This fic is dedicated to the wonderful person who keeps sending anonymous hate to Rumbellers here and on tumblr. You know who you are, sweetie. Go sit on a cactus and kill that bug you have up your butt.
It is also, of course, dedicated to my lovely followers who continue to enjoy the trash and garbage I post. In particular Ripperblackstaff, who gave me prompts for this :)
Mr Gold was a mystery. If she'd been feeling more poetic, she would have followed that with 'wrapped in an enigma' or something equally trite, but Lacey wasn't in the mood for poetry. In his dealings with the townsfolk, the man came across as menacing, for sure. Dangerous. The violent type, the type she was usually drawn to. She was the first to admit to having terrible taste in men, but the types she usually ended up with were knuckle-dragging idiots, and she'd been on the receiving end of more than a few drunken punches in her time. Mr Gold wasn't like that. Despite the aura of ruthlessness, despite her conviction that he would beat the crap out of anyone that crossed him and not lose an ounce of sleep over it, he had never laid a hand on her that she didn't want there. He was gentle with her, almost to the point of irritating her at times, as though he was afraid he'd break her. She had snapped at him in the early days, and it had taken a while for him to understand that when she said 'harder', she fucking well meant it. At least they had gotten past that awkward phase, and if she wanted rough sex on the dining room table on a Tuesday evening, she damn well got it.
He was also refined, well-mannered, and extremely clever, all of which was a total turn-on, of course. If she hadn't been determined to maintain her carefully-crafted image of the hard-drinking, empty-headed barfly, she would have enjoyed conversations with him, but she always tried to deflect their discussions from any serious topic, in case he found out something about her that she wasn't ready to reveal. He had caught her looking at his bookshelves one day, her lips parted in joy at some of the titles he had there, and he had quietly said that she was welcome to borrow anything she wanted. She had jerked upright, not having heard him approach (the man was as silent as a mouse when he wanted to be), and had joked about the books having no pictures, or something. He'd given her this knowing, almost sad stare when she said that, as though he knew full well that she loved reading and was trying to hide her intelligence, so she'd kissed him until his eyes lost that look, and ended up blowing him right there on the floor of his own study. Lacey knew how to distract him when he tried to get too close.
They had settled into a sort of pattern since they had started this - she wasn't sure what to call it exactly - 'relationship' seemed way too formal. 'Friends with benefits' wasn't accurate either, because they weren't friends. She didn't even know his first name, for Christ's sake, but she was too stubborn to ask him, so she just called him Gold. If she was in the mood to be playful she'd even add the Mister. So no, they weren't friends. Fuckbuddies was maybe as far as it went. She was living at his house, but she had her own room, and if she chose not to sleep with him, he didn't disturb her, or ask her for anything. He'd bring her coffee in the morning when he made himself a cup, and she helped with the cleaning and cooking. The fact that she was a terrible cook meant that she stuck to sandwiches and cereal most of the time, but luckily he was good at using his hands for far more than bringing her off, so she ate well for the first time in as long as she could remember.
Occasionally they went out together, not that this hole of a town had much in the way of nightlife. They'd have dinner at Granny's or that Italian place she'd been thrown out of once for tossing a full glass of wine over her idiot of a date. No one threw her out anymore, of course. There was a security in being with Mr Gold, a sense that she had a free pass for pretty much anything in the town. Oh, people could look down their noses at her, and most did, but that wasn't anything new, and they never said anything to her face. Certainly not to him, either, not that any of them would give a shit that he was dating the sorry mess that was Lacey French. They probably thought he was paying her to bang him, anyway. She didn't much care.
They were due to go out that evening, and Lacey was waiting in Gold's bedroom while he took a shower. The sound of running water was soothing, pleasant, and she let the noise wash over her as she sat down on the edge of the bed. She was already dressed: sky-high heels and a tight black dress that just covered her arse, her hair twisted up on her head in a messy knot. Gold had offered to buy her some new things, but she had thus far resisted, not wanting to take too much from him and preferring to rely on the money she made herself. Besides, she looked good. She suspected he would rather she wore something a little more demure, but to his credit he had never tried to suggest that she change. Not that she had any intention of doing so, of course, but she almost couldn't bear the brief look of wistfulness, almost sorrow, in his eyes when he looked at her. As though she didn't measure up. As though she were a disappointment.
She frowned to herself, running a hand over the silk throw folded at the end of the bed and wondering why she was being so negative. Wondering why disappointing someone bothered her all of a sudden, when it seemed to have been her destiny with everyone else in her life. She knew he had a past; she had found clothes in a box at the back of the closet in her room a few weeks after she had moved in. They were her size, and beautifully made, but they were certainly not her style. A young woman's clothes, pretty blouses and tiny sweaters and little flared skirts, and she had felt a sudden and unexpected spark of jealousy at the thought of someone being here before her. Someone so different. Someone he couldn't quite forget, no matter how hard she tried to make him. She had been tempted to try the clothes on, to surprise him, but the thought of how he might react had stayed her hand, and she had folded up a little cashmere sweater and put it back in the box with the other things, closing the closet door.
She had decided there and then that she would not try to replace his lost love, whoever she was. Certainly not by playing some sort of erotic dress-up in the clothes of a ghost. She didn't think she could bear to see that look in his eyes, that one he got sometimes when she forgot herself and was too affectionate, or when she got too drunk and made a pointed observation about a book she wasn't supposed to have read. Whoever her predecessor had been, the loss of her had affected him deeply, and she could tell that he was trying to hide his true self just as much as she was. They each crouched behind walls, the gates locked shut against intruders. They each wore masks, allowing one another to peek beneath for only the briefest moment.
The instant she had suspected that she had a rival for his heart, she had set out to purge the other woman from his mind in all the ways she knew. He had been surprised by some of the things she had wanted to do, and some he had flat out refused, but he had enjoyed the rest, and she had felt a surge of triumph whenever she made him lose his mind in a brand new way. Whoever the woman had been, she was clearly a good girl, judging from the clues Lacey had to go on. A little vanilla princess, batting her eyes and smiling innocently. He had even whispered her name once, in the dark of the night, when they'd both drunk too much to do anything more than fumble, and she had lain naked by his side, an unexpected pain stabbing at her at the sound of another woman's name on his lips.
Lacey scowled, hating that thoughts of his past were making her feel inferior, and hating more that she was letting it. She could have talked to him about it, of course, but that might involve opening up and revealing more about herself than she wanted to. And so she resolved to deal with her inner conflict in the best way she knew. She'd make him forget all about his absent lover and concentrate everything on her for the evening. It had always worked before.
Pursing her lips, she pushed herself up off the bed and glanced around, wondering how to approach this. She could simply undress and get into bed, but that seemed too obvious, too passive. She wanted him to work for it, to think of her and forget all about Little Miss Perfect, whoever she was. His suit was already laid out, his shirt hung beside it. She could put that on, she supposed. He liked it when she wore his shirts, especially in the morning. Again, too obvious, too mundane. The rest of his outfit sat on the dresser: his sleeve garters, sock garters, the gold cufflinks he wore and the old moonstone ring that sat on the third finger of his right hand. She had always been curious about that ring, had wondered at its history, and had never asked him about it. Perhaps it was time she paid it some attention.
Grinning to herself as she thought of something, she snatched up the ring and stuck it in her mouth, coating it in saliva, the brief tang of cold metal on her tongue. She cast a quick glance at the door that led to the bathroom, before lifting the skirt of her dress and fumbling inside her panties, the ring hooked on her finger. The sound of the water shutting off made her bite back a slightly nervous giggle as she slowly pushed the ring up inside herself. She could hear towels being rubbed against skin, and she quickly straightened her clothes and sat back down, bouncing slightly on the mattress and folding her hands demurely in her lap as the bathroom door opened. Gold came out with cane in hand and a towel around his waist, his skin moist and his hair wonderfully messy. She let her eyes run over him as he crossed to the mirror and began brushing his hair, the bristles forming neat rows along his scalp and pushing thin rivulets of water from his hair to run down over his shoulders.
She always liked looking at him, especially when he wasn't aware of it. Whenever he dressed, she would run her eyes over the skin of his back or chest while he was distracted by something, reminding herself how he felt beneath her fingertips, how he tasted on her tongue. She liked watching him when he was concentrating on something, the way his forefinger would run over his upper lip without him being aware of it, the way the silver strands in his hair caught the light. Sometimes she could become aroused simply from a look he would flash her, from the intensity he would exude.
He began to dress, and she bit her lip, squeezing her thighs together and very aware of the ring inside her, watching as he fastened his sock garters and drew his suit pants over the top, pulling up the zipper. The dark red shirt was next, sliding onto his arms with a whispery noise, and she let out a tiny, satisfied murmur as he tugged it closed, the warm light picking up the sheen of silk. He glanced at her over his shoulder as he fastened the buttons and pulled on his waistcoat.
"Are you ready?" he asked. "I thought we'd eat around eight. There's time for a drink, if you want one."
"I'm good, thanks." She waited for him to notice. He pushed the sleeve garters up his arms, the gold shining against red silk, and stopped abruptly, head turning from left to right.
"Did you see my ring?" he asked, and she was silent. He swore under his breath, bending his head to look beneath the dresser.
"I left it here," he muttered, and she grinned.
"Maybe the fairies took it," she said innocently, and there was a thump as he banged his head on the underside of the dresser.
He straightened up, turning to face her, and she smiled sweetly at him.
"Lacey," he said patiently. "Do you have my ring?"
"Maybe."
She could feel a smirk growing on her face, and she wriggled a little on the bed. The corner of his mouth lifted upwards in amusement.
"Well?" he said softly. "Are you going to return what's mine?"
He was standing with his cane out to the side, his hip a little cocked and his thumb tucked in his belt loop. She let her eyes drop to follow the direction of his fingers, remembering the last time she had been at eye level with his groin. Surprising him beneath the shop counter had been enormous fun for both of them.
"I think you should come and get it," she said, letting the timbre of her voice drop, letting it become throaty, sexy.
"Do you indeed?" His voice had lowered too, grown soft and slightly menacing. It made her belly clench. She raised her eyes to his, biting her lower lip, and his nostrils flared slightly, his eyebrow jerking upwards. He unhooked his thumb, beckoning to her with a long forefinger.
"On your feet, Miss French," he whispered, and she felt a flutter of excitement as she pushed herself up off the bed and stood very straight, hands clasped behind her back, adopting the pose she used when she wanted him to take charge. It had taken him a while to get used to that, but she hoped that he was in the mood to play tonight. She certainly was.
"One step forward," he said then, and she obeyed. He began circling her slowly, a prowling wolf, and she felt her heart thump with excitement as he passed behind her, as she lost sight of him. She could feel his presence, though, a heavy warmth in the air, a tingling of electricity. He ran a gentle finger across her clasped hands, and she sucked in a breath as a shiver ran through her.
"So," he said softly. "It's like that, is it?"
She didn't respond, and he crossed around to the front again, eyeing her. She chewed her lip again, giving a tiny nod, her eyes sparkling, and he smirked a little. She expected him to kiss her then, or touch her. Once, he had taken her by surprise and tickled her. She had shrieked with laughter as they rolled on the bed, her sides hurting, breathless with giggles and tears streaming from her eyes before she begged him to stop, and he had grinned down on her with a look on his face that was almost happy. She'd let him be gentle with her that night, kissing her all over almost reverently before he pulled her beneath the blankets for long, slow, mind-blowing sex. For a brief moment, looking up at him, at the sleepy fondness in his eyes, she had thought she might mean something to him, that he might think of her as something more than a drunken fling to take his mind off his lost love. But then he'd asked if she wanted tea, and she had snorted and said she'd rather have whisky, thanks very much, and he'd gotten that sad little look in his eyes again.
He reached out, fingers brushing over one smooth cheek, and she wanted to lean into his touch, to kiss his fingertips, to have a brief moment of tenderness. She wondered where that sudden need came from, but she ignored it, and he drew back, his eyes dark. His thumb stroked over her lower lip, and he gently pulled it down, sliding the thumb in. She licked the tip, pressing her tongue against him and sucking, and watched as he swallowed hard.
"Well," he said softly. "It doesn't appear to be in there."
She shook her head, lips curving into a mischievous smirk around his thumb, and he drew it out, moistening her lower lip with her saliva as he went.
"Wait," he whispered, and strode off to the bathroom, where she heard him running the water. Brow furrowing, she wondered what she was up to, and her eyes widened when he came back through with a small towel in his hand, water droplets running from the cane. He leant against the wall as he dried it off, a rhythmic stroking of the towel up and down the shining length of ebony, his eyes locked on hers, and she tried to imagine what he was thinking of. She had suggested the previous week exactly what he could do with that cane of his, but he hadn't seemed too interested. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, a delicious frisson of nervousness in her belly as he straightened up. He lifted a hand, turning one finger in a circle.
"Turn around," he said quietly. "Hands on the dresser."
She turned to the side and stepped forward, her breath quickening as she bent a little and put her hands flat on the smooth mahogany, her eyes flicking up to watch in the mirror as he slowly walked behind her. She saw him lean the cane against the back of the chair to her left, and then his hands were on her, running up her sides and sliding around the front to cup her breasts. She grinned at him as he squeezed her.
"I don't feel anything that shouldn't be there," he murmured. "But perhaps I should make sure…"
Fingertips danced across her back and up over her shoulders, and she shivered as he brushed the sensitive skin at the back of her neck. He grasped the zipper of her dress, pulling it down slowly and letting the sides of the dress spring apart to reveal her pale skin. Gently, he pushed it down over her shoulders, pulling her arms out and letting the dress fall to her waist. Lacey felt her abdomen clench as he let out a soft sigh, one finger tracing down the hollow of her spine. She watched as he lowered his mouth to her back, gasping at the feel of the damp strands of his hair tickling her skin, the brush of his lips. He stepped closer, so that he was pressed up against her, and she wriggled a little, pushing her rear against him and feeling that he was already hard. He unhooked her bra, pushing the straps from her shoulders and down her arms, and she let the bra hit the floor as her small, firm breasts fell into his hands.
"We appear to be running out of hiding places," he whispered, his voice a low rumble in her ear, and she moaned as he squeezed her nipples. "Any suggestions, Miss French?"
She shook her head, and felt him smile against her skin, his lips trailing across her shoulder and up her neck. His fingers left her breasts, reaching up to pull the pins from her hair and let her dark curls tumble around her shoulders. Her lips parted as his touch sent shivers through her, and he hooked his thumbs under the folds of her dress, pushing it over her hips and down her legs, leaving her in nothing but a black lace thong. One finger slipped beneath the thin strip of lace that encircled her waist, tugging gently so that the fabric rubbed between her legs, causing a delicious sensation. His hand moved, sliding between her legs and making her bite her tongue as he grazed his fingertips over the lace.
"It doesn't appear to be hidden in these, either," he said. "But I think we ought to take them off, just to be sure."
She grinned as he pulled at her underwear, sliding it over her hips and down her legs to leave her completely bare except for her heels. His hand stroked her again, reaching between her legs and curling around so that his fingers could touch her. She let out a little purr as he stroked her, fingers flickering over her tender flesh. His hands were incredible: long, slender fingers with hard calluses that created a delicious sensation. He had known how to touch her from the very start, had known how to make her moan and pant and scream. She could feel him spreading the wetness he found, one fingertip sliding along her folds, and she wriggled a little, wanting more of him. His hand dropped away, and she drew in a sharp breath at the cold, hard length of his cane sliding up her inner thigh to sit just below where she wanted him.
"Perhaps I should look here," he whispered, and the end of the cane traced through her flesh, making her moan. "What say you, Miss French?"
She tried to speak, but the cool wood of the cane was sliding back and forth, back and forth, grazing her clit and making her pant with desire. The cane turned, the cold metal of the handle pressing against her sex, and she bit back a moan as he pulled it tighter against her.
"What are you hiding inside, sweetheart?" he whispered. "What treasures are buried in there?"
Sweetheart. He'd never called her that before, and she kind of liked it. As though she were special. As though she meant something. The cane handle tugged and pulled, and she felt her juices spread across the metal, warming it with her arousal. She moaned, rubbing herself against it, trying to increase the friction. He changed the angle, letting the handle slip lower, the end of it sliding along her wet flesh to catch in her entrance. He pressed, and she relaxed a little, letting the cool metal slide into her. She felt, rather than heard, a clink as it knocked against the ring that was buried within her, and she bit her lip, wondering if he'd notice.
"I think perhaps this requires a closer inspection," he whispered, and she wriggled a little, her excitement growing. She could hear his breath hardening, his desire for her growing, and she moved her rear in a slow circle against his crotch, watching in the mirror as his jaw tightened. Slowly, he drew out the cane handle, moving the cane from between her legs. He flipped it in one hand so that the handle pointed to the floor, his hand gripping the shaft just above it, and reached around her hip and beneath her arm so that the cane was in front of her, its shining dark length hovering near her mouth. She ran her tongue over the end, meeting his eyes in the mirror, and grinned to herself as his lips parted. Never dropping her gaze, she let her tongue flicker out, curling around the black shaft and leaving a trail of moisture. His breath seemed to catch in his throat, his eyes gleaming at her, and she smiled at him, painted lips curving upwards.
"More?" he asked, his voice throaty, and she nodded, so he pushed the cane handle between her legs, using the moulded end of it to rub against her clit in tiny circles. Lacey moaned, moving her hips to increase the pressure, the shaft of the cane a cool pressure on her cheek, her breath causing moisture to bloom on the dark wood. He gently moved it, pushing the handle deeper into her flesh, and she angled her body until it slipped inside her, sinking down onto it with a gasp. The ebony shaft pressed up against her, the feel of his fingers around it, and he began to rub as she moved, the cane and his fingertips becoming slippery with her fluids. The hardness of the cane was a delicious pressure against her, the electric sensations from his fingers flickering over her, and she moaned as he pressed up against her back, the buttons of his waistcoat cool on her skin.
She could feel the sensations rising within her, her cheeks starting to flush, her breath coming hard. She licked her lips, moaning as he began kissing her neck, the feel of his lips and his tongue sending shivers through her body.
"You feel good, sweetheart," he whispered, his mouth by her ear. "All soft and silky for me, all hot and wet. I want to slip my tongue inside you, push it right up inside and taste you. I want to make you come and drink it down."
He could turn her on just by speaking, that delicious accent of his and the words he used. She loved it when he spoke filthy words to her, when he told her what he wanted to do to her. His tongue was good for other things, too. She moaned, rubbing her head against him, letting her hips rock, feeling her climax building. His teeth nipped at her earlobe as his fingers slipped and rubbed against her.
"I know how good you taste," he breathed. "I love the taste of you on my tongue. I love your cum in my mouth, little Lacey. All salty and sweet and delicious. All mine."
"Yes!" she whispered, and a part of her meant it. A part of her wanted to be his, to be the one he thought of. To be the one he loved.
She tried to catch his eye in the mirror, but he wasn't looking at her, his attention focused on the point between her neck and shoulder. She sighed as he swept his tongue across her skin, and the sound she made became a groan as he bit down, the pain a delightful sensation. He quickened his movements, pushing the cane handle in and out of her, teasing her, fucking her. His other hand slid up over her belly to squeeze her breast, his thumb and forefinger plucking at her nipple and sending jolts of sensation through her.
"Oh God!" she moaned, and his tongue swept up her throat, his teeth tugging at her ear. Her moans increased in pitch, her body shaking as she neared her peak, and she let out a hoarse cry as she came, her body jerking in his arms as she rubbed against the cane, against his fingers. Her belly clenched and pulled, stars in her vision, and gradually she slowed her movements, panting, her arms shaking a little where they held her up on the dresser. Gold kissed her neck with a low growl that vibrated through her.
"Well, well," he whispered. "Was that acceptable, Miss French? Will you return what's mine?"
She waited a moment before answering, trying to catch her breath.
"You'll have to take it from me," she said softly, and felt him smile against her.
"Very well."
Gently, he pulled the cane handle from her, and she looked down to see glistening strings of white stretch and snap as it left her body. His other hand reached for the cane, lifting it up past her face. She watched in the mirror as he turned the cane and slid the handle in between his lips, whitish blobs of her cum shining atop the gold. He let out a low, rumbling noise of satisfaction as he tasted it, and she felt her desire for him growing, her need to feel his touch again, to kiss him, to have him inside her. He kept his eyes on her as he sucked the handle clean, drawing it from his mouth with a tiny, dull pop, and for a moment the look in his eyes almost scared her, his pupils wide and dark, his gaze hungry. He stepped back from her, the air cool on her skin where she lost the heat of his body, and he grounded the cane between his feet in his usual stance, flicking back his hair.
"On the bed," he said quietly. "On your knees."
Skin tingling with excitement, she crawled onto the bed, looking over her shoulder at him as he undressed. She liked it when he fucked her in his suit, when she was naked and he was fully-dressed, but he didn't enjoy the visits to the dry cleaner afterwards. She had taken his suit in once herself, smirking as the attendant spread it out on the counter and raised an eyebrow at the white patches they had both left there.
Gold unfastened his cufflinks and put them back on the dresser, peeling off his shirt and making his way to the bed. She gazed up at the ornate headboard, her eyes following the loops and whorls of carved wood as she heard him unfasten his pants, the clink of his belt as he opened it and the sound of him stepping out of them. She heard a drawer open and close, then, and chewed her lower lip in anticipation as the cane was pushed onto the bed by her side. A soft thump made her look around, and she grinned as she saw a small bottle of lube roll against the length of the cane. The mattress bowed under his knee as he climbed on behind her, and she sucked in a breath as he touched her, his hand starting at the nape of her neck and sweeping down her spine in one smooth movement. She shivered, looking over her shoulder at him, and he slid a hand between her legs, his fingers stroking delicately. She moaned as he slipped a finger inside her, and he chuckled. She met his eyes, and he was grinning at her.
"Well, there was really only one other place it could be," he said, winking, and drew out his finger, the ring wedged onto it. Lacey returned the grin.
"Okay, you got me," she grumbled. "Finders keepers. Losers get fucked until they can't remember their own name, right?"
She wiggled her eyebrows, but his smile faltered, and she wondered what she'd said wrong. Again. He dropped his eyes, a deep sadness in them that made her want to sit up, take him in her arms and ask him what it was that had upset him so much. She wouldn't, though. Not her thing.
"Gold," she whispered, and he looked up with a start, as though he'd suddenly remembered she was there. She smiled at him, trying to bring him back to her.
"Touch me," she said softly. "Please."
He fumbled with the ring, sliding it onto his third finger, and then his hands were on her again, stroking over her hips. He reached down between her legs, his fingers stroking and sliding against her clit, and she moaned, already slick from her orgasm. He groaned with her as his fingers entered, a low, contented sound.
"Yeah!" she breathed. "Yes, just like that!"
She didn't need to tell him. He already knew how to drive her wild, but he also liked encouragement, and she had certainly never had to fake her enthusiasm. She arched her back, moaning again as the fingers slipped out of her and rubbed along her folds, grazing her clit.
"Again!" she whispered, and he let out a soft laugh.
"Eager, aren't we?" he said, and dipped his fingers into her again. She rode his hand in long, slow movements, enjoying the feel of his fingers inside her. It wasn't enough, though.
"Please!" she breathed. "I want you!"
He shuffled closer, until she could feel him, hard and hot against her. His fingers pulled away, and she felt the smooth head of his cock in their place, rubbing against her, sliding over her and making her gasp. She rocked her hips against him, trying to get him inside her, and moaned in frustration as he teased the soft flesh at her entrance before sliding on to nudge her clit.
"Dammit, Gold, get on with it!" she snapped, and he chuckled again.
"Patience, sweetness," he said, and she growled at him.
He continued to thrust against her, his breathing growing heavier, his cock hard and hot as it slid through her wet folds, and she moved against him, increasing the friction, perspiration coating the skin of her cheeks and forehead in tiny beads. Sensations were building once more, pushing her up towards orgasm, and she swore loudly as he slid home, sinking into her with a long groan of satisfaction. She pushed back against him, letting him fill her, her moans growing louder as he began to thrust in and out. Dimly, she was aware of him picking up the cane, of a squirting sound, and she jerked in surprise as she felt cold, slippery lubricant between her buttocks, followed by the cool hardness of the cane handle. She giggled.
"Dammit, Gold," she murmured. "We should stay in the house more often."
She moaned as he slowly pushed the handle into her, the sensation delightful, increasing the pleasure she felt from his cock, from his flickering fingertips, slick with lube and her own juices. The stimulation was almost too much, and she let her cries increase in volume, scattered with profanity as she neared her peak. His fingers were rubbing in a steady rhythm over her clit, his thick cock pumping in and out of her, the cane handle causing an incredible sensation that made her heart pound and her breathing hoarse and ragged, and she lost herself in it, allowed herself to feel every bit of him, experienced every ounce of pleasure he could give her. Bright lights burst in her head as she came with a scream, her body spasming, jerking forwards onto the bed, her face pressed into the covers as she let out a series of short, rhythmic cries. Shadows claimed her, filling her head, and she lay there twitching, feeling his weight on top of her, his breathing every bit as ragged as hers.
"Fuck!" she mumbled, and felt him smile against her shoulder.
"Are you alright?" he whispered, and she groaned.
"Think so. Shit, my head! If you see any brains lying around, just stuff 'em back in, would you?"
He chuckled then, pressing a kiss to her shoulder, and carefully removed the cane from her and threw it to the floor, before pulling out and turning her over. She blinked up at him sleepily, enjoying the smug grin on his face. She liked to make him feel good about himself.
"That was amazing," she slurred, her body still tingling, and his grin widened.
"We're not done yet."
"Dammit!" She pulled a face, then smiled to let him know she didn't mean it, and he bent his head to kiss her, pulling her legs apart and sliding into her again.
She knew he liked doing it this way, when he could see her face and touch her, when he could kiss her. It had always felt a little weird to her, given their lack of relationship status, but this time she welcomed it, and even reached up to cup his cheek as he pushed all the way inside.
"You feel good," she said softly, and he smiled at her a little tremulously.
"Oh, sweetheart!" he whispered, stroking her hair back from her face. He kissed her, his mouth hot and sweet, his tongue sliding into her mouth as he moved, as he thrust, and she lifted her knees, wrapping her legs around him and holding him close. He pulled his mouth free, pressing his forehead to hers, his breath warm on her face, their bodies damp with sweat, and she slid her arms around him, feeling the bliss rising in her once more. He kissed her ear, licking along her jaw to slip his tongue in her mouth, and she moaned in pleasure as his body rubbed against her already sensitive flesh, knowing she was almost there, she was ready to fall. He was close too, quickening his pace, his cock rigid and slick with her cum, and there was heat and friction where they joined, the sensations building, until he let out a rough cry, throwing his head back as he pulsed deep inside her. The feel of it pulled her with him, and she clung to his shoulders, her fingernails digging crescents into his skin as she pumped against him, as pleasure flooded through her. He pressed messy kisses to her cheeks, her throat, his hair damp and smelling of musk and sex and him, and she tried to catch her breath, her heart pounding as she held him tight.
He pushed his face into the hollow between her neck and shoulder, heaving a deep sigh, and they lay for a moment in sticky, comfortable silence as their breathing steadied. Eventually he pushed himself up on his arms, pulling out of her, and rolled onto his side, dragging the silk throw over them. She moved with him, rolling to face him, and he tucked a damp curl of hair behind her ear, smiling sleepily.
"Are you still hungry?" he asked softly, and she shook her head.
"I'm okay."
"I could get you a drink, if you wanted," he added, and she nuzzled his nose with hers in a display of affection that surprised her.
"Later. Let's rest for a moment."
"As you wish."
He slipped an arm around her waist, tugging her to him, and she laid her head against his chest, hearing the thump of his heart. She rubbed her head against him, and he pushed his nose into her hair, breathing deep as his fingers stroked her back. He seemed to be drifting into sleep, and while she actually was a little hungry, she didn't want to move from the cosy little cocoon they had made. She was warm, and safe, and for a moment she could lie with him and imagine how things might be, if they were to become more than this. If they could each let down their guard. She smiled, sated and comfortable, and Gold sighed deeply, his scent surrounding her, his breath warm on her scalp.
"I love you, Belle," he murmured, and she froze in horror.
His breathing steadied, became even, and she lay there with her heart thumping, her eyes brimming with tears that she couldn't explain. Pulling away from him, she turned on her side, her back to him, and his arm instinctively went around her, tugging her back against him. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears coursing over her cheeks as she bit back a sob. She had accepted that he had loved and lost, and that he saw her at best as a charity case, and at worst a convenient fuck, but when had her feelings towards him changed? When had he stopped being a roof over her head and a hot meal and an easy lay? When had she started to care? Inwardly, she cursed the woman he loved, knowing she could never get between them. He would never speak her name that way, would never tell her that he loved her. Who could ever love her?
A/N: I had no intention of that being angsty rather than smutty, these things just seem to happen to me :(