Scar Tissue

A/N: Okay - since some of you are insisting that you absolutely CANNOT wait to find out what happens next, I decided to post the big sex chapter. It's not what I would consider terribly explicit, but you've been warned. And just because they finally got it on, don't be so naive as to think this is the end. In fact, the problems are only just beginning. So, I don't own Randy or Trish, but y'all know that. Check it out, review, and Enjoy!


Randy let out a loud groan and looked at the ceiling. He had been Suplexed, Pedigreed, Spine Busted, Choke Slammed, Tombstoned, Leg Dropped, Batista Bombed, Frog Splashed, Figure Foured, and Unprettied in his career. He had put his body through grueling No Holds Barred matches and Steel Cage matches. There were mornings when he woke up, after all of the adrenaline had run through his system, unable to move.

But he had never, in his twenty-five years, experienced the sore, spent, sated feeling that Trish Stratus gave him. She blew right past unbelievable into whatever lay beyond, and nothing he could have dreamed up in his wildest fantasies would have prepared him for the night she had given him.

In his opinion, the evening had started slow – what with all the bull shit of hanging out with their friends. For a few minutes, they had shared the chair in Cena's room, but Trish had eventually moved on to talking with the other women from the floor in front of him. His hands hadn't left her hair, or her shoulders, or her neck. Anything to make sure she didn't get too far away. Touching her was addictive, and he found that he couldn't get enough of her smooth skin and the vibrations that flowed through her body when she laughed. Everything she did turned him on.

He finally had to stop touching her when she stood to use the bathroom. But when she returned, climbed into his lap, and straddled his legs, Randy's hands found her ass with a death grip. She kissed his neck, despite the catcalls from the rest of the room, and suggested they go back to his room.

"Yours is closer," he pointed out.

Trish sucked on his Adam's apple for a moment and then pulled back, licking her lips. "What's a matter, Orton? You can't wait till we get to the end of the hall?"

He chuckled and shook his head. "You're lucky I'm waiting till we get out of this chair," he warned.

"We will see you guys later," she had waved to the room, dragging him by the hand into the hallway without a second look over her shoulder.

There had been no need for words between them, and as soon as the dead-bolt was secured, and the chain lock was in place, she had jumped into his arms, wrapped her legs around his waist, and knocked him flat on the floor. For some reason, her aggressive nature caught him off guard, and she had unzipped his pants and captured him firmly in her lips, scraping him with her teeth, before he knew what was going on.

Randy Orton was used to being the one in charge – he liked being the master and commander in the bedroom. He liked knowing that he was the one who knew what happened next, and this one was throwing him off. So, as much as it pained him to withdraw from the warm confines of her steamy mouth, he grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head back. "Come on," he ordered.

Trish didn't make it to her feet before he lifted her small frame in his arms and flung her over his shoulder. Kicking out of his pants as he walked to the bed, he smacked her ass to remind her who was in charge, and threw her onto the bed. The look in her eyes as he peeled her jeans away said that she didn't mind his change of direction, either.

That had been hours ago. The clock beside her bed said that it was nearly three in the morning, and they had to leave for the next city in roughly four hours. He needed to sleep, to get back to his own room. But dammit if his legs wouldn't move on their own.

He was numb. Randy Orton was numb. There was only one way he could imagine to keep the Legend Killer in a woman's bed after he was done with her, and Trish Stratus had found it. She had paralyzed him with scintillating maneuvers, a crafty tongue, and the stamina of a god. He never felt tired after sex with a girl – or more than one girl, for that matter. He prided himself on being able to go three, maybe four, hours easily.

But in a little more than a hundred and twenty minutes (that's two hours), Trish had gotten him up and off no less than five times, and he still wasn't sure how. At least, he encouraged himself, you kept up. Can you imagine how humiliating it would have been if you let her wear you out?

With a half-laugh at the notion, and a half-grunt at the effort, he rolled his shoulder off the mattress and inwardly demanded his legs move toward the floor. "Where do you think you're going?" Trish asked weakly. Her hand found his back and he shook his head.

"You can't possibly," he started and then sighed, flopping back. His head rested on her thighs and she smiled down at him, her fingernails running through his sweat-soaked hair.

"What's a matter, Kid?" Trish's eyebrow raised as she struggled to sit, and settled for resting on her elbows. "You can't keep up with me?" She studied his expression, and Randy tried his best to mask his true feelings – exhaustion, mixed with more than a little awe. "Ya know what? Whatever," she shrugged and laid her head back down on the pillow. "You lasted longer than most guys do."

If she meant it as a compliment, it was lost on him. Adrenaline coursed through him as his body, seemingly of its own volition, lunged toward her. "Please," he huffed, resting his weight on his arms, willing them not to buckle under him. "I just didn't wanna wear you out on the first night."

The first night? Was he actually giving a girl hope that she would get more than one shot with him? Shaking the pride that so often fueled his actions, Randy admitted to himself that Trish was not, as John had pointed out, just some girl. She was, far and away, the best fuck EVER, and he was not leaving that room until she felt the same way about him.

Her eyes shot open in surprise, and her 'yelp' sounded with a strain as he entered her hard and started to move. He had given it to her fast, slow, hard, gentle, backward, forward, and upside down. But he had been holding back. She was so sure she could take everything he could give? Then he would pull out all the stops.

"WAIT!" Trish screamed, pushing him off mid-thrust. Randy didn't know whether to slap her or run and hide. What the hell was she scurrying away for? "You're not," she started, her torso disappearing over the edge of the bed for a second. When she sat up, she held a foil wrapper between her fingers, "protected," she finished, her chest heaving from the exerted energy.

Resisting the urge to kick his own ass, Randy tore the package open with his teeth and sheathed himself as quickly as he could, grabbing her ankles and throwing them over his shoulders. All-in-all, the exchange took less than a minute, but it felt like an eternity to him.

Buried deep within her inviting heat once more, he accelerated until her back arched off the bed and her breath came out in short, labored gasps. She was moaning, groaning, gripping the headboard, and encouraging him to do it harder. Surprised at his own strength in that moment, he continued to thrust, holding her gaze with his eyes as he gripped the backs of her thighs for support.

When she finally called out "Fuck, Orton!" he let himself go, filling the condom and then collapsing on her chest. Total time – less than ten minutes, but he didn't care. It had been the perfect cap to the perfect evening.

And as soon as he could move again, he would pull out and go back to his room for some much needed, and hard-earned, rest.