AN: So I was thinking more about this fic and decided that I agreed with the reviewers that it needed a sequel... just in time for smut weekend. Hope you enjoy!

Some weeks later

It was Sybil's idea for them to get out of the car. Tom has brought a blanket this time—he could kick himself for not thinking of it before—and she spreads it on the ground, which is hardly damp at all. It's a fine warm night in a string of them, rare for this time of year here, or so she says. He wouldn't know. Though where he comes from you also have to take advantage of the good weather while you can.

They lie gazing up at the stars and the waxing moon. At first they are merely side by side on their backs, but Tom soon reaches over to take Sybil's hand. He can't seem to keep from touching her. It doesn't even have to be sexual: he just wants to feel the warmth of her skin whenever she's within reach. He even rests his left hand on her leg when he drives, steering the car with his right.

When he's not with her he's thinking of her, and it's only gotten worse since they started having sex. At work they've been rolling their eyes: You fit to handle heavy machinery there, Paddy? His coworkers josh him mercilessly, knowing exactly what's going on—She must be a nice bit o' fanny, Branson—but they cover for him when he ballses up. He's grateful, though he knows their patience won't last forever.

He doesn't talk to her about work, and she doesn't talk about school. Their conversations don't deal much in the mundane. Instead they speak of the wider world and the changes they'd like to see in it; journeys they dream of making, not all of them physical. Sybil often bemoans her sheltered upbringing. She feels like she's never done anything, she says, but she wants to. Tom intuits that for her this means leaving Yorkshire. He himself doesn't feel any sense of attachment to the area, having just arrived in the last year, but he doubts that her plans for the future are likely to include him. Girls like her go to uni, maybe after a gap year spent swanning around the Continent, and then they land jobs in London or get married and put their expensive educations to use bringing up two or three little 'crats. Girls like her have flings with guys like him. Nothing more.

But Sybil isn't a girl like her: she is herself. And that's what gives Tom hope.

He knows that he's probably in a lot of trouble, emotionally speaking. She's too far above me, he's told himself, or more accurately her family is, but it doesn't matter: right from the start he's been gone on her.

It was pure impulse, speaking to her from the car window that first time. Tom's certainly not given to harassing strange women in the street, having taken to heart his sisters' complaints about men doing it. He'd got turned around in the country lanes after being left in the dust by his co-worker Pete, who was delivering some toff's freshly repaired Audi and would need a ride back into Ripon, and ended up a village over from where he wanted to be. He was at a Downton's one traffic light, trying to figure out which way to go and wishing he had a smartphone, when he caught sight of a young woman with long dark hair coming his direction on the pavement. Pretty girl, he said to himself, as he did twenty times a day while walking or driving, not thinking much of it. Then she glanced up and their eyes happened to touch through the windscreen and Tom's stomach did a slow somersault. He had no idea why out of all the women he came in contact with this one should have such an effect on him, but before he could think about it he was lowering the passenger-side window and smiling.

"'Scuse me," he said, "You wouldn't happen to know how to get to Skipton-on-Swale?"

Instead of drawing back, as he half expected she would, she smiled. "It's just that way," she replied, whirling around to point to his right. "You go down that street there until you get out of the village, then turn left and go until you hit the A61, then take that to Skipton. You'll be there straightaway."

"Thank you." But the light was still red and she did not walk away, so he decided to press his luck. "You know your way around pretty well, then."

"I should. I grew up here," she said. "How about you?"

"I'm not from here." She ducked her head with a grin and Tom thought Well that's obvious, you git. "I'm from Dublin originally."

She glanced up. "Your light's changed." A split second later the car behind him gave a short impatient honk of its horn.

Again without thinking, he turned left and pulled over to the kerb. The girl stayed put, though she glanced about and fluttered a little as though mapping out the best escape route. Tom made no move to get out of the car, though, merely leaning across the seat to speak to her. "I'm Tom."

"I'm Sybil," she replied. She blinked and a blush rose to her face as the smile slowly returned to it. She can't be older than eighteen or nineteen, he realized. Maybe younger. "It's nice to meet you, Tom." She cocked her head, giving him an appraising look before she walked up and stuck out her hand to shake his, unafraid.

She didn't get into his car that day, but a quarter of an hour later he was buying her a cup of tea and a bun in a shop down the street. He'd completely forgotten Pete, who rang him on his ancient mobile ten minutes after that, none too pleased. "I got lost," Tom told him, which was true, and grinned at Sybil. "I'll be there in twenty minutes." Then he left, but not without Sybil's mobile number.

That was the easy part. Tom's had a knack with the opposite sex for as long as he can remember, and Sybil is no exception. Since the beginning of their relationship he has been well aware of the effect he has, the way she gets a bit cow-eyed when he smiles at her and how she quivers at his touch; it's part of the reason he likes touching her so much. The difference is that she does the same thing to him. With her he feels like he's twelve years old again, nursing a hopeless crush on his mate Donny's older sister. Tom's still half in awe that Sybil has chosen him to be the one to initiate her into adulthood, and he takes the responsibility seriously.

Driving her home after their first time he was almost sick, his gut churning with mingled exultation and near-panic. Sybil was so quiet and Tom couldn't make himself speak: he was too afraid of the answers she might give to any of the questions pinging round his brain. When he dropped her at the end of her drive she kissed him lightly on the cheek and closed the car door behind her and he drove off, his face numb with the terrified certainty that she'd never want to see him again. But he made himself ring her the next day and she was fine, if a little preoccupied, and when they met a few days later the reserve that had built up in the car on the way back to Sybil's had fallen away, and they could talk as if nothing were different.

But Tom believes things have been different since they first had sex, mostly in good ways. Sybil has never been a shrinking violet but she seems even more confident, dare he say more womanly, now. When they're together they touch more, but their caresses are not so urgent. Now that their relationship's been consummated, it has lost some of the gothic-novel feeling of a doomed romance.

And he has tried to make it better for her. Each time has been a little more comfortable than the last, as they've learnt their way around each other. It doesn't hurt at all anymore, she says: it's absolutely fine, Tom. But fine is not how he'd have her describe it. Fine is an only slightly dried-out roast beef sandwich and crisps in front of the telly. Fine is a four-year-old Astra with low miles at an affordable price. Fine is not the knife's-edge transcendence he feels when he's with her. It's obvious, so painfully obvious, that she's still doing it for him.

He knows the desire is there within her. If it weren't, she wouldn't make the sounds she does when he kisses that spot under her ear, wouldn't move into his touch when his hand steals beneath her shirt. He does not believe she's putting it on for his benefit: that isn't Sybil's style. And she doesn't wait for him to start things, either. Now, watched only by whatever creatures have made their home around the crumbled foundations of the long-forgotten house in their clearing, Sybil is the one who leaves off talking and reaches for him.

It feels so natural under the open sky, and it isn't only that there's more room to maneuver. Tom has always liked being in his car: it's not much but it's familiar and unlike the flat in Ripon it is truly his. Without its curved skin blotting out the stars, though, he feels freer of mental constraints. Sybil seems to as well, kissing him with more abandon than she's ever done before. For the first time, she pulls his shirt over his head instead of waiting for him to undress. She starts to undo his jeans and lust swirls over him like floodwaters.

Thus far they've not done anything more than sex in the missionary position and a bit of touching, and Tom knows that's most likely the reason for Sybil's relative coolness. He has never asked her about her previous experience: she was the one to volunteer the information that she'd not gone much past kissing. Knowing that, he hasn't wished to alarm her by getting too creative. But tonight his head is fizzing, whether from the stars overhead or the silkenness of her skin or both, he doesn't know and does not care. In a fog he rolls her onto her back, quickly enough that a sharp laugh breaks from her throat, drags her shirt up and off, bends to leave a trail of rough kisses down her stomach. When he gets to her trousers he flicks his eyes upward to find her watching him warily. She catches his look and gives him a tiny smile, the uneasy crease in her forehead smoothing, and reaches back to undo her bra and wriggle out of it. Tom smiles back and lays another kiss just above her trouser button before he unslips it and pulls down the zip. She lifts her hips to let him slide her jeans over them, and he takes his off as well before settling back between her legs.

Sybil's tense: this is uncharted territory for her. He wants to tell her to relax, but he knows that if he does she'll just smile gamely like she does every time they do something she hasn't done before, as though she's above desire but perfectly willing to humor him. So he comes back up to hover over her and kiss her mouth, and her arms come up around him and little by little she slackens and forgets herself and begins to move along with him. Instead of using words to try and make her comfortable Tom uses his lips, traveling slowly down her throat and between her breasts, and gentle hands that slide down her waist and over her hips, slipping her knickers off. He kisses her belly, her hipbone, reaches down to rub the arch of her foot. His fingertips drift up her inner thigh, feather-light, and his mouth follows just as softly and Sybil gasps, opening her legs wider, but still Tom holds back. He touches her everywhere except the place she's expecting him to.

Finally, though, he can't wait any longer. She's warm and already wet but she tenses just slightly before he circles her clit with his tongue, brushes his lips over it. She shivers and lets her knees fall open again with a rapt "Ohh."

"Mmm," he moans in answer. He's told himself that he should make it obvious that he's enjoying it so that she won't worry about whether he is or not. As it turns out, he has no need of the reminder. Sybil stays quiet at first, her silence only punctuated by the occasional indrawn breath or stifled moan, but she moves toward him, clearly wanting more.

Tom's focus sharpens even as his thoughts scatter. He settles into a rhythm: now drawing delicate patterns on her skin with his tongue, now giving soft kisses, now sucking gently, now a little harder. He's never felt so connected to Sybil before. Each of his actions draws a response from her, which guides him in turn. Quite soon he's brought her to a point where she's no longer thinking about how she looks or sounds and Tom can tell that she is close: she's soaking wet and quivering and she mumbles his name, desperation in her voice, and he feels a wild rush of pride that he can do this, that he's able to lower her courteous mask of accommodation and bring out her pleasure-seeking instinct.

He redoubles his efforts and brings his hand up to slide a finger inside her, two fingers. It makes Sybil whimper when he strokes a certain place so he keeps stroking it, licking all the while, until he hears her breath catch, feels her begin to shudder. He stills as she trembles, panting, on the edge. His name escapes her, a drawn-out whisper, a plea. Finally he flicks his tongue again to nudge her over and the small of her back rises off the ground as she thrusts toward him, her breath exploding in gasps and birdlike cries. Tom moves his hands to cradle her hips, reveling in the taste of her. Between kisses, he whispers her name into her most private place. He doesn't want to stop and so he doesn't, slipping his tongue deeper, thrilling at every twitch and moan. He's acutely aware of the ground rubbing against him as he moves and he feels almost as though he could come right now, just from this.

Sybil's questing hand moves over his hair, finds his ear, his cheek. Breathless, she says his name once more. Tom pushes himself up and with shaking hands he fumbles for his wallet and manages to get the condom out and unwrap it, desire making him clumsy.

"Let me," Sybil says, and in her face he sees not compliance but eagerness. Hunger, even.

He kisses her fervently as she puts the condom on. At first she draws back from his mouth, but he reaches up to caress her hair and she relaxes. She puts her tongue out hesitantly, runs it over his top lip. Laughs a little. Says, "I thought it might taste bad, but it really doesn't."

"No," Tom agrees, his voice husky. "It doesn't." They lie down again. He tries not to hurry, though he wants nothing more than to be buried in her warmth, but with her hands she urges him on top and sighs as he slides into her. For a moment he can't move or even breathe: with Sybil so aroused, the more is so heightened that he hardly knows where he is. Then she moves, pushing her hips up to meet his, and conscious thought gives way to instinct. He covers her mouth with his, thrusting with no thought of gentleness. She seems to like it, though, moaning loudly whereas before she's always been practically silent. She starts moving against him more vigorously; Tom realizes what she is seeking and so he slows his pace and begins to circle his hips, grinding himself deliberately against her clit as her tongue slips into his mouth.

"Tom," she breathes as he reaches up and grazes her breast with his hand. He rubs her nipple, circles it with his fingertips, and she jerks and whimpers, "Oh Tom, oh, Tom—" and the feeling of her clenching around him, the sound of her renewed cries, is enough to make white stars burst in his vision as he comes. I love you always, always, please don't ever leave me. Oh God I love you so fucking much. For a moment he thinks he might have said the words out loud.

He rolls over, giving a little sigh as their bodies separate. Sybil continues to lie on her back, eyes closed, head resting on the blanket. Her chest rises and falls with her gradually slowing breath and her skin seems to glow white, like she's a statue come to life. She opens her eyes, dark stars shining up from the ground, turning her gaze on him before letting it drift up to the sky. Tom can't resist kissing her eyebrow, the corner of her mouth, feeling it quirk up under his. "I didn't know it could be like that," she says.

Lying on his side, Tom props his head on his hand. "Really?"

Her eyes shift back to his face. "Well, I've read things, but I figured it was just made up. No one I know who's done it ever made it sound that great. And with you and me it had been..." she cuts off, looking away guiltily.

Tom smirks. "Fine?"

Sybil chuckles. "Well, certainly not like in those books Anne Rice wrote." She winds her arms around Tom's neck, drawing him to her, their mouths sliding together. He stays there with his forehead pressed to hers. "I really liked it, though," she murmurs. "All of it, but... especially the, uhm, the going down on me."

Tom thinks of her, wet and writhing under his tongue, and gives her another long kiss. "I liked it too," he says. "I loved it."

"I wasn't sure about it at first," she admits. "I didn't know blokes really liked doing that."

He kisses her again. "Sybil, you don't ever have to worry about that with me." He pauses, getting his thoughts in a row. "It's twice as good for me, you know, when you're into it."

"I know," she says. "I know you're not just trying to get your jollies and get out."

Tom shakes his head, smiling. He's always had a way with words, but it appears to be failing him now. "I'm not just being nice, though. I mean it's really better for me when it's good for you. This time, tonight, was..." he can't think of a word that will do it justice, so he settles for "...amazing."

Sybil draws back a bit and cocks her head, skeptical but wanting to believe. "Really?"

"Yeah, really." Her eyes drop away from his and he thinks she might be blushing, though it's hard to tell in the greyscale cast of the moonlight. He traces her cheekbone with a fingertip. "And I also love you and want to make you happy. So I suppose it's equal parts selfish and unselfish."

She looks into his face again, smirking. "And let's not forget you've got your ego to maintain."

Tom rolls his eyes. "Please. We both know who's the egotistical one."

"Yeah, you are." she tickles his ribs and he lets out a yelp, responding in kind and rolling onto her. They wrestle until it gets to be a bit much for them and he stops tickling, still on top of Sybil, both of them breathing heavily, conscious of him hard between their bodies. He's right there, this close, and he could just slip into her—

"Do you have another condom?" she whispers.

"In the car."

"Well, you'd better go and fetch it, hadn't you?" She gives him a cheeky smile, and Tom moves as quickly as he ever has in his life.

-o-

They are quiet again on the drive back, but this is a different sort of silence from the one of that night, as Tom cannot help thinking of it. Then the air seemed choked with unsaid words, but tonight Tom feels as though he and Sybil are communing without the need to speak. Sybil holds his left hand in both of hers, stroking his knuckles as he drives.

They have not talked about the future—their future, if they have one—in more than the most general terms. She's so young and he is rootless, scraping by as best he can until the next opportunity comes along. He's tried not to think too much about what will happen when reality sets in. What her family would think of her seeing him. How he and she would maintain a connection with her off at uni. It's easier just to take her out to their spot and make love and lie back and look at the stars.

Tom turns his hand to squeeze hers gently, and Sybil squeezes his in return. He glances to the side to find her grinning at him; love-drunk, he smiles back. They have no idea where they're going, but for now, that's all right.