In the night, she awakens to find him next to her, the light on the bedside table glowing softly, reading one of her few new books. The library will be her friend until she can rebuild the collection that was lost in the fire. He glances at her for only a second before returning wordlessly to his reading.
"Hey," she whispers, and wriggles closer to him, until she can feel the length of his body against hers. He amiably cradles her head against his shoulder, his hand aimlessly stroking her hair. "What are you reading?"
"Some book you had here," he replies softly. "I couldn't sleep." At that he carefully closes the book and replaces it on the nightstand, shifting slightly under her to turn out the light.
Enveloped in the sudden darkness, he turns on his side so that they are facing each other.
"Hi," he says, and she is struck by how simple this seems, even in all its abnormality.
"Hi," she replies, and her thumb works back and forth against the groove of his hipbone. He draws a quick breath, and she knows she's getting to him. His hand traces the line from the notch in her collarbone, between her breasts and down her stomach to her belly button, his fingers warm and silky against her skin. She closes her eyes, her eyelids heavy with lust. With each lap, his fingers go further towards her underwear, which she left on when she kicked off her clothes earlier. He had agreed to stay on the couch, but finding him here is more than a pleasant surprise. He props his head up on one elbow, and leans over her to kiss her forehead, then her eyelids, then finally reach her mouth. His tongue is insistent, but not overeager, and she moans softly against his mouth as his tongue sweeps against hers. She is dimly aware of his fingertips easing their way under the elastic of her underwear, and she circles his wrist lightly with her fingers, slowing him.
He breaks their kiss but doesn't pull away. "Are you alright," he asks, and the sensation of his lips, still wet from their kiss, moving against hers, is unspeakable erotic. Already she is aching for the satisfaction she knows he can bring her, and she nods, wordlessly, and pushes him away, flat on his back.
His face betrays his mild amusement as she efficiently takes care of dressing him in a condom from her nightstand—she bought them in a fit of thoroughness at the drugstore three days ago—and shimmies out of her underwear. She straddles him, and he lets her take the lead as she faces away from him. With his hands on her hips, he guides her down onto the tip of his cock, which makes her shudder as she feels him begin to part her slick, hot center.
She can't help the cry that slips out of her as she lowers herself in one motion down onto him, taking him into her in one rush. Her hands are flat on the sheet between his thighs and she rocks back, feeling the twinge of pleasure as it changes the angle of their union.
He groans with pleasure, and draws one knee up to give him more leverage against her weight. She tries to stay still as he circles his hips under her, but she finds it impossible not to match his movement; one of his hands is still at her hip, but his other is roaming over her back, around the front over her lower stomach, between her legs to fondle her clit. She is so full of him she feels like she might split in half; he is invading her senses, overloading them to the point of short-circuit. With one free hand she pinches her own nipple, hardened by the cool night air, in a futile attempt to bring herself back from the brink. Just then she feels his fingers roaming over her tailbone, stroking the baby-soft skin of her buttocks, and as his fingers brush against her anus, she stills her movement.
"Sark," she croaks, "Please?" She hopes he knows what she needs, and to her relief, he lets her swirl her tongue over his fingers, coating them with saliva before he returns his hand to her rear.
"Relax, Sydney," he whispers, and she can hear in his hoarse statement that he is close, too. "I don't want to hurt you."
She breathes deep and tries not to tense as he gently rubs his saliva-slick finger against her, wetting her before he firmly pushes his finger inside her. She lets herself go, then, or rather, can't hold back the tide any longer, and she breaks, crying out his name and a string of expletives mixed with blasphemous exclamations. She is vaguely aware of him as he comes, bucking under her and pulling her indelicately down to meet his hips with his free hand on her hip. The intensity of her orgasm makes her head buzz, and she hangs her head against the dizzy feeling washing over her. When it subsides, she climbs off him and lays facing away on her side. Her thighs shake with the strain of the position she chose, and she listens as he goes to the bathroom to wash up. This is crazy, she thinks, and I am powerless against it. She feels like she would do anything for him, ask him to do anything, and normally, that kind of give and take would be completely out of the question. But there's something about this…
She feels the bed shift as he slips back beneath the covers and slides against her, draping his arm across her waist and cupping her breast with his hand.
"Hey," he whispers against her hair, "Are you tired?"
She doesn't respond immediately; she is tired, but what he's asking is something else entirely. His half-erection is already pressing against the backs of her thighs. He is younger than she is, but it's been some time since she was with someone who was so… ardent.
"No," she says, her voice husky with lack of sleep, "I'm not that tired. Are you?" She rolls towards him, and he moves his hand up to her neck, cupping her jaw in the web of his hand, between his thumb and his forefinger. She stiffens involuntarily, a reflex of years of survival training, but relaxes against him as his lips meet hers and their tongues tangle. He trails his hand down over her chest and rubs his palm possessively over her belly button, sending shivers of delight down in anticipation of other places he might move his hand. She is powerless to resist as he rolls over her, and their mouths are too busy tasting each other to protest that they should slow down, that this is too much. Her thighs tremble as she spreads her legs to make room for his hips and with a free hand, he guides her leg around his waist. Her arms go around him and she runs her fingertips up and down the groove of his spine, playing around his tailbone and the soft skin at the top of the cleft of his buttocks. He grinds appreciatively against her, and she can feel he's ready to go again.
"Sark," she breaks their kiss, "I'm not that wet, be gentle."
He rests his forehead against her shoulder and murmurs, "I know."
She reaches down between their bodies and guides him to her, and in one fluid thrust, he is in her again. Then he reaches down and swirls his tongue gently around her nipple, cupping her breast softly. She lies as still as possible, but the urge to move her hips against him is unbearable and she draws him closer to her with her hand on his rear.
"I thought you wanted to go slow," he whispers against her chest.
"I can't wait." Admitting it is not defeat, it's a small triumph: at least this seems easy. Elementary, really. He is here, and she wants him.
He doesn't ask twice, and obliges her with decisive, hard strokes that nearly take him out of her each time. His stamina is impressive, but she doesn't doubt that it will be over sooner than either of them would like. She closes her eyes and relaxes, willing herself not to give in to the urge to work against him in an effort to speed things along. He bands his arm under her lower back and she rocks her hips towards him to make room for his forearm. The change stills his movement, and he is fighting to make it last.
"Sydney, I—"
The way he says her name, as though he's said it a thousand times before this way, makes her impatient to make him come, and she traces the curve of his ear with her tongue before taking his earlobe between her front teeth. The taste of his skin, clean and slightly salty, makes her lower belly contract with need and she moans in his ear.
It's too much, and he plunges into her the final time, pulling her against him and arching over her, with a hoarse yell that's half lost in the pillow beneath her head. If it weren't for his arm so tight around her, she would thrash wildly, but instead she arches back, her breasts pressed against him and her fingertips digging into his back.
They lay still as minutes pass and their breathing regulates, not speaking. She is vaguely aware of his temple, next to her cheek, being slightly damp with sweat, and can feel the wet spot growing beneath her. So much for leaving these sheets on the bed until the weekend. Then she giggles, remembering that this is currently the only set she owns.
He lifts his head at her laugh, a wry smile on his lips. "I'm not sure that I'll stand for you laughing at me after sex."
She places her fingertips on his lips, wanting the comfortable silence to return. "I'm not laughing at you, I promise."
He rolls away from her then, and goes to the bathroom for the second time. The heady glow of her orgasm is finally wearing off, and she notices she's a little sore from their coupling. She turns on her side and something pops in her back as she lies with her top leg against the sheet. A twinge of guilt washes through her at the thought that this feels normal. Where had their trademark sarcasm gone? She feels naked to his advances, has even welcomed them. Anything to fill this aching emptiness.
The bathroom light flicks off and he emerges wrapped in a towel. She moves for him to spread the towel, damp though it is, across the sheet before lying on his side next to her.
"Sleepy?" she asks.
He blinks once in agreement, and he cups his hand to her cheek before letting it drop sleepily between them. She takes this as a signal to be quiet, and finally, she sleeps.