Summary: Trory. Set Season One Post-TBP2 and Pre-LDAT. The Kiss at Madeline's Party never happened for the purposes of this fic.

Disclaimer: I own no rights to anything that is mentioned in my stories, including the main characters that I've borrowed for my plot manipulations.

Rating: M

Story Title: Untouched

Chapter Title: Part Thirteen

AN: Thanks to K, who told me this didn't suck. She rocks like that. I know these chapters are taking longer than my usual speed, but I love you all for not complaining and reviewing so religiously. I'd give you all pretty sparklies for it if I could. Or you know, a cookie. Whatever you prefer. Enough of my babbling. You wanted to read the next chapter, right? And for those of you who waited so patiently, it's longer, and some steamier content thrown in for the faithful Trory fans...

He was nervous.

He hadn't given name to the energy coursing through his system since she'd asked him to return two hours prior, but as he watched his hands tremble uncontrollably upon reaching out to catch the edge of her window so he could ease it open, he could no longer mistake it for sheer excitement or lust.

Lust didn't affect his hands. It didn't even make its way north of his abdomen. It didn't hold the power to cloud his thoughts or taint his tongue with the memory of her taste. It didn't emblazon the look of her imploring eyes as she asked him for more in his memory.

He stayed low to the ground, wanting to calm his nerves before he let her know he had arrived. He never knew what she would ask of him; he never knew how much restraint he would have to exert. But shaking upon arrival surely didn't signify an ability to hold back, let alone to instill confidence in her.

Taking one more deep breath as he saw a soft light click on from within the room, he once again found the lip and eased his fingertips underneath it. He lifted it up gently and was grateful that the window that looked to be in need of repainting and who knew what other repairs slid up easily.

She looked terrified, as if he were here not out of invitation, but rather a lazy cat burglar that had gotten lucky on his first try into the house. He held up his hand in greeting, afraid to speak, lest her mother not be quite the sound sleeper Rory had described her as. He stifled a chuckle as she returned the gesture, clearly not in practice of allowing boys in through her bedroom window after curfew.

"Hey," she said finally, standing up from her perch on the bed. He took another step into the room, shutting the window behind him.

"Hey," he whispered, looking around her room. He hadn't made it far into the house on his one and only prior visit, but it seemed in keeping with the cozy, homey feeling of the living room. He saw remnants of her childhood—dolls and girlish pictures—alongside items that signified times to come—posters of far off lands and college pennants. He wondered what exactly spoke of her now; who she really was.

"You're early," she pointed out.

"I couldn't find anything else to do," he admitted. "I thought about going back to the party, but I ended up just driving halfway there and back a few times," he trailed off as she stood listening to him ramble. "I just wanted to see you," he finished.

She gave a soft smile. "Do you enjoy those parties?"

He studied her features. The way the corners of her mouth upturned slightly to match the corners of her eyes. Her cheeks were brushed with a light pink stain, as if she's run down a flight of stairs just before he climbed through her window.

"Not especially."

"Be vaguer," she rolled her eyes, taking a baby step toward him. He noticed that he could feel the urge to allow his hands to tremble all the way up his arms, but he willed them to remain steady at his sides as she continued to approach him, asking him questions seemingly to take his mind off of his surroundings and the possibilities that lie in wait for them.

"What's there to enjoy?"

"You tell me, you're the one that gets to go through the rabbit hole," she shrugged as her tone remained playful.

"It's more like a looking glass, all those vain people who worry that their hair has fallen out of place," he joked back.

She let out a tiny snicker. "I think yours is a bit mussed from your entry," she reached a hand up to correct his locks. He remained still, allowing her fingers to run along his scalp, through more than just the allegedly out of place hair.

"Rory," he began, but she shook her head.

"Tell me more. What do you normally do?"

He ran his teeth over his top lip. "Meet up with friends. Drink. Relax."

"What about girls?" she kept eye contact as she nailed him in place.

"What about them?"

"Surely if you get bored so easily you find ways to entertain yourself," she led.

"I've never found anything that makes me want to keep coming back for more," he assured her, longing for her hand to slide out of his hair and down his cheek.

"Then why do you keep going?"

He knew what she was asking; he just hoped she could accept his answer for what it was.

"None of the people who go to those parties really want to be there," he reached up and grabbed her hand that had begun its slow, hypnotic descent down the side of his head, aimed for his neck, eventually his torso. He intertwined their fingers and held her hand against his chest. "We're simply the children of people who mingle together in efforts to keep their status high and their family lines propagated with more of the same status-hungry, overindulged offspring. It's like a merry-go-round that never stops revolving."

"If you hate it that much, why don't you just jump off?"

"It's really not that easy," he smiled softly at her suggestion. "I wish it were; but you have to understand my position. I'm the only son of an only son—I have obligations to fulfill. The only thing I can really do is try to grab happiness where I find it—but that means adding it to the game, not replacing one with the other."

"Oh," she nodded. "But you're not, I mean, we," she furrowed her brow; he was sure only seeing the great lengths they'd gone to in order to keep this under wraps. All the secret meetings he'd both initiated or agreed to becoming ways to hide her and not embed her into his life.

"I know you detest all of it; the attitudes, the ideals, the money. You've never been shy about throwing your thoughts about my lifestyle in my face. I didn't want to even presume to think that you'd want to get involved in all of that," he watched as guilt washed over her face. "But it's like I couldn't not bring you as close as I could."

"You're right," she let out a breath. "I don't care for any of that," she took another step, so that their clasped hands were now sandwiched between their bodies—his hand suddenly pressed between her breasts. "But that has nothing to do with how I feel about you."

He closed his eyes, unable to get his next question out of his mind. It was now or never—take the perfect opportunity or forever let it remain out of his knowledge.

"And how do you feel about me?"

Her hand grazed his cheek, coaxing his eyes back open.

"When I'm with you? You make me believe the things you say," she admitted. "You make me want to feel your words," she took hold of his other hand now, pulling him backward toward her small, twin-sized bed, "I want you to do all those things you said you could do," she whispered.

"And when you're not with me?" he managed, following her lead, waiting for the right moment to take control of the situation.

"Make me forget about that," she closed her eyes now, her tone pleading. His breath hitched in his throat as he felt the back of her legs bump against her unmade bed. This moment was the kind that his dreams were made of; a good girl compliant to let him make her bad, sneaking him into her home so that he could strip her first of her clothing and then of her innocence.

He struggled for coherency—he tightened his grasp on her hand. "Look, I know that you feel this way now, but trust me, as soon as this becomes something real," he spoke softly now in tenderness, not fear of waking anyone else that might be in the house.

She was quiet for a moment, her whole body coming to a standstill as his words washed over her. She relinquished her grasp on his hand, prying her smaller hand out from his. He let his hand fall from between their bodies and took a step back to allow her space. He was sure her next move would be to tell him to leave, calling it all off. That she wanted nothing more to do with him past getting a good grade on their project that was due up this coming week—after that, their lives would go on as before. Complete separation. No more experimentation into the unknown.

Now he was terrified—there was nothing he could do or say to change her mind.

Trying to take advantage of the knowledge that these were those last few moments, he did his best to prepare to leave her by taking one last, long look at her. He memorized the way the yellow light cast over the side of her face, meeting pale skin and sharp features, the curve of her breast as the soft cotton of her tank top outlined it.

He was taken aback as she edged her fingertips along the hem of her shirt, and he became hypnotized by her motions as she lifted the border of her shift slowly, revealing at first only the smooth, flat plane of her stomach. He slid his gaze up to meet her eyes as she took a breath of courage before she continued to peel the thin top up over her head, discarding it finally without thought on the floor at his feet. He drank in the sight of her, as if he'd never seen another woman like this. In a way, he hadn't. While innumerable girls had appeared topless before him, in random acts of immediacy, she was the first to bare herself, in a jumble of brazen sexuality and mindful shyness.

She reached out for his hand again before he was ready to touch her; he was still in a panic to memorize every last contour and contrast she had to offer. She placed his open palm against her flushed chest, his fingers resting over the edge of her collarbone. He willed her not to be embarrassed or ashamed as he locked his gaze on hers again.

"This is real," she finally spoke. "And that scares me, Tristan. This isn't going to go away; it isn't something I can tuck away when it gets too much. I don't want to run away and hide from this, from you, but I need you to help me through it," he could hear the hint of imploring in her voice.

He slid his hand down, grazing over smooth skin, letting his other hand match the movements on the other side of her body until he used both hands as a cover for her breasts. Her only reaction was to shiver against his palms, waiting for more. His hands continued to slide, down and around to her back, pulling her frame against his. Her skin was cool to the touch, but he knew he could change that in an instant if need be. And his need was growing greater, skyrocketing since the moment she gave her body over to him. He bent his head slightly to align his lips with her ear.

"Lie down," he instructed, letting his hands slide along her body as she moved out of the embrace. She lay down on top of the covers, wearing only a pair of loose cotton shorts. Her eyes were glued to his body, wondering what his next actions would be, he was sure. He moved his hands to lift his shirt up off the back of his body, but she reached out, her fingernails lightly grazing his knee.

"Wait," she urged, and he stopped dead, knowing as she did that these were the last few moments of retraction. And to be fair, the sight of her like this, bare-breasted with hair splayed out loose over her pillow—it was a sight he wasn't truly worthy of. It was more than what most men's dreams were made of.

"Let me," she smiled softly, holding her hand out for his, inviting him to join her as he was.

Instantly he was dizzy with want; true blood displacement. He let her tug him gently to rest beside her on the small bed—why they weren't in his spacious king-sized bed in his deserted house was probably a matter of comfort on her part. He vowed to himself to make her feel at home anywhere he was in the future.

Her fingers were now seeking out the edge of his shirt, still tucked into the top of his pants. He helped her, untucking the back as she worked at the front, only halting as she ran her hands up underneath the front of his shirt, skimming his abdominal wall. He somehow remained still as she slid the pads of her fingertips back down, just far enough to reach out to grab the material and begin to pull it off his torso. He took hold of it as it came over his head, throwing it down next to hers in case of a hasty exit later on.

He took her back in his arms, laying them down and pressing them into flesh-on-flesh contact. He leaned over her, sealing his lips to hers as a pleasured sigh escaped her lips. He could count this in the first of the ultimate feelings of relief she would provide him with—many of them stemming from the puzzle-like quality of how their bodies fit together. He felt her anchor herself against him, one leg swinging over his in effort to pull him closer as if he'd desire to leave her in this state.

Soft whimpering was all he heard as he worked each section of skin into a heated frenzy on his way down her body, paying each deserving square inch reverence. Hearing his name roll out of her body like that—not begging, not encouraging; but a new hybrid of the two altogether—it was like he was experiencing come sort of religious rite.

He felt her stiffen and lift her hips when his fingers automatically nestled into her waistband, at the ready to go about his normal business. Only at feeling her muscles contract against his fingers did he remember that nothing about this encounter was routine—from her expectations to the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears as he pressed his mouth into her stomach in a series of chaste assurances. Once she was relaxed underneath his touch again, he slid the material down just a couple of inches, just enough to reveal the top of her panty line. He slid his hands back up her sides, coming up under her back, raking his fingers over her muscles as he came back down, now easing her shorts off like they were melting from her body. He let her kick them off of her ankles, settling back down to her body, tracing the edge of the only fabric covering her body, separating them, with two fingers.

He was startled out of his path of discovery when her hand slid over his, taking its lead and pressing his palm over the triangle of cotton that separated him from her. His fingers descended into her body, aching to sink in and lose himself somewhere deep inside her. He nipped the tender skin of her hip with his teeth, ready to tease her into compliancy, into necessity for his eventual destination.

He expected her mewling.

It was her reassurances he didn't expect as she kept her hand over his, which he realized now was trembling more than ever; pushing it down, helping him brush aside the scrap of cloth covering her.

"It's okay," she breathed.

He nodded, using both hands to rid her of the garment altogether. As she lay in wait for him, he took just a moment to burn the sight of her into his memory. His hands raced up her silky legs, and he lowered his lips to her now for the first time, doing his best to ease her into the new sensations—relief of otherworldly burning and aching; pleasure coming out of pain.

--&--

His body had never known satisfaction in kind before. Release for the sake of sanity was one matter, but losing his mind gladly for the sake of her hands seemingly all over him at once—it seemed a small price to pay.

He'd not planned this far ahead. In fact, at her request to join him, he'd not known what to expect, save for more of the same heated, rushed exchanges of pawing and fairly innocent exploration. Tasting her. Molding her to him. Stoking the fires. The luxury of time had never been entertained as a real notion. The chance to bring her to the point of griping hold of her sheets with white knuckles, sweat beading down her chest, and her sweet scent filling not only his nostrils but the whole of her bedroom—that had been beyond his wildest estimations. Being sure of his abilities to pleasure her quickly wasn't what this was about. He'd brought her to the brink over and over, backing off purposefully as the call for him to hurry up was never sounded. When she finally let go, his having no ability to back off in time, he had to soothe her to remain quiet, for fear of not even a proper goodbye should she awaken not only the household, but her entire neighborhood.

But a proper goodbye wasn't what she had in mind. With her fingers in his hair, as he rested against her chest, she waited for stasis.

"My turn," she whispered, still at a pant.

"That was your turn, did you not get that?" he teased, kissing her breastbone.

She smiled dervishly. "I want to touch you," she began. "Don't you want me to?"

"How much time do we have?"

"Forget about time," she leaned up to kiss him softly, deeply, convincingly. Gone were all worries and concerns, thoughts of anything but the present and her rolling him onto his back as she took control, asking him for more than anyone had ever asked of him before—to hand himself over to her care. To trust that her intentions were one with his.

Now it was he who bit back moans, his hand guiding hers; helping her test pressure and speed. He allowed a low groan to escape his throat after he tasted the faint metallic tinge of blood on his lip from his overly aggressive measures to silence himself. Even if he hadn't been able to feel the fruits of her actions, he could have achieved pleasure just from the sight of her coaxing his body into reaction.

Her name tasted like honey as he called it out, he wondered if his voice sounded as thick as it felt in his mouth, if she would taste burned sugar mixed with the tinge of warm metal when her lips again met his.

He was so lost in her, in fact, in the overwhelming sensations, that it took him a while to realize what she was doing. Her legs straddled his hips, her fingernails raking down his chest. He opened his eyes to see her positioned over him purposefully, her hand guiding him up to meet her. Had she more experience in this arena, he might have been too late, so lost in this fog as he was.

"Rory," he moaned again, not achieving warning over lust as he'd hoped. She smiled, and he had to catch her lowering hips with his hands, cursing his righteousness as he felt her heat brush over him.

"Stop," he forced out, still clamping his hands into her hips to make sure she couldn't forge on.

"But I want," she began, her calming voice was there to let him know he wasn't a perpetrator here; but he shook his head as he damned his ill-prepared state of being.

"I don't have anything, we can't," he waited as realization of what she was about to do washed over her.

"Ohmygod," she put one hand to her mouth, nearly collapsing between his knees on her backside. "Oh my God," she closed her eyes.

He was on knees in a moment, his arms around her in a show of support. He was as much to blame for letting her get that close. And he wanted her; God, how he wanted her.

"You don't have anything, here," he began questioningly, hoping for a miracle of biblical proportions.

"I'm sure Mom does," she began, "but Max is here, I can't just," she shook her head.

"Shit," he swore, lowering his forehead to her shoulder. "No, no, you can't. I didn't think this would," he quieted at the feel of her arms slipping around his torso.

"I know. It's late, anyhow," she acknowledged.

"I should probably go," he nodded into her.

"Right. And I'll see you later, to go over the final presentation?"

"My house, three o'clock," he recited. "I don't want to leave you," he admitted as she clung tightly, nestled in his lap and burrowed into his chest.

"Can you stay? Just 'til I'm asleep?" she looked up with hopeful eyes. Like he might say no.

"Anything you want," he promised, pressing his lips to her still damp hairline.

He watched as she reluctantly pulled her night clothes back on, correcting her appearance so as to appear that none of this had transpired come the rising of the sun, when people that wouldn't understand the need they felt or the agony of their separation would stumble upon her. People who wanted to keep her just as she was, or rather how she had been weeks prior. He slid under the thin covers next to her, wearing only his underwear so as to keep as much of the skin-to-skin contact as he could; the feeling that he was already experiencing withdrawal effects from the loss of. He stroked her hair, and he marveled at how peaceful she looked with her eyelashes falling against her cheek. He ached to kiss her slightly parted lips, afraid to stir her until he knew she was rendered completely unaware of his presence.

He wondered if she would feel his absence when she woke alone.

Finally her breath fell evenly, and he tested one quick brush of his lips against hers. He slipped on the remainder of his clothes silently, looking out the window to see the first lights of dawn breaking out under the tree line in the distance. He pulled the covers up over her securely, making sure no signs of his having been there were visible. He closed his eyes, lowered his lips to hers, and whispered against them.

"I love you."

And with that, he let himself out her window, disappearing from her quiet life and heading back to his of deafening silence.

Calmed nerves left him cold in the cool spring morning air.