A/N: I'm so sorry about this one.
Warnings: There's mention of a child's death.
They are driving down an empty highway on the outskirts of Seville, the sun setting behind them in a blaze of golds and pinks.
The top of the convertible is down and warm wind blows through her hair, wisps whirling around her flushed cheeks and kissing the back of her neck. She had forgotten her head wrap back in the hotel and knew her hair was a lost cause.
There's music playing on the radio; the nostalgic chords of a violin softly breaking her heart. Her toes involuntarily flex inside her shoes with the memory of ballets long since danced.
Illya's hand, which had been resting heavily on her knee, begins an agonizing crawl up her leg, fingertips calloused and catching on her skin. She's had lovers before-clearly not as many as Napoleon-but she's not without experience. Yet those men, and one unforgettable woman, all had soft hands. Hands that never held a gun or thrown a motorbike in her defense. Theirs were hands that had never been tested.
Illya's had been tested many times over, and she's never been left wanting.
The road is uneven and the car hits a small pothole, causing his hand to drift to the sensitive inner part of her thigh. It's unexpected and his fingers are cold. She audibly inhales, which grabs his attention. His eyes catch hers and she sees a lifetime in them.
They are the stormy blues of a hurricane during their first kiss.
They are the ice blue gaze of a killer without fear.
They are the pale blue of a swaddling blanket buried months and miles behind them.
The memory must show on her face because his entire body tenses up and he looks away from her. She can tell he's about to remove his hand, and the loss of his touch would leave her bereft and alone…and she's felt that way far too long.
She presses her thighs together, trapping his hand between them, refusing to let him leave her again. This time her eyes find his and she can sense a decision is being made. She knows she must stay silent, that this decision is one he needs to arrive to on his own. The last time she pushed him too far, he had stolen away in the middle of the night with only a two worded note left behind. They haven't spoken about it since his equally unexpected return three weeks ago, but she still keeps the note in her wallet.
The car suddenly swerves to the right and off the highway. They come to a stop in the middle of an empty field, where's there nothing but the long, bruising sky above them.
Placing the car in park, he continues to stare ahead of him. His hand has not moved from between her thighs, but his fingers are rigid and still.
Cautiously, like she's approaching a wounded animal, she rests a hand on his stubbled cheek. They had never been good with words, and it's always been their downfall. But right now, with the radio playing a tragic concerto, is not a time for words. Eyes locked onto his, she slides up the bottom of her dress, the crisp white fabric rustling in the summer night. His eyes search hers one last time and she tightens her grip on his face.
She needs this.
She needs him.
She needs them to be what they once meant to each other; a safe harbor in the storm.
There must be a part of him that feels the same because his hand comes back to life.
Opening her thighs, she almost cries with relief when his hand resumes its path upward, fingers pushing aside her underwear to slide against her clit. A sigh escapes from behind her lips as he relearns her dips and curves. Illya slides a hand beneath her left knee and lifts her leg up onto the dashboard, opening her up further and experimentally inserts one finger into her. Her body responds immediately, and it feels like a brushfire in her veins when he slowly curls his finger upward. Her hips roll between his hand and the back of her seat, chasing that delicious relief that's building up inside her.
But what he's doing is not enough and she's grateful that he still remembers the signs of her frustration.
A pitiful whine comes from her throat when his fingers leave her body, but is immediately silenced when he pulls her into his lap. With her back flush against his chest and his knees bracketed between hers, he reaches around with his left hand. She's wet and he easily slips two fingers into her.
It's been too long since she's been touched like this, and her skin erupts in gooseflesh.
With one hand holding his left wrist, and the other clutching the steering wheel, she leans her head back onto his left shoulder. His lips kiss the side of her neck, his breath warm and familiar to her in this strange new world they now inhabit. His free hand explores the rest of her body. When his palm briefly presses against her still slightly protruding belly, her throat goes dry and tears burn behind her eyes. There's a hitch in his breath and she grips his wrist tighter in acknowledgment of what they've lost.
His hand then continues it's journey upwards, sliding between the valley of her breasts. His fingers loosely wrap themselves around the base of her neck. With his forearm between her breasts, he hugs her closer, like he wants to envelop her body and soul. Taking her hand off the steering wheel, she palms the back of his hand and interlocks their fingers together, their joined hands resting directly above her thundering heart. His fingers move faster and faster inside her, their chests rising and falling with matching speed.
She's close.
She knows that in a few more seconds, she's going to come apart. But when she feels his increasingly hard length pressing against her bottom, she suddenly realizes she doesn't want a pale imitation. She wants him.
Reaching behind her, she begins to fumble for his belt. When he realizes what's she's aiming for, he stops and holds her wrists against her lower back. His grip isn't firm and she easily breaks out of it. Immediately thankful they took the convertible instead of the tiny Volkswagen she's been restoring for the past four months, she grabs the top of the windshield. Using it for leverage, she plants her feet on his seat and stands. She's almost surprised her legs don't crumble beneath her. Turning herself around, she then lowers herself on top of him, her knees on either side of his hips.
Looking into his eyes, she can see he's tired. There's a fatigue and a sadness he never used to carry before. She knows because it's the same face she sees when she looks in the mirror. She presses her lips to his, as light as a butterfly's wing.
As light as a newborn's eyelashes against her breast.
Her heart seizes in her chest, and silent tears fall unbidden onto their cheeks. Pulling back, he looks into her eyes and then gently brushes away her tears with his lips.
There's no one else she'll ever want.
With her hands holding onto his belt buckle, she leans her forehead against his and feels the warmth of his skin seep into hers.
And this time, she's not letting him go without a fight.
So, she slides her cheek against his, presses her lips against his ear, and says the one word he can never dismiss.
His body instantly relaxes, like he's finally allowed to take as much comfort from her as she's taking from him.
In no time at all, his pants are undone and his penis is stiff between them. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she rises on her knees, and he lines himself up with her. He's warm and hard against her, and when he lightly brushes himself against her clit, her vision blurs. As she lowers herself down, excruciatingly slow, the way he stretches her open has entire body trembling. He grips her hips, holding her steady as she continues taking him in. He's almost completely inside her when she suddenly slams down the final length of him. She watches as his eyes close, then bites his lower lip to open them again. She wants to look into his eyes as she reclaims his body — as they reclaim each other.
Understanding what she wants, he keeps his eyes locked onto hers when she begins to ride him. Their bodies soon reach a rhythm they've never forgotten. Their minds and hearts might be broken, their souls hurt worse than they ever thought possible, and that unspeakable pain had kept them apart from each other. But their bodies, their bodies have always been a bridge to each other. Their bodies have always been able to cross the unbearable distance their emotional barriers kept between them.
His large hands palm her lower back, guiding her movements, and she wraps her arms around the back of his neck. Encased in his protective hold, she feels safe. And the way he's looking up at her, like she's the only thing keeping him in this world, makes her feel loved for the first time in months.
He's around her and inside her — he's everywhere and he's everything.
Her name flutters from his mouth like a relief, filling the loneliness that's come between them. Her body begins to crest with the violin's last cry, her ears vaguely registering their lament. She leans her head back and his lips latch onto her neck, nipping softly at the spot he knows is her undoing. The sensation makes her clench tightly around him, and she feels his thrusts becoming erratic. As well has he knows her body, she also knows his...and knowing he's also close almost pushes her over the edge.
Almost.
And once again, he's able to tell what she needs.
His hand slithers between between their bodies, and he begins to lightly roll her clit between his middle and index finger. He tugs slightly and the unexpected roughness is the final push she needs. His mouth covers hers, and he swallows her cries as the emerging starlight fills the sky.
Title comes from Jason Mraz.
I'm still kind of unsure how I feel about this one. I like it but I also feel something is off about it. Hopefully you still enjoyed it and I'm just being my own paranoid perfectionist self. I love you all!