A/N: I promised some smut to Littleangrykitten18 and MariaVC, so here it is :D Also, this is the direct continuation of Baby Steps (chapter 119 of A Picture Worth a Thousand Words).

Explosion

It's almost strange how easily they click together after that non-date where he pulled the chair for her, and ordered for her, and told her funny stories as if they had just met (but then again, they've always had a spark).

They go out twice more the following week, without making a fuss about it, once to the movies, once to another restaurant (she picks this time)–he holds her hand through the movie, and she gives him a kiss after dinner (he tastes exactly like before). Still, almost by a silent agreement, they are taking things slow–she doesn't rush, he doesn't push; they are not labelling what's between them, simply enjoy each other's company, curious to see where it'll take them.

Still, this… thing between them is not new, and his closeness, the chaste touches he allows himself, and the hopeful smiles he gives her rekindle the old passions still living inside of her, making them simmer in her veins. More and more often she finds her mind straying from the present, revisiting the fantasies of an era long passed, when after a tiring day she went to bed thinking about how his hand fit into the curve of her waist as he corrected her stance, and how his lips would have felt on the skin of her neck if only he had leaned forward a bit.

It's a ticking time bomb, an inch from going off.

And as it always is, the explosion is inevitable.

It's Wednesday night, and it feels like a dream or a miracle. They, the team–those from the Bus and her new people–are gathered on the common room couches, drinking beer, sharing stories, teasing and laughing. And Grant's there, sitting on her right, a bottle of beer in his right hand, while his left casually rests on her knee. But he's not simply there–he belongs there. There are no sideways glances or hurtful comments, and nobody gets up and leaves because he's there, and that stabbing feeling, the pain of betrayal–it's simply gone.

She's more grateful for it than she's ever thought she would be.

The weak start to weed themselves out around eleven, retreating to their rooms, with the excuse of an early morning tomorrow. By ten to midnight, it's just Joey and the two of them, she and Grant, sitting noticeably closer to each other than when the evening started.

She is telling Joey about the time when she was learning how to shoot, nudging Grant's side with her elbow periodically, asking for confirmation, or simply just for his perspective of the story (because it's their story, and it would be unfair and simply wrong to tell it without him), and Grant gives it, teasing her back, pulling her metaphorical pigtails with a smile on his face. All the while, Joey just watches them, nodding along with a smirk hiding in the corner of his mouth, but when they are done, he gives them a theatrical yawn.

"It's getting late," Joey says, stretching his arms above his head for emphasis. "I'd better" he points awkwardly towards the corridor leading to the living quarters "go to bed. G'night, guys." He stands up in haste, almost tripping in his own foot. "See you in the morning!" And with that he leaves, barely hearing Grant and Skye's goodbyes, although Skye is half-certain she saw the other Inhuman wink at them.

Not that it really matters.

What really matters is that she is now alone with Grant Ward in the semi-dark common room, and suddenly every single cell in her body is hyperaware of this fact. She is so close to him–she hasn't even realized this until now–that she can basically feel his every inhalation, his every heartbeat; the warmth radiating from his body makes her shiver, and his gaze, which now rests on her, feels as if penetrating her very soul.

"So," he starts, then clears his throat, his eyes never straying from her face. "It is late."

"It is," she agrees.

"Do you wanna…?" he nods towards the corridor.

She shakes her head. "No." She turns towards him, putting a foot on the cushions, her knee pushing into his side. "I'm not tired yet. And it's nice here," she says with a small smile.

"Very nice, indeed," he replies, turning towards her as well, making their limbs almost tangle.

She reaches out, involuntarily, instinctively, and draws her fingertip along his forearm, from his wrist to the creek of his elbow.

It's not just that they are together; it's more that this is the first time ever since… everything happened when they are alone together, really alone, with a relatively small chance of anybody bothering them. Every other time when they went out, there were people around them, and when they got back to the base, there were also always people within earshot, people who watched. But now it's just the empty common room and them, with everybody else safely tucked away in bed. It's exhilarating and frightening at the same time–suddenly, she feels like she is back in Freshman year, paired in a class with the boys she likes. There's excitement crawling under her skin, but she's almost too afraid to move.

There's silence, then; neither of them speaks. She looks into his eyes, and despite the poor lighting, tries to count all the colors she sees in his irises–honey, amber, whiskey… She is almost too lost in them to notice him taking her hand. Her gaze flickering downwards, she sees him turn her hand around, and trace the faint line of veins along the tender skin of her wrist.

(Tick, tock, tick, tock…)

"I…" he starts, then trails off, in loss of words. She can relate. "I think I just want to say thank you. For giving me a second chance." He looks up at her, smiling. "For saying yes."

She chuckles, shrugging. "Yeah, you know," she says as she pulls her hand from him. (His hand now rests on her thigh, just a little bit above than what's necessarily decent.) "You are hard to say no to. You have one of those puppy dog faces." She hasn't even realized it before, but in the last minute or so they have been gravitating towards each other–now there are only a couple of inches between their faces. "And that restaurant you first took me to was pretty spectacular too."

He exhales. "You are spectacular," he says, with painful sincerity, looking into her eyes.

It's lame and cheesy and terrible, but she just couldn't care less. This is it–the last brick of the wall of her self-constraint crumbles.

The next moment her hands are on his face, and her lips are on his mouth. There's nothing sweet or chaste or gentle about this kiss–she is almost aggressive in her passion, trying to get closer to him than possible, trying to make up for the lost time (it's almost like back in Providence, almost as if two years haven't even passed, as if only a blink separated the two events). He seems to freeze for a moment at first, his lips rigid under hers, but then he breaks free from it, a hand tangling in her hair, teeth nibbling on her bottom lip. There's a faintest tug on her thigh, and she complies right away, straddling him, their chests pressed together.

(See? Explosion.)

He's frenzied now, touching and wanting and exploring, hands everywhere, lips demanding, as if he wanted to melt their bodies together, and she is right there with him, matching passion to passion, desire to desire. And yet, throughout their breathless kissing, and despite his hardening member she can clearly feel under her, he never crosses that certain line (the very one she really wants to cross now). That unsaid barrier still lingers between them, keeping him from moving forward.

"Wait," he stops suddenly, pulling away, as if woken from a trance, almost like a child caught doing mischief. "We–"

"No," she cuts him off, kissing him again, sliding her tongue into his mouth. "No," she repeats, peppering kisses down his jawline. "I want you, I want you, please," she chants, nuzzling her face against his neck, her hands sneaking under his T-shirt, nails grazing the smooth skin stretched over ridged muscles. "Please."

He doesn't ask if she is sure. He doesn't try to reason with her. Tell her it's a mistake. Push her off. No, he knows better than that–it's enough to look at her face for him to know that she means it, that she wants him, right then and there. He knows, with startling clarity, that this is what they both need, what should have happened between them ages ago (but it hasn't yet, not until this moment, because the universe is cruel).

And so the next moment his mouth is back on hers, and his hands are gripping the hem of her shirt, tugging it upward. She helps him getting rid of it, breaking the kiss for a moment to pull it off and toss it away, and as soon as it's gone, they reach for the clasp of her bra at the same time, and their shared eagerness would even be comical if they had any capacity for comedy left.

Her bra is barely gone–her breasts free for him to see and do whatever he pleases–when he grabs her waist (his hands are unnaturally warm on her skin), lifts her from his lap, and lays her down on the couch, her head resting on the armrest. Before she could blink, he is already crawling above her, his upper body supported by his arms, his hips cradled between her legs. And then he is kissing her again, her mouth, her neck, her collarbone, leaving her breathless and her skin tingling. Yet he still feels tentative as he puts his hand on her breast, and she has to guide him, show him that's it okay, that this exactly what she wants; it seems to give him the confidence he needs, because the next moment his lips fasten on her nipple, and he sucks it hard, making her gasp and her hips shoot up, seeking friction.

It feels good, it feels great, but he is still completely dressed, and it should be a crime, so she tugs at his shirt, trying to get it off, and he complies right away, pulling it through his head. He's in such a rush, she can hear the fabric rip, not that she cares about it a bit–all she cares about is that suddenly they are skin-to-skin, and he's warm and heavenly and she can't get enough of him. And then he's moving down her body, lips leaving a searing trail on her skin, her collar bone, between her breasts, and down her abdomen, and then he's at the waistline of her jeans, popping the button open. He divests her of her jeans and panties with great skill, barely hindered by her shoes, which soon hit the floor, too.

He pulls away for a bit then, looking down at her, his gaze sliding along the lines of her body (she's flushed and tousled and ready and dripping and aching and all his). There's marvel in his eyes as he watches her, almost as if he had trouble believing that this is not a dream, and she just lies there, watching him in return, her chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, waiting for him to move.

And then he's diving in again, hungry lips seeking hers. "You're… sublime," he breathes against her neck, hands in her hair, pulling her heads backwards.

A soft moan breaks free from her throat, and her hands slid down his back, fingertips slipping beneath the waistline of his pants. She wants to be witty and flirty and make him smile as she tells him to hurry up, but all she manages is a breathless "Please…"

Still, he understands her perfectly.

The next moment he's pulling away again, standing up from the couch, and then she's watching him as he quickly kicks off his shoes and pushes down his pants and boxers in one fluid motion, his erection springing up proudly. She licks her lips in anticipation as he climbs back between her legs, their gazes locked. He's careful not to put too much of his weight on her, but at the same time she can feel his need to touch as much skin as he can, draping himself over her as her arms loop around his neck and her legs wrap around his waist.

He's kissing her with fervor once again, his hot tongue exploring her mouth, while his hips move rhythmically against hers, teasing, but never satisfying. She's just about to say something, because this is maddening, and she can't take it anymore, she needs more, when suddenly he stills and breaks the kiss.

"I should…" he says, panting, looking down at her, reluctance clearly written on his features. "I should go and…"

She gets it halfway through the sentence–and no, she doesn't want to let him go, doesn't want to part from him, even for a short while–, and silences him by pulling his back down and kissing him.

"It's okay," she tells him, noses touching. "I got it covered."

"You sure?" he asks for confirmation, their breaths mingling.

She doesn't answer him with words, but reaches between their bodies and wraps her fingers around him (he's thick and hot and throbbing and fits perfectly in her palm), and then looks into his eyes, and it's been decided.

The next moment his fingers are curling around her own, and he's guiding himself into her.

She sighs as he slides in–she's wet and ready to combust, and he stretches and fills her in the most delicious way. He fits her perfectly, almost as if they were two pieces of a puzzle, designed to click together. (She briefly thinks about how it should have happened a lot sooner, but doesn't let her thoughts stray to such a dark place.)

He stills when he's all the way in; he exhales, presses a kiss against her forehead, then waits for a moment, letting her adjust, before he starts moving.

She half expects him to be rough and wild, to fuck her into oblivion, but instead he sets a steady, unhurried rhythm, reaching in deep before pulling out and then pushing back in. He supports himself on his arms, her hand gripping his biceps, grounding herself, as he kisses her languidly throughout his thrusts.

There's a quiet intensity in the way he makes love to her, just like there's one about him, and it almost feels like a religious worship, like some old, pagan rite (and she realizes with a start–it might be what it is exactly to him, like laying with a goddess).

They are not in a hurry–they are not chasing a quick culmination–, and her pleasure climbs slowly, buzzing in her veins and under skin, making her moan softly and grip his arm as he sighs her name and murmurs sweets words into her ear, words she doesn't even hear but loves nonetheless.

He is slowly picking up pace, his thrusts becoming more punctuated, while she tightens around him, her nails biting into his skin, urging him on, as he sucks on her neck, leaving marks (it's okay; she's his now, anyway), and yet, their orgasms still take her almost by surprise.

He comes first, giving her a couple of last, frenzied pumps before he stills and, back arched, empties himself into her in hot spurts, her name tearing free from the depth of his throat. It's his warm seed, spreading inside her, that triggers her own climax, making her shiver and tremble and moan as her walls spasm around him, trapping him inside her body, milking him, demanding every last drop he is able to give. And for the shortest of time, the world outside really ceases to exists, and the universe consists only of them and their shared pleasure, their bodies–skin and flesh and bones and thoughts and feelings–melting together.

After, when even his last vestige of strength leaves him, he collapses on top of her, his head pillowed on her rapidly falling and rising chest as she is trying to catch her breath. Once she is aware of who and where she is once again, she slides her fingers into his hair, caressing his scalp and pushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. They stay like that for a little while, trying to reassemble themselves, even though she knows things will never be the same as they were before (the bomb has been detonated).

Not that she minds it the slightest.

A couple of minutes pass, and her body and mind slowly calm down, retreating to the present. The air of the room feels cool on her fevered, sweaty skin, which is juxtaposed by the warm weight of him on top of her. She closes her eyes, trying to etch every little detail into her mind, so she'll be able to recall this exact moment, this exact feeling–his scent, his head on her breasts, his breath tickling her skin, the cushions under her back, his body between her legs, their mixed juices seeping out of her–, whenever she wants to.

Only when it's done does she start to realize more mundane things as well.

"We," she chuckles suddenly, "totally ruined this couch. In every sense of the word. I'll never be able to look at it again. Or look into anyone's eyes who sits on it."

She feels his smile against her skin.

"Would you be mad if I said I'm kind of happy about it?"

"Very, very mad," she laughs. "Almost inconsolably so."

"In that case," he rises from her, "I'd better thoroughly apologize." He kisses her.

"Yes. At length." She agrees, sliding from under him and standing up. She takes his hand, and, not caring about their clothes littering the floor, starts leading him towards the living quarters. "Come. You'd better start apologizing right away."