She dreams of love.
Of first kisses, trembling hands and tentative touches, of whispered words of wonderment and joy. A strong hand, gentle on her face; bodies pressed together, hard and soft all at once, tangled warmth and intimate familiarity.
She seeks, swimming toward wakefulness, feeling a hand in her own, lips on her cheek. Hears her name, breathed out like a prayer, fingers tangled in her hair.
He dreams of Liz.
No longer out of reach; of the freedom to touch her, to kiss, love. He clasps her hand, whispers her name, runs a hand through the heavy silk of her hair. He smiles, in his sleep.
"Red?" She says it quietly, unsure — she thinks he's still asleep, is he dreaming? Dreaming of her, of them? Not that she hasn't thought of him, of them, together. It sometimes seems like he deliberately fills the air between them with intimacy, with sensuality.
It feels surreal, here in the quiet dark, in the space they have made for themselves, that he would want this from her, seek her as she now admits to herself that she does him. She reaches out to him, softly, hesitating, just a graze of her fingertips across his cheekbone.
Even her lightest touch elicits a little hum in response, and smiling still, sleeping still, he turns into her, wraps his other arm around her, slides a leg between hers. Enveloped by him, she gives herself to the moment. Safe and warm, awash with love released, she finds his mouth with her own and falls into him, her last cohesive thought that his lips are, impossibly, as soft as they always look.
Awareness comes to him slowly, reluctantly — he never wants to leave his dreams of her, and tonight's hasn't lasted anywhere near long enough, given him anywhere near enough of her. But then he can't, quite, distinguish between dream and reality. He can still feel her, soft and pliant in his arms, smell the fragrance of her skin; soap and lemons and Liz. Her hand is pressed against his heart, her lips, God, her lips pressed to his own. Is it real, or not real?
He blinks awake, and his eyes fill with her, and his heart trips as his body thrills to her. He gives himself a second, a moment to capture. Then he breaks away, hating the feeling of loss, hating himself. "Lizzie," he says, softly, almost wistfully.
"Don't," she replies, firmly. "Don't say it, just…" And instead of fishing for the right words, she takes his mouth again.
He can't do anything but give back to her; doesn't really want to, thinks that at least they can have this space for each other.
As they come together, in the dark, in the quiet, her every nerve ending comes alight with tingling heat, a complete awareness of him — his mouth moving against hers, the contrasting textures of his clothes, the spicy scent of his skin. His tongue traces along her bottom lip as his hand runs up her side, beneath her shirt, and the delight of sensation threatens to overwhelm her. And he's kissing her and kissing her like she's the answer to every question he's ever had, and she thinks, already dazed, that this is another piece of her that has been missing for entirely too long.
The feel of her is so tangible in his hands, her mouth so responsive, so much better than any dream, the taste of her making him ache. As she opens to him, so willing, so warm, his heart starts pounding in his ears. He thinks he might drown in her, and he doesn't care. He wants more, wants to touch, see, taste. He rolls her underneath him and dedicates his considerable ferocity of purpose to discovering the secrets of her.
Her skin is like satin under his hands as he strokes over her curves, the swell of her breast. He strokes a thumb across her nipple, feels it tighten deliciously, and she gasps a little into his mouth, arching into him. She clutches at his shirt, tugging it loose, hooks a leg over his to bring him closer.
He lifts his head, breaks their kiss to rise on his elbows and look at her — face flushed, hair tumbled, lips still parted. He lifts a hand to stroke her hair back from her face; she blinks up at him, eyes hazy and warm and wanting. He can't remember wanting anyone in quite this way, quite as much as her, in this moment.
"Oh, Lizzie," he rasps on a sigh, and leans back in to press his lips to her neck, kissing and nibbling his way down to her collarbone. Her grip on his shirt tightens; she rolls her hips into him with a murmur of pleasure. He reaches down further; strokes up her leg, feeling her muscles quiver delightfully under his touch.
He toys with the hem of her tee, lifts his head again. "May I?" he asks, his voice just a rumble now.
She doesn't speak, but lets go of him to reach between them and pull her shirt over her head.
"Lizzie," he growls, stricken by beauty, swamped with lust, need, love. "You're so very lovely."
She lowers her eyes, bites her lip. "Red," she breathes.
He reaches for her again, more intense now, puts his mouth to her breast, suckling, worshipping. He feels her hand, strong on the back of his head, as he slips a hand between her legs, finds her wet heat waiting. She moans as he strokes her, finding the right amount of pressure, circling her clit as her breath starts to quicken. Her hips loosen even as her legs stiffen, tighten around him, as she utters a soft cry.
She gives a tug to his head, draws his mouth back to hers for a kiss, and he wants to devour her whole. He slides a finger inside her, then two, continuing to circle her clit with his thumb, stroking her inner wall. She twists beneath him, panting into his mouth, clinging to him, to his shirt, one hand still on his head.
"Go on," he urges, peppering her with kisses, nipping at her earlobe. "Go over, sweetheart."
Then he gives his hand a little twist, crooks his fingers inside her, and it's just right, and she muffles her cries in the fabric of his shirt as she clenches and quivers around him.
He thinks that this, right now, Lizzie undone, is one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen.