Grounded

Chapter 7: Lost

by Lynn Saunders


John pulls his coat closed tightly, folding his arms over his chest as he sloshes along the pavement through the wet December chill. The streetlamps have long been illuminated, each orb casting light in a yellow haze of mist. The snowmelt laps at his heels as he goes, and he feels the cold settling deep into his bones, a phantom ache zinging over his right kneecap and blossoming up along his thigh. He's exhausted, in more ways than one. Earlier, he'd been forced to exchange the bliss of her bed for the rigours of a Saturday evening alone at the coffee house, and he'd lingered perhaps a touch too long in her doorway before trudging out into the ice and snow. He has been working double shifts since Thomas left him in the lurch. And without much sleep, he thinks with the ghost of a smile.

He knows from intimate experience that her flat is warm and softly lit, far more comfortable than his own, and he finds he's drawn there before he has much of a chance to consider how he might be received, whether it's too much too quickly. He's distracted, though, lost in the memory of her ocean eyes. The notion that she might be just as eager to see him again so soon proves unbearably tempting.

It's not until he's almost to her front door that he experiences a flicker of worry that he might be unwelcome, that he might be intruding, and the thought pulls him up short. The hurts of years past are not easily shaken off. He turns, facing the street, suddenly shy, weighing his options, calculating the emotional risk from habit and hastily resigning himself to return to his sparse flat alone. He takes a step forward then pauses, lingering on the corner. He huffs out a frosty breath and bounces on the balls of his feet for a moment.

Life is short. He's spent years in fear of living it. He thinks of her hair spilling across his shoulders in the pale morning light, laughing with her after Gwen's hasty departure, the look in her eyes as he finally separated himself from her and moved reluctantly across the threshold, back to his ordinary life. She's told him she fancies him, has shown him quite plainly - and more than once at that. What is he waiting for? He feels the tendons in his bad leg stretch and engage as he tenses, breathing deeply, tamping down his worry and moving with purpose toward her door once more. He's pulling his mobile from his pocket, rounding the corner and bringing up her name, when he collides with her fully on the narrow walkway.

She recovers first and gives a gasping laugh, retrieving his mobile from a puddle of melting snow and drying it with her scarf. It doesn't seem too much worse for wear. Her strange little half smile makes him wonder if she's seen her name on the screen, but thankfully she doesn't tease him about it just yet. He's too startled in this moment to realize that she has passed her own front door and made the turn onto High Street because she was hoping to meet him, that she's been moving through the night toward him as well. This will occur to him only later, as he runs his hands through her hair and feels her soft breath evening out against his chest in the dark.

"Anna..." he breathes, unsure of what else to say.

She responds with a barely perceptible shiver of anticipation as the word lingers in the space between them. He realizes suddenly that he's spoken with quite a particular timbre, rough and low, a tone newly familiar yet unmistakable. He's given himself and his intentions away, and all he's said is her name.

Moments pass. He can't be moved to break her gaze. Now the night that was grey and dreary becomes crisp and glittering, bright with snow. She turns to him, letting her gloved fingers slide beneath the lapels of his heavy wool coat. He no longer feels the cold, and her hand fits itself easily into his. They stand silhouetted for a moment in the glinting fog, beneath a crooked streetlamp, until her whisper raises the fine hair at the back of his neck. His response to her is conditioned already as well.

"Take me home, Mr. Bates."

It's less than fifty paces to her building. He barely remembers ascending the small flight of stairs inside. He presses in close behind her in the hall, breath stirring the hair at the crown of her head as she fumbles with her keys. She removes her gloves, tries again. Her hands are shaking, and he hasn't even kissed her yet.

He waits with bated breath, his long fingers splayed on either side of the door jamb. He hopes he might always grace her doorstep this way, standing balanced on the edge of control with her. When the lock clicks and rolls, she gives a happy little sigh and reaches up to grab his hand, pulling him inside. She throws the deadbolt, and they're alone.

He helps her off with her coat, then hangs his in turn. She steps out of her heels and faces him in the low light of the hallway lamp. There's no pretence. It's well past dinnertime, and they both know exactly why he's here. She has an awed, wild gleam in her eyes as he takes her firmly by the hips and backs her carefully against the door. Her lips part from the thrill of it. She looks as if she wants to lose herself in things both dark and familiar.

He shudders as she traces the deepening lines around his eyes, revelling in the feel of it, of being touched by someone who so obviously wants him. He stoops so that his forehead meets hers, and she eases the knot from his tie. He can feel the faint puff of every breath she takes against his lips as she pulls the buttons of his dress shirt in succession. He leans in, senses rather than sees her smile, and closes the millimetres between them with purpose.

The skin at the small of her back is downy and soft. When his lips glided there earlier, she writhed in the sheets. She sighs when his fingers drift under her top and up the curve of her spine. He becomes aware that he's towering over her, of the sheer size of his shoulders compared to her small hands, that he has her pressed solidly between the bulk of his chest and the door. She's fierce, though, her responses to him strong and unwavering. She rises on tiptoe to meet him as his shirt flutters to the floor.

Anna truly seems to love the feel of him, and oh, how he loves to be touched. She traces his collarbones, grips his forearms, hums appreciatively as his lips move across her neck, and lets her hands drift down past his navel. His belt buckle clinks open. His fingers draw across the backs of her thighs. He imagines running his hands under her skirt and hitching her up right here against the wall, of a scramble to gain purchase, of pushing into her as she muffles her cries into his neck. He's groaning in her ear, gathering her to him, his fragile grasp of control slipping free, when a loud, plaintive meow sounds from the kitchen, and Anna breaks their kiss in a fit of giggles. He leans his forehead against the cool wood of the door and tries to catch his breath.

He wants to indulge her, to truly show her what he's capable of. Instead, he's fairly certain they were just about to go hard and fast against the door with her skirt hiked up and her blouse still neatly buttoned. And while that's certainly an idea that merits revisiting, that's not what tonight is about. He has taken her home; now he needs to take her to bed.

She pushes gently at his shoulder and meets his eyes sheepishly. "Castle wants feeding, I'm afraid." They laugh together, and she presses her nose to his cheek. "But," she adds carefully, "I very much want you to stay."

He smiles and nods, pressing his lips gently to hers before easing back. At least his trousers are still on properly. He hopes that might make it seem like he has shown some modicum of restraint when she thinks on it later. He adds this interruption to the growing list of things that should be terribly awkward, but instead are comfortable with her. There's no question that he'll stay.

He retrieves his shirt, then leaves his shoes by the door. She moves about the kitchen, opening a low cupboard, and Castle chirps as food rattles into his bowl. Anna washes her hands and falls into her evening routine, setting the timer on the coffee maker as he leans against the kitchen counter, shaking his head with a smile. She shrugs and grins and takes his offered hand.

The bedroom chair is no longer askew, and he chuckles when he sees that it's been propped up with a thick stack of magazines. He folds his shirt neatly over the back.

"I do believe you told me you would repair that." She arches an eyebrow as he moves closer.

"Maybe there's some other way I can make it up to you."

She squints up at him affectionately. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

"Come here." He tugs her against his chest in the lamplight.

He traces her cheekbones with the backs of his fingers, and she closes her eyes, leaning into his touch. The buttons of her top are pearlescent. They each slip through their holes and give with a satisfying pop. Her creamy skin glows in the lamplight. She shrugs out of her blouse, and it joins his shirt in the bedside chair.

He works his hands into her hair, letting his fingertips linger on the soft skin behind her ears before moving lower, across the back of her neck and down each arm. He turns her, fingerprints her shoulder blades, brushes her beautiful hair aside and runs his lips along the nape of her neck until her head lolls forward. He marvels at the perfect fit of his hands on her waist, indenting the supple flesh, then spreads his fingers flat across her navel. His hands run low on her belly, and he searches out the hidden zipper in the seam at her hip. The fabric slips away easily. She lets it fall as she moves to face him once more.

He caresses her sides and back, squeezes her hips, takes her face in his hands and kisses her forehead. Her breath hitches as he traces the silky fabric concealing her breasts. He hooks a finger under a delicate strap and slides it over her left shoulder. Her bra is black and cut low, and he wonders if she selected the scrap of silk and lace earlier with just this sort of thing in mind, if she chose it for him. She watches him intently, clearly pleased by his fascination, and he realizes that she did. She draws her hands across her belly and up to loose the dainty clasp between her breasts. Her little rosebud nipples peak at his touch. She looks him in the eye as her fingers move to his fly, and his mouth goes dry.

He looks down for a moment, a bit overcome by the intensity of the dizzying want telegraphing between them until her hand finds his. He moves it up to cup his cheek, turning his face to meet her. He feels the rough scrape of it deep in his chest, his skin like sandpaper under her palm, and her expression shifts to something fiery and raw that he cannot name, as if she's remembering the distinct rasp of his cheek against far more intimate places. He wonders just which memory she's touched on, whether she thinks of him this way when she's alone. He realizes he's not been clean-shaven for her yet and resolves to remedy that straight away. He wants to shower and groom and put on his best suit for her, to set a place and light candles, to take her properly to dinner. He will, and soon, but for now, he kisses her deeply as her arms wind around his neck.

They fall into bed together. Until yesterday, he'd never really appreciated the truth of that expression. He tells her this, and she laughs breathlessly against his shoulder. There's a last minute fumble through the contents of a brightly coloured bag in the top drawer of her nightstand, and soon, she's sighing in his ear, begging him not to stop in the sort of feverish whisper that makes him surge into her with a growl. He puts his head down against her shoulder and hitches her leg up over his hip. She smells of sweat and sex and, faintly, of the spice of his morning aftershave. She clutches at his shoulders, and he desperately hopes she's close because every scrape of her fingernails across his back is pushing him further and further toward the precipice.

Her small hand fits itself to his cheek, and he turns his head to kiss her. When her fingers tangle with his, he slides their joined hands down to move between them so that she might show him the best way to please her. She buries her face in his neck with a whimper as their rhythm picks up, wraps her legs around him fully at his answering murmur, and tilts her hips up to meet him when she begins to fall over the edge. The muscles in his arms strain with his effort until she finally goes breathless and rigid, her lips parting in a silent cry, and he smiles as she sighs his name. God, yes. He moves into her roughly, once, twice more and groans with his release. She soothes her hands across his back as he kisses her sweetly, and in that moment he fully accepts that he's completely lost in her already.


* For awesomegreentie.

* Special thanks to giginutshell for requesting more... detailed lovemaking. :)

* And thank you to my beta team: terriejane, giginutshell, and froggattcoyles.