Pas de Deux
"It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important." ~Arthur Conan Doyle
May 2012. Rural Virginia.
It was strange to think—in the almost-thirty years that they'd known each other, this was the first time they'd ever danced together. When Erin really thought about it, it made sense (after all, there aren't many balls to attend when you're chasing down the scum of the earth), but still, it somehow seemed strange.
Of course, tonight was a perfect excuse—weddings always made people romantic and sentimental, and JJ's big night was certainly no exception. David's hand was on her lower back, gently pulling her body closer to his as they set pace to the music drifting softly and sweetly into the night. She automatically shifted in response, her chin lightly resting on the solid line of his shoulder (they had to be so careful, in this moment, when all of their colleagues were watching, they couldn't give away how familiar they were with each other's bodies).
In this moment, Erin Strauss was hyper-aware of every detail—the solid feel of his hand in hers, the texture of his suit jacket beneath her fingertips, the smell of his cologne, every movement that he made as he gently guided her across the dance floor. Turning her head a fraction of an inch, she could feel the heat radiating from the skin of his neck, and she knew how smooth it would feel beneath her lips, and her mouth actually ached for another taste.
Apparently, his thoughts were following the same path, because his hand was slipping further down, past the small of her back, and he was pulling her closer again, so that their chests were flushed together. She turned her head slightly again, unable to stop herself from opening her mouth, although she was able to smother the gasp that jolted into her lungs at the mere sensation of their bodies molding together again. He noticed this, because he simply tilted his mouth closer to her ear, his warm breath trickling over her skin as he whispered, "No one's looking, bella. Calm down."
Of course, leaning in to whisper allowed him to keep his lips dangerously close to her ear, to take in the scent of her hair, to watch the goosebumps ripple across her skin underneath his breath, to feel how she wasn't shifting away from him, but actually closer, returning the pressure of her body against his.
"I…I wasn't—I don't care about that, not really," she shocked herself with her own words, shocked herself even more with the realization that she actually meant them. She caught the smile that danced at the corner of his mouth at that confession.
His tone was laced with a playful taunting as he whispered, "So…if I kissed you right now, in front of everyone—"
"You wouldn't," she said smoothly, her light eyes flicking up to meet his dark ones.
"How do you know?" He challenged.
"Because I know you, David Rossi." Her voice dipped even lower, into a seductively-sweet purr. "I know you better than you care to admit."
She was quoting him back to himself—using the same words that he'd said to her just two nights earlier, in the hotel foyer. This did not go unnoticed by David, and he merely chuckled dryly at the fact that she always knew how to use his own words against him, every time.
"So…we really are acknowledging that this last time actually happened?" He needed to hear it, needed to know for sure, wanted to hear her lips confess what her hand had silently told him the day before, when she'd grabbed his hand as she was leaving the bank.
"Yes," she answered quietly. Then she became nervous, quickly adding, "I mean, if—if you think it's a good idea. I…I don't want to assume—"
"I think it's a very good idea," he said warmly.
"We should probably find some time to sit down and actually talk about…whatever this is," she informed him, and he gave a small hum of agreement.
"That should be interesting," he commented.
"What do you mean?"
He gave an odd, almost sorrowful smile as he elaborated, "It's been…over twenty years since New York, and this will be the first time we've ever really talked about it."
"Us."
"What?"
"You said 'it'. Really, it's 'us'. This will be the first time we've ever really talked about us." She corrected him gently, and they both felt a warm tremor rippling down their spines at those two simple letters, that one tiny word which held so many great consequences and complications.
"Us," he spoke the word reverently, as if it were some great and powerful magic charm.
She turned her head, resting it gently on his shoulder, but not before he saw the smile on those lovely thin lips. He felt her chest shift against his as she took an unsteady breath (from happiness or fear, he wasn't sure), and he looked up to the starry night sky with a smile of his own.
This was a brave new world. A mere 48 hours ago, he'd thrown everything into this last gamble, had laid it all on the line for the woman currently dancing with him under this lovely summer moon—and in doing so, he'd admitted to himself that Erin Strauss was always worth the risk, always worth the full bet, regardless of the outcome (because any moment with her, however painful, was better than nothing at all), and for the first time ever, he realized that he had truly won.
David was always a bit of a romantic, and at times, his heart made him a fool, but God above, he couldn't (finally wouldn't) stop his little heart from swelling and twittering with all the endless possibilities.
It could end badly, worse than it had ever been between them. It could end beautifully, in ways deeper and sweeter than they'd ever known. However, in this moment, in this perfectly peaceful and golden moment, it seemed impossible to think that it could ever end at all.
A brave new world and a shining, wide-eyed new companion to share it with. Who knew where they could end up?
Oh, the places we'll go, bella, now that we're finally free to explore….
May 2013. Vienna, Virginia.
The only sound in Erin's small study was the steady lapping of David's tongue against her already soaking-wet folds—truly the only sound, because she was currently holding her breath to keep from shrieking. Her hands were gripping the arms of her desk chair as she fought back every urge to grab his head and push that wonderful tongue further, harder, deeper, because (of course) he was taunting her, giving her just enough to boil her blood and melt her bones, but not enough to tumble over the edge. He was drawing her out, frustrating her with his teasing flicks and heavy breaths which always made her hips buck involuntarily.
Erin Strauss had an unwritten rule about never bringing work home. She'd broken that rule, and now she was suffering the consequences—though not in an entirely unpleasant way.
Because it was work, she had sequestered herself in the study, away from the rest of the family. Also because it was work, it meant that David had an excuse to join her (she knew what he was doing the instant he'd slipped into her study, closing the door so quietly and asking if she needed anything in such a solicitous tone, his hands lightly massaging the muscles in her neck). And because it was David and because they weren't at work anymore, it meant that things eventually devolved into their current state—her skirt pushed up over her hips, her underwear somewhere on the floor and his (lovely, wonderful, cruel) mouth between her legs.
And while she couldn't deny the effect his physical attentions were having on her, it was the emotional reasoning behind those actions which filled her with the deepest desire—he was trying to take her mind off their current troubles, because he hated seeing her worried and stressed, because he loved her, and what hurt her also hurt him. Tomorrow was the day of reckoning, the day that they'd been dreading for the past two weeks, and her frenetic nervous energy was now bordering on positively manic hysteria, her mind and body crumbling underneath the stress of simply waiting for the other shoe to drop. David had always been better at dealing with apprehension than she was. He was better at compartmentalizing, at staying focused, at learning to let go of the unhelpful angst and anxiety. They both knew this.
So right now he was (quite effectively) distracting her. And what a lovely distraction it was.
David could feel her thigh muscles around him, taunt and tightening like the strings of a violin, quivering as they achingly waited for release. He could feel the breath trapped in her lungs, and he marveled at how quiet she was (because the kids were still wandering the house, just outside that closed door, and there were no pillows for her to muffle her cries, no buffers or barriers to block out the sounds). Erin had never been a quiet person during sex—though she never was much of a talker either, she'd always been very vocal.
Except for now. She was unbelievably quiet, impossibly still. He knew that she was close, so he slowed pace, making luxurious circles with his tongue, taking the time to truly experience the texture, the warmth, the taste of her. She finally breathed, a long, quiet sigh which devolved into a slight hiss as she felt her body rising into its petite mort. A flutter, a breath, flash-bang-done.
He bit and suckled the soft skin of her inner thigh as she slowly spiraled back down to earth. He was going to leave a mark, and she smiled at the thought that she didn't have to care anymore—there was no reason for her to hide his little claims on her body, there was nothing wrong in these tokens, nothing to be ashamed of or to feel guilty about, because he was the only one who saw her, the only one allowed in, and vice versa. Though that was a relatively domestic concept which generally came with most relationships, their strange and strained past made it seem novel and wonderful, because it hadn't always been true for them.
He turned and sat on the floor, leaning back against her chair. She slipped her right leg over his right shoulder and he turned his head to nip and kiss the curve of her knee, his chin smearing her own wetness across her skin, which only reignited the heat between her legs. They simply sat there for a moment, his hands caressing and massaging her calf muscle as her fingers played with his hair.
After a thoughtful pause, Erin spoke, her voice still ragged as she quietly announced, "Tomorrow's my day off—I know the team will be going in, just in case….But I'm staying here."
He nodded, not at all surprised by this—of course she would want to spend the day glued to her children's sides, as if her physical presence would act as a buffer, a shield against all harm. Then he gently ran his hand over his face, removing any lingering evidence of Erin's orgasm as he mused at the strangeness of the moment, at how they could sit here talking about such heavy and serious things while sex still hung in the air, while her taste lingered on his tongue and her blood still hummed from his ministrations. This was how their relationship had changed the most over the past few weeks, and this last week in particular. They talked to one another during sex, talked about deep things, sometimes dark things, talked about their life together, about things that would forever shape and change that life. It was what proved that they were not just fucking anymore. They were intimate, on more than just a physical level.
"If..." she cleared her throat, found her voice again and continued, "If everything goes well—if nothing happens, there's something I, um...Tuesday will mark my first full year of continuous sobriety. There's a kind of a ceremony, and—I...I would like for you to be there. If you can make it. And if you want to, of course."
Although there weren't any more secrets between them, there were still things that Erin wasn't comfortable talking about with him—her path to sobriety being the number one item on that list. And yet here she was, asking him to be a part of this moment in her life with a quiet shyness that was endearing and heartbreaking all at once (if you want to, of course—as if he could ever not want to celebrate her successes, as if he could ever willingly be away from her, as if he could ever refuse such a request, when it was couched in such soft and hesitant terms).
"Of course I want to, bella," he replied softly, giving her calf another squeeze as he planted another fierce kiss on her knee. Erin had never been good at sharing herself in general (her body, yes, she shared that easily enough, but her mind and her thoughts and her heart and her soul were things she kept locked away from the world), and she'd never been good at sharing her battle with alcoholism in particular (because she hated sharing the parts that made her weak, the ugly parts, the fallen and damaged parts). David knew this, and he knew what it took for her to open up, and what it meant for her to ask him to be a part of this. He was touched and honored by the request, and he felt his throat tightening with emotion as he added, "I'll be there, no matter what. I promise."
He felt her body relax again at his answer, could hear the soft smile in her voice as she replied, "Thank you."
He merely hummed in response, his fingers still absentmindedly drawing circles on her leg as his mind drifted.
"It's also Christopher's nineteenth birthday," she spoke again, leaning forward as her hand trailed down his neck, into the opening of his button-down shirt, as far down his abdomen as she could reach.
"It is?" He turned his head to look at her, and she saw him piecing together those two bits of information, weaving the untold story.
She hummed in affirmation, kissing his forehead as her hand continued moving beneath his shirt, relishing the warmth of his skin. "He's already decided that he's going to Paul's the night before, and he wants to do dinner at his favorite restaurant the day of his birthday. He has asked if you're coming."
"He wants me to be there?" Now it was David's turn to sound shy and hesitant.
"He does," she replied softly, her tone laced with love and happiness. He was smiling again, and gods, she'd move mountains with her bare hands for that beautiful smile.
"He likes you, you know," she added, dipping her head to lightly graze her teeth across the side of his neck. With a wry grin, she quipped, "Although I still don't think he's forgiven you for killing off his character in whatever horrible video game you two were playing last night."
Her lover gave a nonchalant shrug, "Rules of the street, bella. It was me or him."
She rolled her eyes in exasperation, "Oh, ye gods and little fishes, it was a game—"
"And we were both playing to win," David defended himself. "Besides, if I would have let him win, he would've known it, and he would have hated me for being patronizing."
"This is true," she grinned, kissing the top of his dark head. "You two are very much alike in that respect."
With a soft smile, he admitted, "I like that."
"Like what?"
"I like that we're similar, that you can tell we're alike."
She gave an amused hum, "I thought perhaps you were saying that you liked when I kissed you."
"Well, I like that, too."
"Take me to bed, and I'm sure I can find lots of other things that you'll like as well."
"Why, Chief Strauss, are you propositioning me?"
"Indeed I am, Agent Rossi. Although, it's only really a proposition if there's even a possibility that the other party will say no."
"You think I'd never say no to you?"
"Not if you know what's good for you."
"Fiery. I like that, too."
"Rules of the street, lover," she quipped, leaning forward again to simply hold him. She liked the solidness of him, the sureness, the stability that seemed at-odds with the daring and reckless man that she knew him to be at times.
He chuckled softly before turning his face towards hers again, and she obliged by leaning in further to meet his mouth with her own. She could taste herself on his lips, and she felt another rush of heat that left her nearly breathless. Gods, how could a mere man make her this crazy?
She knew the answer. She knew it with every fiber of her being, and it only intensified the tightening in her chest. It was the same startling realization that she'd had just a few days earlier, something she'd started taking out of the memory box of her heart and examining in quiet moments, something whose simple knowledge never lost its absolute thrill, something that had waited so patiently for so long, quietly hoping to finally be recognized for all that it was and had been.
Love. Deep, passionate, illogical, nonsensical, unbridled and unwarranted love. Something finite and lasting, grown from the dark earth of something more primal, that first chemical zip! she'd felt the first time they'd met. That first spark had been mere attraction—the simple first breath of their two souls in unison, greeting each other after such a long time spent apart, recognizing their counterpart years before the bodies behind them understood the momentousness of the occasion. As they got to know each other, attraction morphed into something else as their bodies slowly began to respond to the things their souls had known from first sight, and it muted again when their hearts finally caught up to the rest. It had always been there, she was certain of that.
The body belonging to the soul which had journeyed so long in search of her own was currently caressing her leg, his dark head turning away from her mouth to leave another trail of kisses on her thigh.
"Mom!" Anna's voice shattered the moment as both adults sat up suddenly.
"Yes, dear," Erin called in response as David rose to his feet. She stood up as well, wriggling her skirt back into its appropriate place.
"I can't find my blue dress. What did you do with it?"
"Did you look in the laundry room?"
"Yes. I've looked everywhere."
With a heavy sigh and an exasperated roll of her eyes (Anna Claire Strauss was notoriously horrible at looking for things, when she said everywhere, it meant she gave a cursory glance and didn't actually search), Erin moved to the door, casting one last look at David to make sure they both looked presentable.
With a wicked grin, he help up her panties (forget something, kitten?).
She blushed and reached for them, but he held them further out of reach.
"Ah-ah-ah," he sing-songed softly. "To the victor belong the spoils."
"Bastard," she muttered, though her eyes were smiling. Then with one last quick kiss, she pulled away, "I have to go be a mother now."
"Well you're certainly one mother I'd like to—"
"Oh dear god, David, really?"
He laughed at her obvious distaste for his juvenile joke (she always was a classy broad, his lover), and she flashed him one last look of feigned disapproval (naughty, naughty boy) before opening the door and disappearing in search of Anna's elusive blue dress.
He slipped the lacy fabric into his pocket, his fingers lightly playing with the material as his mind wandered. It was funny, knowing that her undergarments had undergone a dramatic makeover, simply because of his presence in her life, and he liked that, he liked knowing that under the same clothes that she'd worn for years, hidden from everyone else's view, was a new world of lace and satin, a world that she enjoyed sharing with him (only him, a concept that he truly loved, because for so many years he'd been unable to have her for more than just a few hours, because for so long she always had to return to someone else, to somewhere else, to a life and a place where he did not belong, and now they simply lived in each other's keeping, now their lives had spaces carved for each other, places of rightful belonging, places marked for you and you alone, my love).
And though he certainly loved and enjoyed the physical aspect of sharing themselves, the quiet moment in her study had proven that their sharing and their place-carving held something more than just a physical connection. Like some beautiful cosmic tapestry, they'd begun to weave their emotions, their history, their psyches, and their souls into this impassioned pursuit that their bodies had begun so long ago, and the result reached a level of intensity that David had never experienced with any other woman.
They were both changed creatures, he realized with sudden clarity. Over the years, they'd evolved and re-evolved, pushing and pulling against one another as they had struggled against their conflicting personalities (first for dominance, and then simply for a way to work and function in harmony and relative peace), and now, finally, they'd evolved yet again, slipping into place like two well-worn stones, finally smoothed and shaped to fit together as part of a greater whole.
He made her playful again, made her remember that there was still so much to be enjoyed and cherished. She made him reverent again, made him remember what was sacred, what was worth protecting and fighting and dying for. They made each other laugh, although they still carried the deep knowledge of how to make each other cry as well. They made each other sigh, both in good and bad ways. She made him want to be a better person, and he was certain the feeling was mutual.
"David?" She had returned, her warm voice bringing him back to the present as well.
"Yeah, bella?" He looked up to see the bright eyes he loved so well, which were shining with another mutual feeling as she leaned against the door frame, quietly watching him.
"You have exactly two minutes to say goodnight to the others. After that I'm staging a coup d'état."
"That bad, kitten?" He teased, not-so-secretly delighted that she'd reached the level of needy arousal that resorted to threats.
She gave him a single look that shot a bolt of lightning straight through his core, all hunger and want and unvoiced emotions. Then she slowly pushed away from the doorframe, unfastening the first few buttons of her blouse to give the slightest peek (she was wearing a lovely red and black number, how had he missed that when they were getting dressed this morning?).
"You now have one minute thirty seconds," she informed him, pivoting on her heel and disappearing once more.
His grin only deepened as he followed her, quickly giving his good-nights to Jordan and Christopher, who were still in the den, playing a hyper-competitive round of Wii tennis, and to Anna, who was in the kitchen fixing her own nightcap of chocolate milk before going to bed herself.
He entered the bedroom that was now as familiar as his own (he loved that, loved feeling and knowing that he belonged here, moving among Erin's things and through Erin's life with assurance). He found her in the master bathroom, quietly performing her nightly ritual of applying facial crèmes with a serious expression that he always found adorable (Erin Strauss did not play around when it came to skin care, and for some reason that amused him).
He slipped up behind her, hands easily resting on her hips as he lightly kissed the curve of her neck. She didn't stop her ministrations, but she did turn her head slightly, allowing him better access. Once she was finished, she leaned forward (perhaps slightly more than necessary, perhaps just enough to press her ass against his pelvis), grabbing their toothbrushes and applying toothpaste before handing his to him over her shoulder (another thing he loved, having things here that further proved his place in her life and vice versa—he had a toothbrush here, and in the master bathroom at his house, Erin had a toothbrush patiently waiting for her, a little domestic thing that still shone like some kind of victorious symbol for all they'd become and all they'd overcome).
He moved to stand beside her, and they brushed their teeth in silence, though they held a conversation with their eyes and their smiles. David's eyes strayed to the opening of her blouse which had (oh-so-innocently and oh-so-mysteriously) come even further undone, and he gave an appreciative smile at the view. She snapped her fingers and pointed to her face (eyes up here, buddy). He gave a slight nod towards her chest (you're the one showing off). She simply arched her brow and he winked in response (you know you love me, kitten). She shifted slightly, bumping her hip against his own with a rueful smirk (heaven help me, I do).
These were the moments he loved—the little moments that reaffirmed the realization that this truly was happening (brushing your teeth together was something for mates, for life partners, for spouses, something so ritualistically mundane and yet so endearingly domestic that you didn't just do that with anyone), the little moments that he'd waited so long to experience, the ones he thought he'd never get to see.
She was putting her toothbrush back in the holder now, dabbing the edges of her mouth with the hand towel as her eyes watched his reflection. She must have noticed his change in thoughts, because she quietly asked, "What's wrong, love?"
Love. Another thing, another word that he thought he'd never hear, not from those lips, not from the tongue that he coveted above all others.
He rinsed out his mouth, depositing his toothbrush in the holder as well, and her hand was lightly tracing the small of his back as she waited for him to respond. He turned and looked into her eyes, taking a moment to simply trace the outline of her face, which was starting to fill with concern at his unusual quietness.
"Nothing's wrong, bella," he assured her softly. Offering a small smile, he admitted, "I'm just thinking about all the little things we have—the things I never thought I'd get to have with you. Moments like this."
"You're waxing poetic over dental hygiene?"
He burst into laughter at her skeptical expression, at that poker face that he loved so well, at her practicality, at the fact that (of course) Erin Strauss would tease him in such a tender moment, just because it was an easy target and she was never one to rise above a chance to take a passive-aggressive pot-shot.
She grinned as well, pulling his mouth into hers as her hips pressed closer, silently reminding him of exactly why they were here. She started laughing again as his tongue slipped into her mouth, and she had to pull back to regain her composure.
He looked at her in askance, and her eyes were dancing as she barely contained her laughter, "Does my minty-fresh mouth please you, Mr. Rossi?"
Oh, Sweet Jesus, she seriously wasn't going to let this one go.
"It does," he admitted. "Although right now, it's doing too much talking."
She gave a soft hum in response, one that sent a thrill from the tips of his toes to the tops of his shoulder blades. "Perhaps you should do something about that."
This was one of those rare instances in which David Rossi actually took Erin Strauss' advice—one hand moved to the back of that blonde head, pulling that taunting minty-fresh mouth back to his own, as the other hand grabbed her hip, guiding her back against the doorframe. She hit the wooden molding with just enough of a thud to be noticeable, and she gasped in response, which he used to his advantage by foraging deeper into her mouth.
Her hands were moving, unbuttoning his shirt with a blind dexterity that bespoke hours of practice. Now both of his hands were back at the hem of her skirt, sliding the fabric upwards (again), and she was already moaning in response. She was still soaked from his previous endeavors, already so hot and wanting from just a simple kiss, and he could have wept at this as well (because after all the times they'd had one another over the past few weeks, it hadn't sated their need for each other, nor the desire, because if anything, it had only increased their fervor, because after all these years, after everything, she still hadn't tired of him, and she still knew how to touch his soul in a way that no other woman ever could).
She felt this shift in emotion as well, because her hands were cupping his face now, her eyes searching his own as she asked again, "What is it, David? What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
He was lying, and she knew it. He leaned forward again, pressing a soft, reverent kiss where her blonde hair met her forehead. "Ti amo, bella."
In a sudden jolt of clarity, Erin understood that despite her lover's assurances, he was still just as frightened as she was. He'd been so kind and loving, distracting her from the current situation—now it was her turn to repay the favor.
She slipped out of his grasp, easily unzipping her skirt and dropping it to the floor unceremoniously. "Go sit on the bed."
He did as he was told, his face filling with curiosity. She moved to the closet, unfastening the remaining buttons on her blouse and letting it fall to the floor as well before reaching onto the closet shelf to retrieve the other box of lingerie—there was still a little black leather number that she hadn't worn yet (David always made her want to take clothes off, not put more on, so she hadn't taken the time to dress up lately, not since his birthday). In her bathroom vanity was a collection of oils she hadn't used in a while, and suddenly, an idea was forming in her head. She already knew how his deliciously slippery skin would feel beneath her hands and she felt the heat rising in her chest at the thought.
"How would you like a massage, my love?"
Erin Strauss should have been an actress, David suddenly decided. She had a level of commitment to her role that would have suited her well in such a profession.
Case in point: when she'd returned from the bathroom, her body so cruelly concealed beneath her robe, she'd brought an assortment of oils and lotions with her and immediately slipped into the role of masseuse (please lie down, Mr. Rossi, let me see where the stress is). And though she had him face-down on the bed, her now-slippery thighs straddling his bare back as her (very agile and able) fingers worked away the tension in his shoulders, she still was dedicated to her role—when his hand slipped up the curve of her hip, she gave it a light spat as she reprimanded, "Please allow me to work, Mr. Rossi."
Please, Mr. Rossi. Of course this only made him want her more. She knew this, because he could hear the smug satisfaction in her voice as she purred, "Patience is a virtue, remember?"
"I'm not a virtuous man, remember?"
She hummed in amused agreement, leaning forward, her silk robe sticking to his wet skin as she whispered in his ear, "Trust me, I know exactly what kind of man you are, my darling."
She sat back again, making a small tutting noise as she looked down at her dressing gown, "You've made me get oil all over my robe."
"Such a pity," his tone belied his words.
"I suppose I'll have to take it off."
"I suppose you will."
He felt her raise up slightly, heard the whisper of the fabric as it slipped off her skin, saw a brief flash of grey as she tossed it aside. He felt the warmth of her thighs settling back, closer to his skin, as her hands resumed their work.
He still hadn't seen what was underneath the robe, so he asked the age-old query, "What are you wearing?"
"A highly inappropriate question, Mr. Rossi." He laughed at her prim tone, at how easily she played her part as the unaffected and aloof professional (especially when he could tell by the slow, luxurious movements of her fingers that she was enjoying this just as much as he was).
She was sliding further down, pushing and rolling the muscles of his lower back. He gave a small hum of approval as he drowsily informed her, "You're very good at this, Miss Strauss."
"Thank you." She replied simply, though he could hear that she was pleased by his compliment. A contented silence ensued. She shifted again, her hands traveling further down, and suddenly her teeth were on the bare skin of his ass, with just enough pressure to make him jump.
"What was that?"
"You were drifting. I wanted to bring you back to the present moment," she answered easily. There was a grin in her voice as she added, "Besides, you happen to have an adorable ass, Mr. Rossi."
"My ass is not adorable."
"Actually, it is. Especially for a man of your age."
"What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
Her hands were moving again, applying more oil to the muscles of his thighs as she simply replied, "It means what it means."
"Are you calling me old?"
"Did I say you were old?"
He gave a slight huff, knowing that she'd found her loophole, and though he couldn't see her face, he could feel that she was smiling.
"I happen to have a thing for older men," she confessed (as if that were any secret).
"Do you now?"
"Mm-hmm." She was at his feet now, hitting pressure points with deep rolls of her fingers as she quietly asked, "Is there anywhere else that you feel tension, Mr. Rossi? Any areas you would like for me to pay special attention to?"
Oh, God above, she really was going to play this one to the teeth.
Fine. Two could play this game. "Well, now that you mention it—"
"Yes?"
"My chest feels very tight."
"I see." She was crawling back up the bed, tapping his side lightly, "Roll over for me please, Mr. Rossi."
He gladly obliged, his grin deepening as he saw her outfit for the first time—a black leather bra and ruffled grey shorts that seemed to bring out the golden hue of her skin. "Is leather really appropriate for massages?"
"Well, I was wearing a robe—which you ruined, remember?"
"Yes. Such a shame."
She simply shook her head in feigned sadness at the lost robe, applying more oil to her hands and rubbing them together to warm it. She leaned forward, barely grazing her hands over his chest before she stopped, keeping her face completely serious as she spoke, "I'm sorry, but I really can't do my work at this angle. Would you be too uncomfortable if I straddled you again, Mr. Rossi?"
He fought back a grin, trying to play along as best he could, "No, not at all, Miss Strauss. Please, do whatever you need to."
She gave a small smug smile (as if she didn't know the answer long before she asked the question) as she easily swung her leg over his hip, keeping her own hips raised just enough to not touch his cock, which was already so hard and wanting. She leaned in again, this time putting more weight into the movements of her hands, rolling forward in a familiar rocking motion as she oh-so-innocently spoke, "Would you mind holding me steady? It's so very easy to get caught off balance, in a position like this."
His hands went to her hips, lightly feathering the ruffles of her shorts, moving upwards to appreciate the smooth leather which was made so much more enjoyable by the soft, pliant breasts underneath.
"Mr. Rossi, that's very inappropriate," she breathed, kicking her voice up a notch in a Marilyn-esque pitch (after all, he always called her kitten, why shouldn't she act like one, just for tonight?). She sat back, reaching for the oil again, and he could feel the heat from her center seeping through the fabric of her shorts, onto his abdomen, and he grabbed her hips again, dragging her further down, to the place where she should be, without the barrier of fabric. She stifled a moan and lifted her hips away again. Still, his hands were clutching her ass and she pushed into the grip, arching her back as she massaged his chest again, her hands trailing across his shoulders, over his biceps as she bit her lip at how scintillating his skin felt beneath her slick fingers.
She took a moment to simply look at the man beneath her, with his shining eyes and glistening skin, and she felt her breath catch in her throat at the realization that he was hers—wholeheartedly, unabashedly, unwaveringly hers. And to add to the fire humming in her veins, she also knew that she was his, just as deeply and passionately.
He'd been so wonderfully patient, so willing to play this little game, and she loved him all the more for it. The thing about games is that they eventually must end—and when they were played well, the players should be rewarded.
Bracing her hands on the mattress, on either side of his shoulders, she lowered her mouth to his nipple, giving a slow, teasing lick as she lowered her hips, rubbing against his hardness. This earned her a low moan from her lover, and she grinned in delight at knowing that she still could turn this man into a puddle of want and need, after so many years and transformations. Her mouth continued its journey across his skin, to his neck, to the curve of his jaw, to his hot, moaning mouth, as his hands wandered the planes of her body, back up her ribcage to her breasts—this time, she didn't push him away, but let him sample and knead the flesh.
"I think I'd like to see you in more leather," he admitted huskily, and she grinned wickedly before recapturing his mouth with her own.
"Thigh-high boots and a riding crop?" She guessed, and he gave a growl of pleasure at the thought, his hands back on her hips, pulling her against his own.
"As if I could ever be so cruel," she shook her head with feigned sadness. "I would never be able to torture you, my darling."
"You're torturing me now, darling," he reminded her, and she pretended to be shocked at his words.
"Why, David Rossi, I'm doing no such thing." She sat back on her heels again, raising up and pulling the crotch of her shorts to the side with one hand and she slowly guided him inside of her with the other, "Does this feel like torture to you?"
He made a sound in response and she commented, "That is not the noise someone makes when they're being tortured, my love."
She took a moment simply to enjoy the fullness of having him inside of her before she instructed him, "Don't move."
He simply held up his hands, which she clasped with her own, using them as a brace to balance herself. And although her hips remained still, he felt her silky walls rippling against his cock, saw the slight hitch in her abdomen as her kegel muscles continued with their pace. She was biting her lip in concentration, slight sheens of oil catching the light on her arms and her stomach, hair messy and falling in her face, and David thought it couldn't be possible for him to want this woman any more than he did in this moment.
"It's been awhile since I've done this," she admitted, still slightly distracted by her endeavors.
"Well, I'm certainly not complaining."
This earned him a breathless chuckle. He let go of her hand, bringing his own hand to the warm, slick place where their bodies met, his finger easily finding the swollen bud of her clit. He felt her walls clench involuntarily at the contact, and she tried to push his hand away, "No, David, I want…this—this is for you."
Her selflessness was endearing, but David tended to think of sex as a full-contact sport—he wasn't used to simply lying still. Luckily, his lover seemed to understand, because she sifted slightly, leaning over to grab the bottle of oil. She wore an amused grin as she sat back slightly, positioning herself so that she didn't need to hold his hands for balance.
"Here," she poured some oil into his open palms. "Something to keep you occupied."
He grinned in response, and she quickly added, "You can do whatever you want—just don't move your hips. And don't move mine."
"Aye, aye, kitten," he replied, relishing the curve of her outer thighs. "I like it when you get all bossy."
She gave a wry hum, "I'll remember that the next time you start bitching about my orders at work."
"Only because I like making you angry."
"Yes, you do," she agreed. Then she resumed her movements, concentrating on isolating her pelvic floor muscles (gods, they weren't kidding when they said use it or lose it, though she had more control that she thought she would, after so many years of not using this particular skill—the last few years, she'd usually been too drunk during sex to really engage in this kind of activity).
David's hands were on her stomach now, and she leaned forward, her own hands slipping across his already-slick chest. She stayed there a moment, still working her inner muscles as she adjusted to this new angle. David gave a small hum of pleasure at the pressure and tightness afforded by this shift, as his fingers slipped beneath the underwire of her bra, pressing into the supple flesh, rubbing the oil on his fingertips onto the nipples that were already so hard and responsive to his touch. His lover hissed as he pinched her taunt flesh between his fingers, her mouth landing on his chest. He felt her teeth again, grazing his flesh, silently encouraging his kneading fingers by pressing her breasts further into his hands.
She took a moment to simply rest her head on his chest, shaking her blonde head as she gave slight chuckle.
"Getting a workout, kitten?" David guessed.
"Yes," she sat back again, easing some of the strain on her muscles. "I'm afraid your kitten isn't quite as spry as she used to be."
Despite her self-deprecation, she didn't stop her movements, each contraction starting to send a ripple through David's body.
He closed his eyes, his fingertips tracing patterns on the backs of her thighs as he smiled at the memory of times gone by, "If I remember correctly, you did this when we were in New York."
"If you remember correctly." There was a smirk in her voice. "As if you could forget, David Rossi."
"That night was pretty memorable."
"Pretty memorable? It was fucking mind-blowing."
"It was mind-blowing fucking."
She laughed at the quip, though her laughter quickly dissipated at she closed her eyes and concentrated on pushing her muscles to keep contracting against his cock—she loved the fullness, the way her muscles could feel him throbbing inside of her, the way his fingers pressed into the flesh of her hips, the quiet intensity of the moment.
David felt the tension building from the soles of his feet, receding all the way up to his shoulders, and Erin could sense it, too, because she was shifting forward again, her hands pressing into the flesh of his chest, giving him better access to clutch at her hips, her breasts, the curve of her waist (god, it took every ounce of self-control not to just grab her hips and slam her down onto him, as deeply as he could go, but past experience had taught him that this was something well worth the wait). His eyes were open again, and so were hers, green locking onto brown, no sound but the unsteady breaths of both partners, which filled the air with a heavy heat, only increasing the electric feel of their skins.
She gave a slight whimper of relief when she felt him trembling inside of her, slowing down the rippling of her inner muscles as she prolonged the moment of release, biting her lip again as she watched that handsome face (gods, the things she would do for this man, to this man, just to see that expression). David felt himself come slowly, pulling further into that silky channel which teased every drop from him, as a full delicious golden wave rumbled across his entire body, leaving him feeling completely drained, bones melted in the best of ways. Erin kept going, making sure that David was truly finished, and he simply returned his hand to her apex, and she gasped again, responding with a tightness that sent another aftershock of pleasure through his own body.
"David, this is—"
"This is for me, I know." He assured her, his breathing still ragged from his own orgasm. "Trust me—this is very much for me, too."
He pressed harder, and her hips bucked involuntarily, her fingers gripping his upper shoulders as she tried to steady herself. He was still inside of her, though she felt him receding, slipping away, but it didn't stop the absolute heat the shot through her core with every movement of his fingers. David might always be quiet whenever he came, but Erin certainly wasn't—she clapped her hand over her mouth to smother her own moans (and David silently decided that once this whole Replicator thing was behind them, he'd take her away, somewhere that she could make as much noise as she wanted to, without having to worry about kids or neighbors or agents in SUVs outside their door). She came quickly, her tired muscles shuddering with release and relief before she lifted off her lover's hips and collapsed on the bed beside him.
There was a moment of heavy-breathed silence.
"I'm old." She declared.
"You're a tiger."
"An old tiger."
"That kind of talk is not allowed in this bed, kitten." He simply reached over and gave her hip a smack.
She gave a slight jump at the contact, "David!"
"You've still got good reaction time, for an old tiger."
She hummed in response. After another beat, she announced, "We need to change the sheets."
He grinned in agreement—they were smeared with oil. He sat up, taking a moment to lean over the glossy-skinned woman on the mattress, "We need to wash this oil off our skin as well."
Her own lips curled into a mischievous smirk as she understood the meaning of his words, "Why, Mr. Rossi, I believe you have a point."
"I always have a point." He reminded her, dipping down to kiss the tip of her nose.
"Yes, but this one's actually a good point."
He gave her hip another pop as he rolled out of bed, and she half-heartedly kicked her leg out at him, missing him completely. He grabbed her ankle and jerked her to the edge of the bed, which made her give a small yip of surprise. He leaned over her again, his hands easily resting on the curve of her waist, which felt even softer with its generous coating of oil.
She simply smiled up at him, her eyes burning with amusement and something profounder and solider than adoration—love. Sweet, deep, unbelievably erotic love.
"Did you enjoy your massage, Mr. Rossi?" Her voice was so wickedly innocent.
"It was exactly what I needed," he assured her huskily, capturing her mouth with his own again.
"Good," she purred, taking a moment to trace the outline of his face with her fingers. She sat up, pushing him towards the master bathroom, "You run the bath; I'll change the sheets."
He turned to go and she reached out, quickly smacking his ass.
"Erin Strauss!"
She was completely unrepentant, merely giving him a seductive wink, "I told ya, lover—you've got an adorable ass."
"You are a lecherous old woman," he informed her haughtily.
"I prefer the term 'salacious'. Just rolls off the tongue so much more easily." She shot him one last heated look over her shoulder as he disappeared into the bathroom with a laugh. Turning back to the bed, she stripped off the sheets and tossed them aside, going back to the closet to grab a clean set.
She heard the water running and felt the warmth of her lover's body as he returned to stand behind her while she finished tucking the fitted sheet around the corner of the bed. His hands were slipping up the line of her spine, easily unhooking her bra. Her shorts soon followed, and she was already feeling the first stirrings between her thighs as her body responded to his touch again (gods, they were a couple of teenagers, how could they be this easily aroused, so completely insatiable, so hopelessly and helplessly enamored with each other, after so many years and so many times?).
"How did we survive before?" She asked hazily, leaning back to relish the feel of his bare chest pressing against her bare back (that was all it took, really, the sensation of his skin on hers, although the slick sheen between them only intensified the delicious feeling).
"Before?"
"When we only had a single night…and went years in-between," she clarified, breathing deeply as his hands snaked around to her breasts.
"I honestly don't know."
"Me either."
"But I do know that I'm glad we're past that."
She hummed in agreement. "Me, too."
David contemplated her question, even after they had slipped into the bathtub, the warm water flushing Erin's skin an even deeper shade as they helped each other wash away the remnants of the oil. He truly didn't know how they survived all the cold, lonely nights in-between—though he supposed that it was the reason behind so many of their darkest arguments and their saddest moments.
But that was then. This was now. And now, the mother of his second son was lounging at the opposite end of the large tub, her eyes dancing as he felt her foot slowly slip up the side of his inner thigh, and his heart was certain that it could absolutely burst with happiness at the golden quietness of this moment.
And from the corner of the granite counter, his toothbrush shone happily in its holder, leaning against hers in a picture perfect domestic bliss, a silent reminder that this was certainly something more than it had ever been.
*Author's Note: Sweet Jesus in shortpants, has it really been over two weeks since my last update? Two. Weeks. Consider this chapter my peace offering.*