A/N: WARNING-There is sexual content ahead, any minors or squeamish readers TURN BACK NOW. You have been warned.
The Ways We Fall
Chapter Two: Sound
He needed to see her.
Though only a few days had passed since Kenzi had shared her problem, he had been busy trying to find a way to help her. He had gone to Lauren, to ask about the health risks of her—situation, and they weren't good. It put her tiny form under a great deal of stress.
Spirits, he needed to see her.
The only advice the good doctor could offer was, "it was likely she needed a greater stimulus to reach completion."
To be frank, he found it strange to connect Kenzi with sex. She wasn't unattractive, but he'd first known her as Bo's human, and then she'd become something of a friend. Continuing with the theme of honesty, he'd really never thought of her beyond her role alongside Bo. She'd been in the Succubus' shadow from the start.
Now she was all he could think about.
The image of rough and tough Kenzi reduced to the small, vulnerable girl in his kitchen wouldn't leave his mind. No matter how hard he tried to focus on something—anything—else, he circled back to that morning.
It didn't matter whether she was decked in her usual Kohl and leather; he just needed to see her.
Grabbing his cell he checked the time, the numbers eleven-thirty stared back at him. Scanning the organized chaos of the station, he wondered if he could slip away for an early lunch break. His gaze settled on Hale.
"Hey, Hale."
His partner looked up from the pile of paperwork, "What's up?"
"I'm thinking about grabbing an early lunch, want to come?"
The other man tilted his hat to rub his forehead, "Nah, D, I'm drowning in paperwork. Mind bringing me back something?"
"Sure," he answered standing up and grabbing his coat, "any requests?"
"Nope, whatever you're having is fine."
Nodding, Dyson headed out the door. Scrolling through his contacts he found Kenzi and hit talk. Pulsing with impatience, he listened to the ringing and essentially threw himself into his car.
"Hey, D," Kenzi's laughing voice washed over him.
"Hey, what are you doing?" He found himself relaxing at the sound of her voice, the tension easing enough for him to breathe normally.
"Watching this RI-diculous video I found online, why?" Her tone was light, amused.
"Want to meet me at my loft," he hedged.
"Oh," he could practically see her hopeful expression, "did you find something?"
"Maybe," he didn't want to get her hopes up, "I think we should talk it over."
"Yeah, of course," she agreed quickly.
~;~;~
He beat her to the loft. Which was good, considering she didn't have a key. It did, however, leave him with a sudden bout of nervous energy. He paced in a long circle around the couch. Each time he went around he adjusted something. Moved a book here, a pillow there. He found himself picking up, straightening his place to try to make it look a little less like a bachelor pad. Although it did occur to him that he needn't bother. Kenzi had been here before and she didn't have a problem with it. Besides, the clubhouse was occasionally referred to as the crack-shack and she lived there.
The knock drew him out of his head and back to the present, he stopped his pacing. She was here. He stalked toward the door wondering which Kenzi he would to see today.
She was wearing a leather corset over a blue and white plaid dress, which stopped just about mid-thigh, leaving a patch of pale bare skin above her knee-high boots. Her make-up was simple and accented the crystal blue of her eyes. Her naturally curly hair was pulled up into a loose bun leaving her shoulders exposed. She looked a picture of youth and femininity. He swallowed the sound threatening to rise up from deep in his chest, effectively silencing it before its escape.
Hoping his scrutiny wasn't as obvious as it felt, he moved aside and welcomed her in.
"If you want something to drink, your options haven't changed," he commented, "except I may have milk."
She laughed, her eyes bright as she grinned at him, "OJ it is."
Grabbing the carton and two glasses, he studied her, "You seem more relaxed than the last time I saw you. Do you still need help?"
"I, uh, I had a dream the other night," she blushed, her eyes flitting from his. Wow like this wasn't embarrassing the first time through, but hey she was the one with the problem.
"A dream," he arched an eyebrow, curious.
"Yeah, and I woke up to—well," and she shrugged, but yeah, he was pretty sure he got where she was going.
"So, no need for me then?" He joked, but he felt an unexplainable discomfort at the thought she might just leave.
"I thought that, at first, but when I tried after—nothing. It's actually worse now, I only seem to tease myself." He watched her wrap her hands around the glass and sip, no longer meeting his eyes.
"But, you're okay?" He pressed.
"That night helped…release a lot of—tension." She shrugged, still a bit leery about talking to him about this sort of thing. At least he was taking her seriously, but honestly what could he do?
"You can talk about my 'wolf-junk', but you can't talk to me about masturbation," he chuckled.
"It's different!" She protested, a little indignant. And it was.
"How?" He challenged.
She fumbled a little, at a loss, then, "You're comfortable with you."
He blinked, surprised, "and you're not comfortable with you?"
She shrugged one shoulder and tucked her head a little, rolling the glass in her hands in a nervous gesture. He found himself speechless, for a moment. He'd never have guessed, she always seemed so—
"You're confident. I've watched you strut around the Dal, that wasn't fake," he stated. He would have noticed.
"That is different," she said. "That is about an image, about the con. I read people, and I play them. It's what I do." She blinked realizing what she'd admitted, but didn't try to take it back.
He rolled that information around in his head. An image, what he knew of Kenzi was what she projected to shield herself—and how he saw her now all shy, young, and beautiful that was the real her. So achingly beautiful, now that he could finally see her, see Kenzi.
"Kenzi," he started, but he wondered if he should really go there. She was young, but she was opening up to him—that fact was literally in his face—and he couldn't deny it. He watched her lift her head, finally meeting his gaze again, eyes wary.
"How many times have you been with someone," he finished.
The question made her nervous, she fidgeted and he watched her tongue dart out to wet her lips. Then she took a deep breath, "exactly, or in general?"
"Exactly," he clarified.
She nodded, "ten times."
He took in a deep breath of his own. ten times, that was it. She was twenty-two, and now-a-days people didn't exactly wait. Glancing back to her, he imagined she was probably fifteen—sixteen when she'd gone there the first time. That made six or seven years, and only ten times. He ran his fingers through his hair, a bit rocked by this revelation.
"I talked to Laruen," he decided to just keep moving forward.
"Lauren," she yelped, her eyes wide. No he didn't! OMGOSH-OMGOSH. That is SO not cool, wolf-man.
He held up his hands in hopes of staving off the storm he saw brewing, "Hypothetically, Kenz, hypothetically. I told her that I knew what denial did to a man, but that I didn't know what effect it might have on woman. I asked her if there was anything medically, that would result from it. Kenzi, I wouldn't betray your trust."
He sighed seeing the tension drain from her shoulders and she settled back into her seat.
"So, what did the Doc say?" She relented, curiosity winning over resentment.
"That straight denial, particularly to someone who is very active, puts enormous stress on both men and women. And stress if unresolved leads to complications."
"Oh," her face scrunched up in thought. Oh, not good.
"She also said," he hesitated, "that part of your problem might be that you need a stronger 'stimulus'."
"You mean…help," she bit her lip, her eyes big and blue. O Shit, where was she supposed to find a man with her Succu-bunny roommate sapping the chi of everything within a five-block radius?
"Something as simple as listening to a sound that excites you. Or, there are other things you could try—you don't necessarily need to have a partner," he attempted to reassure her and himself. He found he wasn't fond of the idea of some underserving human boy putting his hands all over Kenzi.
"You mean like my dream," she started, and then bit her lip, hesitating.
"Whatever you tell me, goes no further," he said very seriously, resting both hands flat against the counter and staring her directly in the eyes. "Anything that happens here; stays here."
She stared back at him, weighing his sincerity against how difficult it would be to share this with him. Finally, she sighed—she'd come to him for help, and to do that she'd need to be straight with him.
"In my dream," she began slowly breaking his gaze, " I was in the dark. I was sitting on a bed between a man's legs, leaning back against his chest. He was fully clothed, but I was only in my bra and panties." She fidgeted, and the color in her cheeks rose. O man this was awkward to the max! Not to mention, telling hot dude your innermost fantasy should not be this much of a turn on. But DUDE it so was.
He could tell that just thinking about it was affecting her and his own blood began to churn. "And," he coaxed his voice pitched low and reassuring.
"And," she licked her lips, closing her eyes as if to picture it; "he started to whisper, right against my ear."
"What did he say," Dyson rumbled. He needed to hear more. Her voice drew him closer; he leaned towards her as she spoke.
"He said that I was beautiful," her lashes fluttered, "and that I smelled wonderful." She smiled at the memory. It had seemed so real.
"Beautiful," the word escaped him; his breathing deepened and his hands clutched the edge of counter preventing his feet from bringing him nearer.
"He told me," her grip tightened on the glass, "to show him." She faltered, her eyes open then and fixed on him, bright with the passion coursing through her. And he could no longer resist the lure of her voice. He moved slowly, around the island, to stand behind her. He braced his hands on either side, allowing his chest to brush up against her back. Leaning forward he pressed his lips to her ear, all too aware of the way she trembled, loving every second.
"Show me," he murmured.
Her chest heaved, and her whimper swept fire through his veins.
"Go ahead, Spideag," the old Gaelic tumbling from his lips as he urged her on, "show me your passion."
She moved as if in a trance. Her hands left the glass, coming to rest on her exposed collarbones. Her head fell back against his shoulder; her lips parted as she greedily sucked in each breath. Her fingers traced down, raising goose bumps on her bare skin until she cupped the leather-clad curves of her breasts. This is a dream she thought. None of this is real.
"Yes," he cajoled, "that's it. Feel how soft you are? The swiftness of your breath? Go on, Sweet One."
She arched her back and she grew bolder with her caresses, her thighs rubbing together and small soft sounds tumbling from her lips. Her eyes closed gently in pleasure. She tugged the strings holding her corset loose, allowing the leather to slip away and reveal the dark lace of her bra; her nipples flushed and pebbled peeking through the pattern. He let loose a low growl, the vibrations carrying through his chest and into her; the sound spurring her on.
She circled the dark peaks through the lace, before tugging and twisting, drawing more of those erotic utterances from herself. Dyson fought to keep his hands on the counter, entranced by the display before him and all those sexy, breathy moans. She moved her hands down, parting the leather until it fell away, dropping by his feet and leaving her torso bare except for where the edges of her dress clung to her. He could see the top of her matching panties peeking through the open V, and he was so painfully hard already—his swollen cock pushing against the zipper of his jeans.
"Come on, beautiful," he husked, "your scent is so thick I can almost taste you. You're so wet, and wanting. Do you ache, Spideag? Do you need more?"
He watched with deepening pleasure as she shrugged off the top of the dress, then shimmied it off her legs, leaving her in lace and knee high boots. Then she trailed her hand back up her sides, before burying them in her hair releasing the curls to tumble down his chest and over his shoulder. He groaned, rough and heated, as her scent grew stronger and her sighs enfolded him. Down those slender digits wove from her neck to her shoulders, and on to her breasts. She lingered there a moment, then passed on paying homage to the svelte curves of her body: ribs, and waist, and hips. She teased them both, lingering on the edge of the lacey boundary, sweeping back and forth.
"You're so close," he half-enticed, half-begged, "so, so close. Just a little further, Song Bird, and you will sing for me." And it was just his voice guiding her. He wasn't really there, watching her literally come apart at the seams in his kitchen. This was like her dream. And that's all it was, a dream.
Finally, she relented, and her tiny hand slipped beneath the sheer fabric to stroke sacred ground. Her noises rose with her pleasure, and his name fell from her tender lips like a prayer. Her back arched and she tightened with the coming tide of her orgasm. He found himself voicing nonsense, completely undone and swept away. Then she tossed her head and cried out to him as her orgasm broke over her and Dyson—powerless—followed her.
He stood shaking in the aftermath, hardly believing what had just happened, as he rested his head on her shoulder and breathed. His breath on her neck was warm and sweet; it was then her senses returned and she became aware how real her dream had become. Kenzi was so satiated she didn't give a flip if she'd just offed herself on his bar stool. Damn—she needed that.
"What does that mean?" Kenzi broke the quiet.
"What does—oh," he recalled, "Spideag?"
"Yeah," she confirmed a bit dazed. Of all the questions Kenzi, you are SO lucky that was the one that actually came out of your mouth.
"It means Nightingale, in Gaelic," he sighed.
"Gaelic?" she scrunched her brow in confusion.
"I'm Scottish," he told her by way of explanation.
"Huh. I'm Russian," she offered in return sighing at the comfort of his strong chest supporting her back.
A smile stole its way onto his lips, before a thought hit him.
"What time is it?" He asked.
"Uh, my phone is in my dress," she flushed, and he could see the way the self-consciousness crept up on her. And he found it so sexy. Instantly, all thoughts of work and Hale fled him.
"It's not you, Sweetheart," he wrapped his arms around her, totally entranced by the image of her, "I just didn't plan on, well—this, and I had left work for an early lunch."
He gently turned her to face him, ducking his head to catch her eye, "I wish we had more time," he sighed leaning his forehead against hers. And then, "I need a shower for one thing," he tried for humor. He watched her eyes go wide before peeking down to see the all too obvious dark stain on his jeans, as the flush on her cheeks darkened. Carefully, he tucked a wayward curl behind her ear even as a string of curses raced through his mind at the thought of leaving her.
"Right now, I'm going to go change pants and then I'll grab lunch on my way back to work," he told her. "You. You are welcome to stay as long as you like, and I want you to take that key," he pointed to the key ring by the door, "so that you can come and go whenever. Then, later—tonight or tomorrow—you and I are going to talk. Okay?"
She nodded, her posture screaming shy, and peered up at him through her lashes. With a groan, he admitted defeat and bent close to steal a kiss. It was far too chaste for his liking, but—pulling the phone out of his pocket checking the clock—he really didn't have time.
Reluctantly, he turned from her, and wondered what the hell he was doing.