The second one.
"Yeah, baby? I'm good for you?"
Is that what she had said, screamed, forced into these walls that hid their secret union on a hoarse but triumphant blast as her orgasm tore through her? She couldn't remember – didn't think that was what she had exactly said – but it was hard to remember through the drowsy haze that settled so completely over her body. And now, now his lips were inscribing the words on the backs of her thighs, keeping her lit up, never letting the fire go out…
…fuck it, even if she didn't say it, she means it.
He's so very bad for her because he makes her desperate. Desperate to keep him alive, safe, whole, able to look at the world with some measure of trust and faith and goodness. He's so very bad for her because she would die if she lost him. But he's the best thing that has ever happened to her. He is beyond any dream she ever had of her life, even in the best of times. He is coffee in the morning and encouragement throughout the day and a warm, willing, wanting body at night. He is more home than anything ever has been, and there is no greater obsession than the one she has to fight for him.
So good, baby. So fucking good.
"Yeah? Yeah, so good for you, baby. Gonna make it so good for you."
She must have said that out loud; doesn't matter. He's breathless, and the threadbare voice that remains is strung through with delight, with joyful determination. He has already ripped her apart and left this heaving, heavily satisfied puddle of a woman on the bed, and he isn't anywhere close to finished unmaking her.
His lips find her center, allowing himself just a taste of her, allowing her just a taste of him and his eagerness and desire, and she's just on the right side of sensitive. She hears even more than she feels the way her nails tear across the sheets.
He's kneading her thighs and slightly parting her cheeks, helping himself to the outpouring she can't possibly staunch. No one has ever done this to her, not even close. The moans he buries inside her seem to echo, seem to travel, because she's emitting something similar, drawn from the same deep well of passion and need. The press of his tongue, the curl of it along her – how had she ever willing gone without it?
She's keening and tearing at her dress, the stark, black need of the past few months taking a solid, singular form and pushing against her like a barrel against the back of her skull, literally forcing her hand. Once she's free of the fabric she's roughly palming her breasts, muscle memory taking over, unraveling the tentative weave of achieved bliss and hastily stitching a rough patchwork of desperation and denial in its place.
Suddenly she's on her back; suddenly he's over her, his arms a fortress for her quivering body. Through a set of heavy blinks she remembers the way he leaned over her on their first night together, but now he's not tentative, breathing through nerves and the airlessness of standing on the precipice of all that he wants. This confident man has steel in his eyes. He draws his gaze unrepentantly from her flushed face down her body, mapping her like he's recalling every mark he's ever made on her, like he's making all sorts of devious – and permanent – plans. He's going to alter her, continue the work he's been doing since day one. And oh, how she'll welcome it. Gladly.
He peels her fingers off of her skin and places them, his thumbs running along her life lines, against his pecs. There's only one heavy, overheated moment of silence and stillness before she's traipsing her hands down his stomach and pulling his cotton shirt up over his head, plowing through his mussed hair afterward. The warm skin of his stomach kisses hers as they breathe together. His lips are littering little kisses against her jaw, leaving her sighs to bloom in the wake of his attentive planting.
"Did you touch yourself while you were away from me?" he demands, his voice husky, his hands true to their aim when they pin her wrists back. He lifts his head and looks into her eyes. His hips are starting to circle between her legs, each completed motion darkening his irises like he's mixing paints, different shades of blue.
"Did it feel this good?" His cock has come back to life and is stirring with impatience against her. "Did you miss how good I make it for you?"
"Yes." The answer leaves her lips even though it's evident, all over her. "I missed your fingers, and your mouth." With a surge of strength she frees her right hand from his bruising grip and seizes his dick, her fingers forming to the soft, pink skin, meeting the pulsing hardness with her own fervor. "I missed how deep you go inside me. I'm empty without you."
She sees his eyes shutter for a moment, like a light blinking in a storm – their storm – and then he's grunting and burying himself inside her again. She shuts her eyes slowly as they melt into each other, her muscles welcoming, his solid weight a piercing presence she never wants to excise. Her knees graze his ribs and her heels find purchase against his ass and she conforms to him, because it's easy, because together, they're flawless.
"Beckett," he breathes as they meet each other again and again and again. "Fuck, fuck, Kate. You are so goddamn good for me, too, baby. Everything I've ever wanted."
She hangs onto his neck when she surges up. They ride it out together, renewing promises in sweat, making new ones in whimpers.
A/N: Thank you so much for your interest in this little story. Please review if you feel so compelled. One more agenda to go.