"Even if I could go back, could change what happened, I wouldn't."

He raises his face to meet her eyes, shot through with a bolt of happiness, so glad there would be no new darkness between them. What he sees in her eyes, looking back at him, strikes him to the core, takes his words, steals his breath. The rational part of him wants to deny it, to go back, put distance back between them. The rest of him just reaches for her (wanting, wishing, hoping), and folds her into his arms.

She wraps her arms hard around him in return, as fierce now in caring for him as she has ever been in anger, or sadness, or disappointment. She can't find words, either, needs time to settle into this rush of feeling, but wants to share at least some of it with him. As much as she can.

He strokes a hand down her back, entranced by the feel of firm muscle under silken skin. She's leaner, harder now than she was in those first days and weeks, and he regrets the necessity even as he is fascinated by her strength. She shivers under his touch; he thrills to it, loves her responsiveness, her openness.

"So beautiful," he murmurs. "The feel of you, in my arms, under my hands…" he trails off, presses his lips to the side of her neck.

She gives a small sigh of pleasure. "You feel," she replies thoughtfully, hands spread across his lower back, "Like you have me at a disadvantage — again." She tugs at his shirt, pulling it free from the waistband of his pants. "I hope this isn't going to be an ongoing theme in our relationship."

He laughs, surprised and pleased by her teasing. "If you expect me to find a problem with you being naked," he replies cheerily, "You are doomed to disappointment. I won't, however, object if you'd like to level the playing field a bit." And he sits back and looks at her with a sly grin that she can only call mischievous, and a sharp glint in his eye.

She feels the heat slowly start to uncurl inside her under his gaze, and her breath starts to quicken even as she leans in to unbutton his shirt. He starts to trace patterns on her back, silky light touches, and he could swear her eyes are getting bluer as he watches her face. She makes much quicker work of his shirt than last time, and he's got nothing underneath it, now. She takes a deep breath, loving (has always loved) the scent of him; her eyelids flutter closed.

He shifts to run a hand through her hair; cups her face and kisses her softly, then again, and again. Her hands run up and down his chest, along his broad shoulders, wind around his neck, leaving trails like fire in their wake. His kisses get harder and he licks his way into her mouth. One hand holding the back of her head, he presses the other to her back and brings her body up against his own.

The skin-to-skin contact makes her moan, wanting more, all of him, everything. She swings a leg around to straddle his lap, the rough texture of his slacks making her squirm a little; he's already hard as iron beneath her.

He breaks their kiss to lean his forehead against hers, catches his breath.

"Not so fast, sweetheart," he says, darkly. "We've got time, now…"

And everything inside her clenches tight at the heavy promise in his voice.

He turns his body on the bed; lowers her to lay beside him. Stands quickly to divest himself of his pants, socks — he leaves his boxers for now, though, since he wants to take his time, exploring Lizzie. The morning light is still dim, filtered through the motel curtains, but it's more than enough to see by. He gives himself a moment just to look at her, to feel fully the impact of the gift that he, that they, have been given.

She watches him looking at her, drinking in her body like it might be the last thing he ever sees, and the ball of heat in her belly starts to expand. His eyes are dark now, and his fingers twitch against his thighs, like he's just deciding where he should touch her first. Then he licks his lips, and she didn't know it was possible to want this much.

"Ray," she breathes, fisting her hands in the sheet beneath her. "Touch me, please… I want your hands on me."

He's beside her again in a flash of movement she can barely track, takes her face in his hands, turns it toward him, takes her mouth. He moves one hand to trace a line down her neck, then across her collarbone, down the center of her chest. He rises over her, kisses her forehead, cheeks, lips (again, and again — he can't help himself), then he's following the path of his hand — neck, collarbone, chest, downward.

His mouth is soft and wet, yet hot as a branding iron on her flesh, each touch still tangible long after he's moved on. He seems intent on laying hands or mouth or both on every last inch of her, and she wonders if it's possible to pass out from aching desire. He's moved out of her reach now, and she's never thought of the back of her knee as particularly erotic, but he's flicked out his tongue and licked across her tendon, and she nearly orgasms there and then.

"Ray…" she moans, clutching at the hand he's got resting on her hip.

"Patience, sweetheart," he says, voice so low now it reverberates through her body from where his cheek touches her leg. "Patience."

He doesn't stop moving, hands everywhere, lips, and she can't think, her vision's blurred — has it been seconds, minute, hours? She can't tell, and doesn't care. Then he's there, at the center of her, and the feel of his tongue on her clit is more than enough to send her over the edge, and she comes in a blinding rush of sensation that leaves her gasping and quivering. He thinks that he's never tasted anything quite like her before, and he's not done yet, he's nowhere near done (may never be done), he's just getting started.

Her senses come back to her one by one, and it takes a few of them before she realizes she's still under onslaught. One of her legs seems to be over his shoulder, and he's doing things with his wickedly talented tongue that should be illegal, and probably are. She puts her hands on his head, not knowing if she wants to stop him or urge him on. Then she feels his teeth close over her just as he slides a finger inside her, and she cries out, lost again.

When she comes back this time, it's to the feel of his body on her own, warm hand stroking back her hair, whispers in her ear, "So beautiful, so lovely, Lizzie, so beautiful."

She sighs, swamped with pleasure, still tingling all over; she feels like she's made of love.

"Come to me, Ray," she murmurs, and she can't keep it out of her voice. "Come to me, now."

His heart trembles at her tone, at what he thinks he hears in her voice, but he can't wait any longer. He's ready, prepared while she was under, and he enters her in one long thrust that makes her back arch. He puts his mouth to her breast, sets a pace that he thinks will please them both. She's almost whimpering now, not sure how much more she can take, but she still wants, wants. They move together like they were made for it.

He's speeding up now, can't hold on, she's so hot and slick and lovely and she's everything, and "Come on, now, sweetheart," he urges, "With me, now."

"I can't," she gasps, already so wrung out with pleasure that she doesn't understand how she's still moving, moving with him. "I can't, Ray."

"Oh, but you can," he assures her, kissing her fiercely. "You can, and you must." And he slips a hand between them to circle her clit firmly as he thrusts. She screams into his neck as wave after wave washes over her, and he empties himself, crying out in return.

He collapses into her, manages to shift his weight to the side. He thinks, hazily, that he may never move again.

After a still minute, two, of perfect peace, she manages to prop herself up enough to look him in the eye. "Well," she says, still panting a little, "What do you want to do now?" And she smiles at him like a beam of light.

He looks at her, gauging, then he throws back his head and laughs, free and easy, like he hasn't laughed in years.