Something a little less angsty than the first installment
jae
Though she will place sole blame on his transgressions, he will claim adamantly she's guilty for their late arrival.
He stirs as she enters the bedroom once more, sporting the highest of ponytails and toned legs stretching on for miles, and it takes little effort to ignore the rivulets of exertion that speak for the summer day only just beginning outside the cool, welcoming bedroom. His shirt will meet the floor in tandem with her running shoes, falling one after the other, and as her hand greedily slides over the stubble along his jaw, she sends a silent thanks above he forsakes his razor for their weekends off-call.
She tastes of salt and something deliciously her.
She tastes like surrender.
The roughness against her cheek elicits a smile he chases with desperate lips, and the tickle against her skin is most welcomed, across her stomach, against her thighs.
Their late arrival causes several raised eyebrows, including a flash of steely blue eyes dilated with suspicion, narrowed as if the action will help him uncover any deceit. He offers him the coffee they'd picked up, a peace offering for their tardiness. The gruff acceptance and nod tell him he's passed inspection.
For now.
The clock above the proctors head informs him the conference began well over forty minutes ago, but his mind has yet to arrive. His thoughts are still on the tangle of her limbs, the warmth of her hands traveling over his body. That he can feel her touch now does not improve his predicament.
Sixty-two minutes in counting, he still hasn't registered a word.
His hand is not idle; finding and honing in on her bare thigh revealed by the rare skirt she's donned today. He sends a silent thanks to the deities above for this blessed consequence of scorching summer weather.
She doesn't discourage the path of his hand nor his wandering fingers, hidden by the government issued conference table. No evidence of his touch cracking her serious facade. The mask of the trained soldier slips but once; the barest of smiles pulling at the corner of her mouth as his thumb traces a rare spot of weakness that he can always count on pulling a laugh from her throat.
Later, she'll punish him for taking advantage of her, and he'll breathlessly swallow the laugh he chased as she attacks his mouth, all wicked eyes and swollen lips.
He has become intimately familiar with the tattoo that marks her thigh. She's given up redirecting his hands in the hours that follow their collapse on her sheets. His fingers find the pattern absently, tracing it as he breathes in the smell of her all around him.
His free hand anchors to her hip with a grip she has no hope to escape. She can hear his steady breathing wash over her as he falls asleep, face buried deeply into her wild curls. There's no denying he enjoys the sensation of her lithe body and the way it molds so effortlessly into his.
She wonders how they made so many years without the daily intimacy they can't bring themselves to surface from now.
He's discovered a new religion in the softness of her skin, the feel and weight of her thigh as she curls a temping leg around him, pulling him back in for another taste.
His thirst has no hope of being sated.
They are trouble in every sense of the word. Their charade to the world won't last much longer.
But they can't help run blindly toward their fate.