She strolls across to the library, where he is already waiting for her, bent over the long table, looking at her map from the previous day. She was right, he is wearing The Jeans, and they're stretched tight on his bent-over form in a way that makes her mouth water.
She inhales quietly — no more pretenses — moves forward, and puts a hand on his back. He turns his head to smile at her with every appearance of calm welcome, but she can feel the long muscles jump under her hand.
"Just adding my own key areas to everything you marked for the Cabal," he says, with that hint of a rumble in his voice that always echoes inside her.
"Okay," she says, thrumming inside, leaning over beside him. "Walk me through it."
He starts talking, and just keeps going, drawing her in.
As they work, through lunch and into the afternoon, he paces constantly between the table and a bare section of wall where he's started tacking up small pieces of paper with key names and dates written on them. He draws complicated networks of lines between the pieces right on the wall with a red Sharpie that he digs out of a drawer, showing an uncharacteristic disregard for his surroundings. He's not only extremely thorough, but enthusiastic, stopping every once in a while to quiz her and make sure she's remembering the details.
Her map is beginning to look like a crazy quilt, and she is surrounded by so much note paper that she looks like the victim of an extremely singular weather event. She's starting to lose track of what he's talking about — she's tired from her long night, and on edge from watching him, watching and wanting.
She's entranced by his intensity, the intricacy of the world he has built; by the way he moves, swift, sure, precise. It amazes her that someone who uses his hands so much when he speaks can still preserve such economy of movement and portray such grace. She wonders how quickly a person can become obsessed.
She's fairly certain he's been watching her too, though, even if she hasn't caught him at it. Sometimes the weight of his gaze is strong enough that it feels like a hand on her body or a breath tracing down her neck. She doesn't know if it's just abstraction, or if he's tied up in as many knots as she is.
He's wondering how he could have ever thought he could live with her and not give himself away, especially living like this, alone, enclosed, trapped. Her legs seem impossibly long, her slender bare feet shockingly erotic. He only just escaped being caught lost in contemplation of the porcelain swell of her cleavage. And simply standing at the table beside her, with the warmth of her seeping into his body, was almost unbearable in its exquisite pleasure.
And yet, there were moments when he could have sworn that she was looking at him, when he felt the pressure of her gaze on the back of his head, on his body. But he hasn't managed to catch her at it. He looks at her now, absorbed in her notes, chewing absently on the end of her pen, intent on her map and so lovely that it hurts.
She looks up at him, and offers a slow smile. "I think I'm done for today, Red," she says. "All the names are starting to blur together."
"Counter-productive," he agrees. "Are you hungry, Lizzie?"
Then something comes swimming into her eyes, something hot and bright that he doesn't want to try and name; everything about her is suddenly more intense and focused.
"You know," she says, her voice different than he's heard before. "I am."
His heart quickens a little, instinct responding over intellect, but he admonishes himself inwardly not to be foolish.
"What would you like?" he asks, tone the same as always, making him thankful for the many years of practice in controlling his voice and features.
She smiles again, but now, now there's a hint of something new; there's something wicked in it, something he can't refuse to recognize.
"I would like," she says, precisely and carefully, but low and soft with invitation. "For you to come over here."
And now it's out there, she thinks, her leap of faith taken, cards on the table.
She holds herself still with effort, knowing it's his choice to make, now, that what he does next is important. And the silence stretches out between them in agonizing stillness as he just looks at her, mouth held thin, eyes questioning, wondering — if she didn't know better, she'd think he looks afraid.
He squares up his body suddenly, and she quails inside, sure she has made a grievous misstep. But no, no, she knows he wants this, her, them, she won't just let it pass by. She shutters her nerves fiercely and, thinking her voice might betray her, holds out a hand. She focuses her strength on keeping it steady, and her eyes on his.
He opens his mouth, hesitates, and then closes it, watching her as she waits for him, still wishing, still wanting. Then, his posture changes again. He looks entirely different — longer, leaner, with the distinct air of something feline about him. Then, he moves, and saunters across the room to stand in front of her, in her space, close. Close, so his body heat mingles with hers, close, so his eyes burn into her.
"What would you like?" he asks again, but now his voice is low and deep and rough, and it sends a tremor down her spine.
Nervous now, she licks her lips; sees his eyes flare in response. It bolsters her enough, just enough.
"This," she answers simply, and steps forward into him, touches her lips to his.
And she's not sure what she expected, but it wasn't this, this explosion of heat, lust coursing through her like wildfire.
He's… growling, she thinks blurrily, entranced and bemused all at once. Then there's no more time to think anything at all; it's all lips and tongues and teeth and furious passion. She grabs onto his shirt like a lifeline as his fingers twist into her hair — it's almost painful but she welcomes it, revels in this undoing.
They break apart, panting, both gone wild-eyed and shocky. He tries to breathe, brace himself, to staunch the fierce desire trying to claw its way out of him like an animal, to say something sensible and step away. She sees it, sees it in his face, in the set of his mouth, and to forestall him, because the last thing she wants to hear is that reasonable tone — she'll stab him again if he utters a single sound — she yanks off her shirt in one smooth movement, then jerks his out of his pants to slide her hands underneath and run them over his skin.
At her touch, he moans, eyelids fluttering closed; his hands come up to her waist to pull her into his body, stroking her, gentling her even as his mouth fastens over hers in rough demand.
Something is rising inside her, something new and strange, uncontrollable and ferocious and wild. She opens herself to it, welcoming the rush of adrenalin and the loss of the weight on her heart.
She tears away from him to strip off his shirt; she doesn't notice the way he stills, stops breathing, she's too lost, blind to everything but the raging tide within. He cups her face in one shaking hand, but no, not now, she can't, she needs. She nips impatiently at his fingers, fumbles at his belt, fingers trembling and clumsy. He closes his hands over hers and tugs them away.
She blinks to clear her vision, searching, but she doesn't need to worry — he looks as lost as she is, his eyes gone dark, his expression absolutely devastating. He drops her hands and shifts his body so he can lean in and strip her of her leggings and panties together in a long, strong pull downward. As he straightens up again, he pushes her against the edge of the table; grasps her hips to boost her up to sitting, papers crumpling beneath her.
He steps into her, between her legs, kisses her again deep and long, then bends his head to take her breast into his mouth, sucking hard through the silky fabric of her bra, teasing her nipple with his teeth, and the sensation shoots straight to her clit. She cries out, an agony of ecstasy, digs her fingers into his scalp, wanting him closer, wanting all of him. He lets go of her to deftly flip open his jeans and she finds this brief absence almost unbearable.
"Hurry," she chants, "Hurry, hurry." She's frantic with need, mindless with it, reaches out to clutch at him and pull him in.
He's bare under the jeans, surprising but welcome, and her breath hitches a little as his cock bobs free, thick and hard and dark. He kicks his pants aside and grabs her hips, pulling her right to the edge of the table; he uses a knee to push her legs further apart and reveal her already glistening core.
He shivers once, all over, and then looks at her, barely restrained, the question in his eyes.
"Yes," she pants, "Yes, Red, I want you, I want your hands, your mouth, all over me. Inside, over, under. On me, around me. Surround me, take me over. Make me yours."
She reaches for him as he says her name, once, like an oath, like a curse, like a promise.
He holds her in place with one hand and uses the other to line up his throbbing cock with the mouth of her pussy, then pushes into her, right to the hilt, in a long, hard stroke that makes her gasp.
Her mouth finds the pulse in his neck, sucking and licking; her hands grasp the edge of the table for purchase as her legs wrap around his hips. He grips her ass with both hands, fingers bruising, using the leverage to thrust in and out of her in a punishing rhythm, over and over. She cries out, please, more, harder, but he can barely hear her.
Without warning, she shatters, shatters like glass into an orgasm so intense that she can't breathe; she struggles under his hands, but can't break away, can't find control, she's disintegrating. She's coming in wave after wave, and if she could, she'd be screaming. She finally heaves a desperate breath; puts her teeth to the juncture of his neck and shoulder and bites down, hard.
He comes with a wordless shout, climaxing in hot spurts that go on and on, body rigid against hers, his teeth bared and face fierce.
Minutes later, maybe hours, his body starts to ease; he slips out of her and drops his head to rest on her shoulder, breathing hard, his face damp with exertion.
She puts her lips to the side of his head, manages to lift an arm to rub a hand over his hair.
She wonders, dizzy and limp, leaning into him so she doesn't fall over, what next?