissed her that night, because he wanted to, because he needed to, and it was a deliberate kiss, slow and steady and thoughtful, as if he had all the time in the world, and merciful god she responded, because she wanted to and needed to and as she opened her mouth a little and pushed against him and worked her hands up from his shoulders into his hair she wondered what the hell had taken him so long for pity's sake.
Sure, they had both had a few drinks after work and yes, the defenses were down and the libido was up and for some strange reason he never did discover, the top three buttons of her blue shirt were undone and whenever she leaned towards him across the small, scarred table the shirt opened and he could see the top of her bra. Black. Just a glimpse. And every time she leaned forward and he could see the pale skin of her throat and chest and the top of her bra (black) he thought he might just grab her there, throw her down on the red vinyl booth and have his way with her. He tried hard not to look, he really did — this was Eames after all — but after the fourth time of leaning and opening and glimpsing he pretty much threw caution to the wind and leaned forward at the same time to see as much as he possibly could, because fuck if he'd ever see her lean and open again. And it wasn't as if anything was going to happen, right? It wasn't as if they were going to kiss there in the bar or anything.
Right?
Hell, no. He managed to wait until they were outside her apartment for that. And he was pretty damn proud of himself for that.
He remembers saying good night and her saying good night and glancing up at him through the soft edge of her bangs. He remembers the tilt of her nose and the gentle glint of her eyes and then he remembers pushing her up against the cold bricks of the wall, and leaning down, down to find her mouth. He remembers his fingers brushing the top of her shirt (blue) and the edge of her bra (black) and lingering there, and her gasp (quiet) against his lips. He remembers street sounds like horns and tires on slush and shouts and people hurrying by, cutting their eyes away maybe, and smirking at two seemingly sensible adults making out in plain public view.
But.
But then it was over and he pulled away and she took a very deep breath and said good night again with finality and slipped inside her building. It was all very strange and very quiet and very final.
And in the three months since then nothing has happened. Nothing. Well, nothing except surreptitious glances and reddened cheeks and half-finished sentences and near touches and nearer misses. And like the various drugs he has ingested over the years she, too, has seeped into his pores, his synapses and she's pretty much all he can think about now at work, at home, in the car, in the shower.
Didn't want to stop outside her building. Doesn't want to stop now.
He breathes her, smells her, feels her, craves her.
He trembles when she gets too close and he knows she's not good for him but he wants her anyway and she's always just out of reach.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
And he thought trying to kick nicotine was hard.
//
And then there's the night they've had nothing to drink but they're still inquisitive and hopeful and horny as hell and she drives him home and they sit outside his apartment not looking at one another or touching one another until.
And he looks at her and she looks back with wide, clear eyes that tell him everything and nothing at all.
"I need to ask you something," she says.
He nods. "Okay."
She looks out the window of the car, then back at him, directly.
"You kissed me."
"I…remember." He clears his throat even though he doesn't need to. "You kissed me back."
"I remember."
It seems that's all she's going to say on the subject that has tormented him unceasingly for approximately 93 days.
"Why? What?"
She shrugs, her heavy winter coat moving only slightly with the motion. "Just…seeing if you remember."
Remember.
This time they manage to make it inside her apartment before it all unravels. This time none of it is slow or steady or thoughtful. It is pretty much the complete opposite: fast and frantic and careless.
But there are so many fucking clothes. Thick coats and hats and heavy boots and mitts. She's got a muffler wrapped around her neck he swears is at least 10 feet long. Did she knit it while she was pregnant? Did her sister? He can't find her skin for all the wool and fleece and he almost laughs at the absurdity of two horny middle-aged adults attempting a hot make out session in New York City in January. Zero degrees fucking Fahrenheit January.
Her cheeks are cold, he notices as his lips brush against them. And the tip of her nose. And her fingers, as they slide under his shirt. He jumps at her chilly touch and continues to work on her scarf, which is unending. She offers no resistance, but no assistance, either, too keen on getting his clothes off.
He fumbles, loses his balance, almost loses his patience. He longs suddenly for warmth, for Florida, California, Mexico. Hot places, where people wear T-shirts and sandals all year long.
Almost…there…
"Go go go," she says, as if it's a race, as if there's a deadline, and her voice is low and harsh, and the sound of it, insistent and eager and so close to his ear makes him harder than he's ever been in his life. There are a lot of things he wants to say to her at this moment (I love you/I want you/You're so fucking beautiful), but he knows there is no point because nothing will sound even vaguely coherent, so instead he uses his mouth for other things like licking and nipping and kissing. She doesn't seem to mind.
Her bra is black, again. He takes brief notice of this as he works it off, tosses it on the floor, finds her breasts and their tips with his hands and his mouth.
He runs his hands up and down her body (she's so little, there's nothing to her, and there's everything, too), feeling her skin beneath them. Hills and valleys he babbles to himself. This is Eames, he thinks incoherently. This is Eames and these are her breasts, and this is her—
He comes before she even gets his pants off, which is more than embarrassing, but she finds it more than flattering, even though she chooses not to vocalize this fact. By the time they finally are both pretty much naked he is ready again, ready to go, ready to push and plunge and—
He grabs her hips, buries his face in her neck and thrusts one two three four five times. Six. He doesn't want to hurt her but he can't stop, doesn't want to stop and she doesn't tell him to stop, so there's that, at least. In fact, she has her arms and legs wrapped so tightly around him that he can barely move, but that's all right, too.
He can feel her around him, can feel himself inside her.
Eames, he thinks suddenly, irrationally, giddily. Eames. Eames.
"What are you doing?" she says, his face cupped between her hands, which are no longer cold. They're burning hot, actually. "Don't stop, Bobby. Don't stop don'tstopdon't—"
So he keeps going. He keeps going until he has to stop, he has no choice, but he's pretty sure she has to stop, too, because where else is there to go after this?
They come to a shuddering, shaking halt, entangled and wet and raw. He wants to look at her, but he can't raise his head from her neck. He might fall asleep, or pass out. He might try to do it all over, which might essentially kill him.
"Let's…do this again…soon," he says when he can catch his breath.
"All right," she mumbles into his shoulder. He can feel her teeth there and can feel her tighten around him briefly.
"Swear?"
"Yes."
"Pinky swear?"
He hooks his little finger around hers. She squeezes tight.
"Yes."
Thank god.
//
He knows he will never be satisfied with another now.
He also knows without a doubt, knows with the surety of a self-proclaimed lifelong devotee to various addictive substances, that one time with Eames is not, will never, ever be enough.
//
Fin