The Downward Spiral
Other things may change us, but we start and end with family.
Anthony Brandt
Warning: Adult themes ahead (read: sex)
TEN
She made the first move. She had done it then, and she did it now. A soft, delicate kiss. Uncertain. A second, more confident kiss, sucking air from his lungs.
'Is this what you want?' he murmured softly, as he felt her hands run up his chest. He wasn't complaining. He just wanted...to be sure.
'Yes.'
His top button came undone. Then the second. 'In the kitchen?' The third. The fourth.
'Anywhere.'
His hands slid off her jacket, discarding it atop a nearby decorative plant. He led her to the kitchen bench, their mouths still firmly attached. On the stove beside them, a pot simmered.
She kissed his left nipple, noting the tiny tattoo beneath it – a Celtic knot. Prison ink. She had been so distracted the previous night, she hadn't even noticed it. 'Are there any other unauthorised changes I should be aware of?' she pulled her mouth away just long enough to ask him.
'No.' He reached his arm around her, fumbling for the clip. 'But I did learn some new things.'
'Nuh-uh.' She shook her head, as her lacy black bra joined the list of clothing items that were no longer being worn. 'Basics first.'
'As you wish.' He took her erect nipple between his teeth, as she arched her back with that hypnotic mix of pain and pleasure.
Belt. Dress pants. Underwear. All added to the list.
And then.
'Oh, God, Hassan. I've missed you so much.' He's pushed her closer and closer to the climax. She moved her hand to get a better grip, afraid she'll fall over from the force he was exerting. It had never been the picture of perfect romance, always rough, always-
'Ow! Fuck.' She pulled away from the kitchen bench, knocking them both into an naked mess of sweat and other bodily fluids.
Ungainly.
In her attempt to better her position, she had put her hand straight into the simmering pot.
As far as their history of painful sexual encounters went, this didn't even make the top ten.
She held her hand under the tap for nearly five minutes. He was still laughing. She'd laugh too, once the stinging pain went away.
'I think maybe the chicken's done,' she told him, staring accusingly at the offending pot. She was wearing his shirt, a cliché that they'd always embraced. She loved that silken feel against her skin. He did have the best taste in clothes.
He nodded, and pulled two plates from one of her cupboards. The starkness of her kitchen's contents hadn't passed him by.
'So how was work today, sweetie?' A normal, marital conversation. He said it with half a laugh, as if to suggest that their relationship was anything but normal.
'Oh,' she hesitated. 'Bomb blast. Concussion. Stitches.' Steven. Could she tell him? Could he take it? Would he stare into her with those deep brown – almost puppy-dog – eyes? She turned to him, serving spoon in her hand. She gripped it tightly, her safety net.
'I think...I think maybe Steven is still alive.' She regretted it instantly. It sounded stupid. False hope glimmering like diamonds. One of those mothers that couldn't let go of her dead child, even after fourteen years. What she didn't expect was a response, so quick and so casual.
'Yeah,' he said. 'I know.'
A/N: Short and sweet. Remember though, Morgan isn't quite out of the picture yet.