/FEVER/
Summary: the fever of being in love.
A/N: a short lil'thing
…
In the grand scheme of the universe, it is a surprising revelation surely. In a smaller and more manageable universe, in a disordered world where nothing is easily defined, it makes sense, somehow.
To align his body perpendicular to hers; to mingle sweat and to mingle breath. To dig his fingers into her skin, into the back of her thighs so he can slide into the wet, hot warmness of her core and enjoy the long stroke, slow to the point of tortuous, simply because the sound she emits is captivating.
To sit across from her and know that secret smile inside and out; to know the delicate arch of an eyebrow and the minute pursing of lips; to know the line that travels from her breastbone to her pubic bone; to intimately understand what makes her come – hard and without censor.
It makes sense to him.
To have that lustful longing in his bones, like a deep unsated fever till the second he can kiss her breathless; to know that her voice changes, sultry when he moves his lips along her inner thigh.
To make her come countless times.
To hear her voice crack in ecstasy.
In a world of order, that makes no sense, not with their history.
In this reality, however, the scheme of existence much more amenable, it makes so much sense to him. An astounding notion when he takes into account the matter of his heart.
When have love made sense to him? Ever?
When have love been so irrevocably embodied by the act of patience, - when in his life have he ever wanted to simply please – and gain nothing. He could spend an eternity on his stomach, between her legs – really it is of little consequence, the feeling of sliding her labia between his lips magnificent in itself. To tease around her entrance, his tongue hard, to flick around her clitoris till she touches his scalp with sharp nails in impatience. To taste her, simply.
It is simple.
He wants her in every way imaginable.
On her back, her legs wrapped around his middle and her eyes closed when he sets a rhythm.
Her spine in view as he rides her to an overwhelming orgasm on all fours, his hips smack up against her ass.
Bent across a desk, panting.
Early in the morning.
Late night.
Noon.
Upright, in the shower.
Cuddling on the couch.
At work.
No wonder, it has its claws in him.
She has her hand firmly planted upon his heart; he figures she has gone through the space between his ribs on his left side and cracked the bones apart, her fingers deep into the muscle of his heart; it pains him at times, forceful with an inhalation and with an exhalation, the notion that she is in his life.
She is akin to light; phosphorescent in his mind, persisting even after she is gone.
He enjoys thinking back; thinking back to the first time he realized after the fact, that he wanted to fuck her. Back then, it was more of a reaction – a way of paying her back. A way of not going ape shit on her precious regulations.
Back then it was a power play, of seeing her down on her knees, his dick full in her mouth and his hands buried deep and roughly in her hair. Back then, he simply wanted to fuck her speechless. It's still there – the niggling feeling of wanting to shut her up – only, it's more nuanced. It is colored by more than antagonism.
Now, he looks forward to her throwing around her weight, her supercilious attitude prompting one hard-on after another. Now, she riles him up in another fashion.
He enjoys giving into the prickly feeling of arousal; the sensation that bursts through his blood when he pushes the lace of her bra down and slides his tongue around her nipple before he sucks the entire bud into his mouth.
The suck of air, hitched and surprised, sounds magical when it leaves her lips.
His heart pounds when her lips near his own, when they part and bring him into the bliss of a simple kiss; it thumps when she outlines his erection through his tented boxers, even more wild and erratic when she grasps around him with her hand, a look in her eyes that seem deviously captivating. The soft, velvety feel of her lips around the head of his penis, up and down, delirious till he can't stand the tension, and then she keeps on, soft and slow, bringing him to the brink easily. His breaths end up like an unsynchronized string of hisses and pants, indrawn and forced out.
She licks him dry afterwards, the soft feel of her tongue a tensile caress. When she kisses him again, there's the taste of himself; her smile conveys much more than simple satisfaction.
Again, he enjoys devouring her between her legs. His mouth pressing uncompromisingly against her center, his tongue precise on her clitoris, in that pattern that will make her come fast. Even faster, when two fingers join, sliding into her in a slow, fevered glide; it feels like a fever inside of him simply being with her, a knot of tension that demands release.
Some nights he is hard again.
Then, he rocks into her, wet and long, and enjoys the simple friction of making her moan.
There is a distinct soft gasp that escapes her when she comes; usually in the dark and then she convulses around his penis with a smaller gasp, and he comes a second time.
The strange feverous thing; that searing need inside him rearing its head, makes him cup her jaw and press his thumb against her perfectly formed mouth; it's the same need that makes him utter 'I love you.'
…
=)