Fringe Benefits-5: The Big Come Down?
"Sweet Jesus," he sighed, happily, body still tingling with the force of his release. God, it was going to be worth the aftermath, the rejection, just to have had this once--twice for her. Whistler seemed to share his opinion, luxurious and languorous as she came down from her climax and spread herself out over him.
"God, I needed that," she panted, her breath chasing over the flushed skin of his chest, making him shiver. He could see her smile, and that was a slice of heaven or a glimpse of hell. She glanced up at him. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," he said, smugly. "I'm glad you had a good time."
"Hmm?" She murmured, almost sleepily, yawning. "Didn't you?"
"How to put this? If you, uh, don't back off in the next five-ten minutes, you're in for a repeat performance." Well, why the hell not? He checked his watch; they still had time.
Unfortunately, that motion attracted Abby's attention, and she sat bolt upright, swinging her leg around him, dismounting roughly and reaching for her underwear in one motion. Oh, well, he still had the once. Reluctantly, King resigned himself to it, that glorious, bittersweet victory and the certainty of a celibate future, at least as far as Abigail Whistler was concerned. Lifting his ass off the sweaty, clingy flannel, he tugged his boxers and pants up together, not able to keep a smile off his face; they hadn't even gotten below his knees before she pounced him. So worth it.
"I like that trick with the condom," he commented, sitting up and resting his arms loosely atop his knees. He nodded at her underwear, which she slid up those awesome legs, standing on one foot at a time.
"It was the only place I could think to put it."
"They have this marvelous invention called pockets, Abby," he patted his own, where he had, just in case, stuck one or two condoms.
"I wanted to be sure," she said, coolly, slipping her bra straps back up onto her shoulders. They made for an oddly matched pair of lovers: her pants made it off, his didn't; his shirt got tossed aside, hers stayed on, if just barely.
"Of what?"
"That you wouldn't find it unless we needed it."
What else could he say to that, except, "Damn."
She actually smiled as she pulled back her hair. "Glad you liked it."
"You made an impression," he conceded, standing with his shirt fisted in one hand. In another second, they were both dressed again, as he tugged his shirt back on and she zipped herself back into her leather pants. Already, he knew he would be fantasizing about unzipping those for the next few years of his life. Not enough of his problematic hookups featured leather--in the good way.
Surprisingly, there was no lingering awkwardness. It was as if Whistler knew exactly what he was expecting, which was exactly what she intended, which boiled down to this being a one-time deal. They folded the sheet up into a long strip and beat the floor together to erase their tracks in it, Abby continuing the chore down the stairs while he grabbed their gear and fished for the keys.
Abby waited, leaning against the hood of the jeep, as he loaded their gear in the trunk. She tapped her foot rhythmically, and, through the car, he could see the white cords extending from her ear buds. Already back to normal. Nothing changed between them besides some fluids wrapped up in latex.
"Come on, jitterbug," he called to her, coming around the driver's side door. Abby glanced over her shoulder at him, smirking. King watched her roll towards the passenger's side, hand lingering and drawing long streaks across the front end. He ought to remind her about leaving prints, but the look she gave him was too damned hot for logic to function through the hormones. Eyebrows raised, he waited until she belted in, and when the delay in their departure got her attention, said, "Wow."
"Yeah?"
"What are you on?"
Abby shut her eyes, head swaying to the tune. Her hand shot out of nowhere, grabbing the dead center of his cargo pants and rubbing in rhythm to music he couldn't hear. "Something other than my left hand, for a change." Her voice was throaty, deep, and she didn't stop touching him.
"Never figured you for a lefty," he shot back, chuckling, astounded. Strong and stoic Whistler, she of many a masturbatory fantasy, playing with his responsive cock, telling him about her frustration with a hand that was doing all right by him. "Is it legal to drive like this, do you think?"
"Is it legal to kill four men--"
"Five," he groaned, inanely picking a fight while she worked her hand inside his pants. "I got five."
"Really," she licked her lips, eyes still closed, her body writhing to the tunes being pumped into her brain. Her fingers found what they were seeking, closing over him. King fought to breathe as, even in the constrained space, she brought him to life. Leaning closer to him, breathing in his ear, Abby teased him, "How many, King?"
"Four," he said at once. He wasn't stupid, but, he was, of all things, suddenly very optimistic about his immediate future. His mouth felt dry as he croaked, "Does this mean we're not pretending this didn't happen?"
"Drive," she whispered. Catching her expression from the corner of his eye nearly undid him. Danica, on her best day, never looked that dangerous. There was a fine line between love and hate, but he'd always found it pretty easy to stay on the right side of that line--it was all a matter of pushing too far versus pushing just enough. Her fingers slid up from his body, teasing the head of his cock, manipulating the skin around it, causing him to groan again. Abby licked the skin below his earlobe. "Drive, King."
He started the car.
