Shiva and Kali
"Past the point of no return—the final threshold! The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn...We've passed the point of no return." ~Andrew Lloyd Webber
June 2013. New York City, New York.
The world is heavy with the hum of cicadas, the occasional odd echo of other night creatures breaking through the constant noise. The only other sound is the swish of Erin's legs through the tall grass—she must be out in the big pasture behind David's house, the one near the pond.
He is waiting for her. How she knows this, she doesn't know, but she can sense it, can feel it with every fiber of her being.
He is waiting for her, and she is longing for him. She tries to move faster, but the waves of grass clutch and clasp at her thighs, wrapping around her legs like bed sheets.
No, no, she must keep going—David is waiting, she must reach him!
A baby is crying. A sharp pull in her own stomach makes her stop, makes her listen for the sound again, which suddenly seems too faint, overpowered by the steady trill of the cicadas, which becomes too sharp and painful to her ears.
The baby, the baby, she must find the baby. David won't be angry if she stops to find the baby. He will hold it and coo to it, and it will only make her love him more (if such a thing is even possible).
She stumbles through the thick grass, which is no match for her sheer force of resolve, despite its heavy pull against her legs. The cries get louder and she knows that she is closer, closer to this poor baby left alone in the dark in the wilderness.
And oh, he is beautiful. Lying in the grass, wrapped in a simple white blanket. He's perfect, Erin can tell that even from a distance. She gingerly lifts him into her arms, and he's as light as a feather. His nose is tiny and perfect, just like his fingernails, and his hair is thick and dark. He stops crying the moment she holds him and Erin knows that he is hers, that he is David's.
She clasps him to her chest with both arms, shielding him from the dark sheaves of grass, which prick and pluck at her garments, at his blanket, and she pushes through the waves again.
David will be so pleased. He will love this gift—her heart sings and soars in anticipation of her lover's joy, she can already feel the warmth of his smile as he kisses her skin (well done, bella).
She reaches the top of another hill, and though she cannot see him yet, she sees the pond, ink-black with diamond reflections sparkling across its smooth and serene surface—and she knows, she knows that he is waiting, just in the shadows of the tall pines that bleed into the heavens, two shades of darkness melding together, the same way their two bodies mute into one, in their deepest, alivest moments.
Almost home.
Somewhere, her conscious mind heard the light opening of the hotel room door (her kids always teased her about her super-sonic hearing), and she knew that she was dreaming. Still, she slipped back under the heavy cover of slumber, knowing that it was simply the lover of her dreams, appearing in living flesh to slip into the bed with her, his hands more beautiful and electric than any fathoming of her imagination.
She needed to finish this dream. It would be such a lovely story to tell him, when he woke her again, a sleepy loving thing to murmur into his ear as he traced her form in the darkness, humming in amusement and affirmation at her words. He always asked about her dreams, and always told her his own. Even the bad ones.
Again, her conscious mind recognized the shift of the mattress as he sat next to her.
Her skin wasn't tingling. Why wasn't her skin tingling?
Three nights earlier. Rural Virginia.
David rubbed his eyes sleepily, silently rejoicing at the thought that his brain was finally exhausted enough to go to sleep. He shut the laptop resting on the sprawling oak desk in his study, taking a moment to glance up at his wall.
The photo from Christopher's birthday was there now—Erin had printed and framed it, and he'd found it quietly waiting on his wall earlier that evening (she must have put it up while he was with Thomas Yates, as she quietly worried for him and his heart). She hadn't told him that she had done it, and it had been a tender surprise. She had merely smiled softly whenever he thanked her for it, giving a slight almost-embarrassed shrug that was endearing, her cheeks glowing in a way that made him fall for her all over again—the same smile that she'd worn earlier that morning, when her wake-up call had been his mouth and his hands on her skin, to which she'd warmly opened her legs, her expression filling with a sleepy-demure joy at the familiar feeling of his body sliding against hers, pleased that he'd kept his promise of tomorrow.
With one last smile of his own at the photo, David rose to his feet and made his way back upstairs.
Of course, Erin was already asleep—he was glad for that, because she hadn't slept well over the past week, too full of worry for their son, and it had begun to show in her face, under her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, and he had hated seeing her so drawn. However, right now, she looked perfectly at peace. He grinned at the sight that met his eyes—she was lying on her stomach, sprawled across the center of the bed (she'd gotten too accustomed to sleeping alone over the past two years, and though she always started on her own side of the bed, during the night, she'd unconsciously shift to the center), the sheets and blankets pushed down and twisted around her legs (she'd had a cup of tea before bed, and though it helped her go to sleep, it meant that she'd kick and twitch as she dreamed—despite the fact that it meant he wouldn't rest tonight, he loved knowing all of her quirks, even the annoying ones), her face still turned to the open windows.
He gingerly sat on the edge of the bed, taking a moment to simply observe the slopes and lines of her body—the smooth skin of her shoulder blades, the faint tan lines on her back, the fading red marks on her hips (she'd left marks on him as well, they'd played roughly tonight, both aroused by memories of past escapades as they relished the thought of being in the field together again). If she were to roll over, he would be able to see the tokens left by his mouth under her left breast, on her right hip bone, on her inner thigh (he knew that her mouth had left badges on his chest, and he was pretty sure that her fingernails had etched his back as well).
He reached over, gently trailing his fingers down the curve of her spine, applying just enough pressure to actually feel the soft skin beneath his fingertips. She shifted slightly at his touch, and though she didn't turn to him, her left arm moved, blindly reaching for him, stilling again once she found his kneecap and resting there, silently assuring him that despite her groggy state, she was aware of his presence and returning the affection of his current touches.
He smiled softly at this, slowly drawing circles on the small of her back. She'd left the bedside lamp on for him, and in the warm yellow light, he could see the faded white lines snaking around her hips, remnants of carrying and birthing three children.
Their bodies and their souls had changed so much over the years. He knew that there were so many people who lived their lives like characters in F. Scott Fitzgerald novels, forever looking backwards and pining for yesteryear, but David never felt that way when it came to Erin—regardless of how her flesh morphed and shifted over time, he was forever entranced by every nuance of her, by her scent, her taste, her thoughts, the corner of her mouth, by the depth of the soul within. Before, when there were years between each unveiling, he'd always been in awe of how much had changed, how much had stayed the same, just as she had been fascinated by the changes in his body.
The dancing of his fingers was causing her skin to ripple into gooseflesh, and he felt her grip on his knee tighten as she gave something between a sigh and a hum.
"David Rossi, if you are going to fuck me, hurry up and do it so that I can go back to sleep."
He laughed at this, at how flatly she delivered the line (though he could hear the warmth and amusement just below the surface), at how only Erin Strauss could turn such a tender, sweet moment into a nuisance.
"I can't just caress you, without having to end up between your legs?" He teased, leaning forward so that his hand could slip over the curve of her bare ass, to the warm, still-wet place between her thighs.
"I should hope not," she returned, shifting slightly to allow him better access.
"I think you have a problem," he informed her in a tone of mock seriousness.
"You. You are my problem," she stated. He chuckled at this, and she gave a short hum of amusement as well. He understood the meaning behind her words (you, you are the only man who makes me feel this way, who turns me insatiable for every shade, every ounce of you, whom I love with a depth and a fervor that would frighten a sane man) and in truth, he returned every syllable of that sentiment with an equal force of devotion (and she knew this, and knowing that she knew this filled him with a grateful warmth in turn). There was a beat as she simply allowed her body to feel its reaction to his presence, to his touch. Then she quietly spoke again, "Kiss me."
He obliged, his mouth landing on the smooth plane between her shoulder blades. He felt her internal stillness, felt her pushing back some wave of fear or worry, and so he gently asked, "What's bothering you, bella?"
"I don't know. I've just...I've got a dreadful feeling."
He understood—despite her delight at getting to spend more time with him, Erin Strauss hated being in the field (she'd been that way ever since she'd seen Martin's brains blown out just a few feet away from her own face, that horrible day in Philadelphia over twenty years ago), and she especially hated being in the field when it came to serial killers and all the other dark ilk with which the BAU dealt.
And despite knowing that he would suffer for this decision (she'd surely kick like crazy when she went back to sleep), he quietly placed another kiss on the curve of her shoulder blade, informing her, "I'll go make you another cup of tea."
She made a small sound of gratitude. Once he reached the door, she added, "That better not be all that I get from you, David Rossi."
He laughed. That woman.
By the time he came back upstairs, Erin had drifted asleep again. This time, he didn't touch her, for fear of waking her. Instead, he set the tea cup on the nightstand, quietly turning out the light, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before slipping back into bed. Propping his head on his hand, he simply watched her sleep, his eyes traveling from the disheveled nest of blonde curls, all the way down her spine, down to the ass which had been the second thing that he'd noticed and appreciated about her the first time they'd met, twenty-eight years ago (the first thing being her eyes, naturally, because they'd always had the ability to capture him with a single glance).
Twenty-eight years. Of course, that first brief meeting in a loud and crowded bar had been a mere spark, and it had been another three years before it had become a flame—on that strange night in which both had been so naively unaware of just how deep the brand would go, and just how long the fire would last.
He could already feel the heat stirring in his blood as he thought back to the first night that he'd truly discovered the body lying next to his, the night that had changed the foundations of their world, the night that every destructively-passionate impulse was awakened, the first breath into a life-long plunge, the first step on a journey that still hadn't ended.
Reckless burning. If David had to give that night and that moment a name, that would be it. The night of reckless burning.
November 1988. New York City, New York.
By the time he returned to the room, David Rossi half-expected Erin Strauss to have returned to her senses and to have decided that this was not a mistake worth making.
However, this thought was quickly dispelled the instant that he opened the door—she was sitting on the edge of the bed, completely devoid of a single stitch of clothing. Of course, he couldn't help but give a slightly-frustrated chuckle at this (because undressing his partner was one of his favorite parts of foreplay, and of course Erin Strauss would have taken that away from him), but his frustration was immediately forgotten the second she stood, looking at him with a nervous expectation, with eyes that seemed too bright and shining to belong to a drunk woman.
She was perfect. Her breasts were small, but still well-rounded and perky, and though she had a runner's flat stomach and muscled thighs, her hips had a beautiful curve to them that had gone unnoticed under her usual Bureau garb. Every part of her body needed to be tasted and sampled and catalogued, and he was overwhelmed with the decision of where he could even begin to explore this tantalizing new continent of flesh.
Of course, this delicious vision was interrupted by the voice which had driven him to insanity multiple times over the past week, her tone oddly demanding as she asked, "What took you so long?"
"I was gone for three minutes."
"Eight."
"You counted?" He couldn't decide if he was shocked or amused by her statement. The idea of Erin Strauss counting the minutes, impatient for him, for such dark reasons, was definitely intriguing, and he felt the fire beneath his skin reigniting. He couldn't help but taunt her, "Did you miss me that badly, Strauss?"
Her lips stamped into a thin line of disapproval, but she still reached for him, pulling him towards her with surprising force, "Things will go so much better if you just don't speak, Rossi."
"Agreed," he took her face in his hands and drew her disapproving mouth to his, still surprised at how sweetly and easily her lips melted and opened, melding to his own. She was moaning again, her hands making quick work of the buttons down his shirt, pushing the fabric off his frame once more and pressing into his skin with hungry neediness.
His hands were on her body, pulling her gently into him again, savoring every sensation as her bare skin came into contact with his for the first time. He could feel her nipples hardening against the warm skin of his chest as his hands slipped down the curve of her spine, and he felt her whimpering in relief as he grabbed her uncovered ass, pulling her hips closer to his own. Then she was pushing away again, pushing off his chest and moving her hands to his pants, simply slipping her hand past the waistband of his boxers once she'd unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans.
She'd learned a trick from David already, because her burning green eyes were watching his face as her fingers slowly moved downward, lightly brushing around his already-hard cock before actually taking it in her warm hand. Her eyes widened slightly when she felt the size of him, then she gave a wicked breathless grin (this is going to be good).
Her reaction made David grin as well (naughty, naughty girl). He kissed her again, and she rose to the balls of her feet, trying to reach as deeply into his mouth as possible. He broke away, his lips continuing down her jaw, back to her neck, back to the place that he'd learned would actually make her weak in the knees. Her grip on his cock tightened, and she was petting him with slow, luxurious strokes, and all he could think of was the tight, hot place between her thighs and how wonderful it would feel around him. As if it possessed a will of its own, his hand slipped past her breast, down the curve of her hips and back to that wet place, his fingertips easily finding the bundle of nerves at her apex, lightly brushing against the bud to test her reaction.
She gasped and rolled forward on the balls of her feet again, her forehead pressing against his shoulder as her open mouth simply breathed against his skin. He mimicked the slow strokes that her own hand was making on his cock, and she was humming in response, her free hand blindly reaching upwards to caress the side of his face, slipping back to the curve of his neck, burying her fingers in his dark locks as her hips moved slightly, wanting to match the rhythm of his touches.
She pulled away suddenly, sitting on the edge of the bed as she reached for him again, "Please."
Oh, the need and the heat and the want and everything-underneath contained in that single word. David Rossi had promised himself that he would tease and taunt Erin Strauss, that he would drive her to the brink of insanity with not-enough touches and light kisses, but oh, God above, when she uttered that simple plea, he felt his resolve crumbling into dust.
"Please," she repeated again breathlessly, her finger easily hooking through his belt loop, pulling him closer, so that he was standing between her legs.
Erin Strauss was begging. Wasn't that what he wanted? The answer was yes, mission accomplished, and now his own body was begging for the exact same thing. There was nothing left to prove, just bridges to be burned.
And oh, what a sweet burning this would be.
Her hands were on his hips now, those big green eyes looking up at him for confirmation as she began to slowly push his jeans and boxers down his legs. He slipped one of the condoms from his pocket (which earned him a smile), and he couldn't stop his hand from reaching for her face again, his fingers finding their way back into the tangled blonde nest of her curls. She turned slightly at this, letting her head rest in his hand as she pulled his pants further down, finally freeing his cock from its confinement. She opened her mouth, pushing a hot breath against his organ without ever actually letting her lips touch him, and he let out a small groan in response (so Erin can play this game, too, the taunting and teasing and titillating).
He stepped back, slipping out of his pants and kicking them aside, too, removing his socks and keeping his dark eyes locked on her with a hunger that made her heart stop (dear gods, only David Rossi could turn taking off his socks into a part of the seduction). And rather than fear that look, she welcomed it, leaning back on her elbows as she shifted her hips wider, her whole body flushing with another wave of heat as she watched his eyes travel further down to her wet and wanting pussy. She simply watched him, taking in the lines of his body, his dark skin and his well-shaped legs, his broad, smooth chest, his easy movements (yes, she had always seen him as a big jungle cat, and now that she could see the ripple and movement of his muscles without the barrier of clothing, she knew that her assessment had been right, and if he was cat, then she certainly wouldn't mind being a kitten). He was moving towards her again, and she prepared for the final plunge, but she was surprised to feel David's hands on her legs, pulling her back to the edge of the bed, slipping further upwards, under her arms, pulling her back to her feet with a rough jerk. Her body collided with his once more, for the first time without anything between them, and she gasped at the sparks that flew across her skin at the contact. His tongue was slipping past her teeth again, his own breath as jagged and needy as hers, his own hands shaking as he clutched at the curves of her body again.
She understood his message—things were about to get much more aggressive, so this was last-call for caresses and tenderness. She seconded the motion, pulling his neck back to her mouth as she pressed against his erection, her stomach tightening at the contact, her core responding with another rush of wet heat as it anticipated his arrival, her hands roving the expanse of his back, fingers pressing into his flesh, pulling him closer, taking in as much of him as she could.
The room spun madly as he quickly turned her around, pulling her back against him as his hands finally grasped her breasts, kneading them as his mouth returned to the curve of her shoulder. She leaned back into his chest, hands moving upwards to caress his head, her hips pushing backwards, seeking him out, encouraging him.
Erin Strauss was keening, a low, constant pitch rumbling from the depths of her chest, and David realized that she wasn't even conscious of the fact that she was making this noise (which arguably had to be the most amazing thing that he'd ever heard from this woman). She was completely lost in the moment, in his touch, and dear God, didn't she know that she could rend mountains with that sound, with the simple heat of her breath, the lightest touch of her own electric skin?
David's mouth was on her pulse-point again, and she found herself completely incapable of thought, though the edge of his teeth on her flesh brought her hazed brain back into the moment (though it was so easy to tumble back into that strange little world ruled only by sensation, the world where his hands—wonderful, capable, burning hands—dictated the ebb and flow of the fire coursing in her veins, shifting sparks and attention from one part of her body to another as his mouth's endeavors competed against every other part of her, which needed more but already had too much).
All the stories were true, she realized with stunning clarity. The prowess, the passion, the intensity, every piece of water-cooler gossip that she'd heard about this man. All the stories were true, but none of them even scratched the surface.
Speaking of things that needed scratching—her current position did not allow her to really return his caresses (she could feel him, but she couldn't touch him, not in the way she wanted), and she'd been foreplayed to a frazzle, so she let him know this, pressing against him, letting her hands reach behind her to his hips, giving a slight moan of impatience (can't you see that I need more?).
He was grinning at this (she could feel his smug smile, even though she couldn't see it), and she gave another frustrated growl, her hands moving back to his head, grabbing his hair roughly and giving it a jerk (this is not humorous, David Rossi).
There she was, the feral creature from the hallway, the biting thing from the bar, the sharp-edged and irritating spirit who'd slipped under his skin. That was the one for whom he'd been waiting—because more than anything, for whatever sado-masochisitc reason, that was the one he wanted to take to bed.
He pushed her forward, and she caught herself, hands splayed across the bed—he placed his hand on the small of her back, silently telling her to stay in that position. Erin braced her knees against the edge of the mattress, inwardly rejoicing as she felt him moving behind her, heard him taking the condom from its wrapper (finally, finally, finally). His hands were on her hips and he was slowly pushing into her, giving her time to adjust to his size. David could feel her walls already trembling against him, and he released a heavy sigh of relief (finally, finally, finally).
He started moving, and she made a small noise. He stopped, "Y'okay?"
She gave a breathless, frustrated chuckle, "Holy fuck, David, if there's a problem, I'll let you know, but please don't stop."
He laughed at this—it was so perfectly Strauss, to be irritated when he was only concerned for her, and yet it only deepened the desire behind his thrusts, adding to his own satisfaction when he heard her panting and gasping again.
Her first orgasm came quickly, taking her by surprise, but David never slowed down, and she found that it hadn't been enough, because she was still moving with him, still wanting more from him. David was smiling at how easily she came for him (at how she tightened even more, making each stroke even more enjoyable), and his body was responding to the shock-waves left by hers. His hands increased their grip on her hips as he pushed himself as deeply into the snug, hot channel as he could, moving into shorter thrusts, pushing her back to the edge. He noticed the change in her breathing, the way she was beginning to hold her breath for longer periods of time, and he knew that she was close again (that was her tell, and he was a quick learner, especially when the lesson was as engaging as this).
The waves were building in her body again, and Erin couldn't believe it—she was by no means frigid, but she was never climaxed this easily or this quickly, not without some very intense foreplay, and she'd never been aroused to such a level of burning need. Why did it have to be this way with David Rossi, of all people? What did it mean?
Don't think. Just do. This is a purge, a cleansing, a draining of all the bad blood. Don't over-analyze it, Erin, don't analyze it at all. Just feel. Just feel. Just…
David's movements were coming faster now, and she knew that this time, he would come with her. She focused on the sound of his heavy breathing, the weight of his hands, the electricity shooting from her hips every time that he moved inside of her, the tension pooling deep in her stomach, building and receding, quietly warning her of her own impending climax.
David didn't make any noise, really, besides panting. For some reason, she would have pegged him as a screamer—it just seemed to fit with his loud and outgoing personality. But then again, perhaps she should have guessed that he'd be quiet and concentrated—she thought back to the intensity in his dark eyes the first time he'd laid her on the bed, the mesmerizingly erotic power of his expression, and it was that short-term memory that made her feel the first quivers of her second orgasm for the evening. Suddenly, David's grip tightened again, and her own hips jerked with the erratic jolts of his hips as she heard him release a shuddering sigh, and that simple sound was the final straw to tumble her into her own climax, moaning softly at how wonderful the pressure felt, pushing against the fullness that was still inside of her.
He pulled away and she simply flopped forward, sprawling in the center of the bed, not even turning to look at him. She heard him pad into the bathroom, heard the light sound of the used condom falling into the trashcan, and she tried to prepare herself for the fallout—surely this was the moment that he asked her to leave, the moment that his other head took control again and he realized that this had been a mistake, the moment that he took satisfaction in knowing that he'd gotten what he wanted from Erin Strauss, so now he could send her on her merry way.
Wasn't that how things like this were supposed to end? She didn't know; she'd never done this type of thing (what exactly was this type of thing?). She was not the one-night stand girl, she was too cautious and too well-behaved for that sort of behavior.
David walked back into the bedroom and found himself smiling at the delicious sight before him—Erin Strauss on the bed, face down and spread-eagled, skin bare and glowing with the first sheens of physical exertion.
Jesus. Her ass was even lovelier out of jeans. It fact, it looked utterly biteable. Which was exactly what he did—he sat on the side of the bed, leaning over to bite the rounded edge, making her jump and yip in surprise. She shifted slightly, pushing herself onto her elbows to give him a look of feigned reprimand over her shoulder.
He suddenly realized that even though he was finished for the moment, he certainly wasn't finished with Erin Strauss—she was still much too calm and collected, still too much of her usual self. So he slipped across the bedspread, lying on his side as he pressed the length of his body against hers. She looked at him again, now only slightly over her shoulder since his face was closer, her brows quirking in askance. However her unvoiced question was soon answered as David propped himself up on his left elbow, his right hand sliding over her ass as his fingers easily found her soaked center, entering with little ceremony or warning.
Her head quickly bowed and he felt her muscles contract against his fingers. He kept his gaze on her classical profile as his digits curved, knuckles pressing into the web of nerves on the anterior wall. She released the breath that she'd been holding, giving a light shake of her head (I don't think I can do this), and he leaned forward, his mouth landing on the curve of her shoulder, his eyes still fastened to her face, taking in the way the corner of her mouth quivered, the way her eyelids fluttered and her brows knit together, the tightness of her jaw as he continued kneading her with his fingers.
Dear gods, David Rossi was trying to kill her. That was Erin's only explanation—he was going to shatter her completely, because that was what would surely happen if his fingers kept up their (wonderful, electric, oh-stop-but-please-don't-stop) work. She was still recovering from the last orgasm, and his fingertips were stroking her walls, his knuckles kneading the opposite side, the holy-grail spot that was already making her wetter, sending more unbearable heat through every inch of her body. Her arms became too weak to support her, so she flopped forward again, grabbing the pillow to muffle the screams that she knew were coming—and as soon as she buried her face in the pillow, she felt David shift again, the warm skin of his chest pressing against her lower back as his tongue and teeth traced the outlines of her shoulder blades. This new position allowed him to put more pressure on his hand, grinding against the nerves, making her jump and moan.
Yes, he was definitely trying to kill her. But oh, what a way to go.
Now this had been the Erin that he was looking for—she was practically writhing beneath him, keening into the pillow as she panted and cursed (at least he thought she was cursing—he couldn't quite understand her muffled words, but knowing Erin Strauss, she was probably cursing him, even as he filled her body with delight), shuddering and gasping and coming completely undone. He felt her silken walls clenching against his fingers, involuntarily grasping at the source of their current distress, and her entire body was trembling beneath him, her voice reaching a pitch that surprised him (so high and utterly feminine and un-Strauss-like). But he still kept moving, not stopping until her body stilled and quieted, until her muscles melted again in a drowsy-golden languor.
He slowly removed his hand, trailing his fingers up her spine again, writing invisible runes with her own juices across her back. The cooling moisture made her give a small shiver, but she was too spent to really move. He gently rolled her over, and she acquiesced, giving him an odd smile as her eyes met his again. He laid down beside her and she lifted her head, letting his arm settle under the curve of her neck. Their bodies were close enough to feel each other's warmth, but they weren't cuddling or caressing one another.
Obviously, that wasn't something that was done by people in random hotel semi-angry sex hook-ups.
Erin simply stared at the ceiling, listening to her own heartbeat gradually return to its natural pace. His bicep was beneath her head, a warm and sturdy pillow—if she turned her face slightly towards him, she could feel the heat of his body radiating against her cheek, filling her mind with the smell of his cologne and the darker simply him underneath, mixing with the scent of her own arousal in a heady cocktail. Gods, she was already craving him again, could already feel herself warming and re-watering for him, as if her loins were salivating for another taste of David Rossi.
Purge. We're purging. If I'm still feeling this way, then we've got more work to do, right? Right. Absolutely.
She rolled onto her side—she knew that he wasn't physically ready to go again yet, but until then, she could certainly have a little fun. Also, she'd had the painfully clear realization during David's finger encore that she was being fucked by him—not fucking with him, but being fucked by him, and there was a huge difference between the two. Which meant that it was time to even the score.
David's eyes were closed as he simply enjoyed the euphoric feeling coursing through his body, and though he felt Erin shift beside him, he didn't give it much thought—at least until he felt her hot tongue taking luxurious circles around his nipple, moving down the curve of his pectoral muscle as her teeth came out to play again, nipping the skin before salving it with her mouth. He opened his eyes and lifted his head to peer down at her—he was instantly caught by her burning eyes, which stopped every thought in his head and even the beat of his heart with the lust shining in them.
Well. Looked like he was going to get the chance to use every single condom that he'd grabbed earlier.
He hadn't been sure if Erin would stay, or if she'd roll out of bed, offer a quick smile that didn't reach her eyes, say see you tomorrow, and waltz out the door. He'd had a few (only a few) one-night stands in his past, between his first divorce and his second marriage, and each one ended differently. He wasn't sure which way this night would end with Erin, and he was quickly learning that Erin Strauss rarely did anything according to his predictions or expectations, so he'd simply tried not to wonder.
Of course, now he had no doubt that she was in it for the long-haul. If she left this bed, it wouldn't be until the wee hours of the morning. He was quite alright with that.
Erin Strauss was taking the time to explore David Rossi's body with her mouth and her hands—there was a scar from a bullet wound, which she gently traced, placing a light, reverent kiss on the spot (and he actually felt an odd sense of adoration towards her for the gesture, because he knew that she understood the wound, understood this token of his sacrifice to Bureau and country, respected it for what it truly meant). Her eyes and hands were traveling further down, to the oddly shaped scar at his ankle (didn't she remember hearing a story of him getting caught in a tangle of barbed wire, while chasing some suspect on a case?). She continued cataloguing the unique markers of his body, and he watched her with mild amusement.
She was actually adorable in the moment, truly curious and uninhibited, more relaxed and unfiltered than he'd ever seen her before. If they had been in a different world, in a different time (and if her usual disposition didn't make him want to strangle her on an hourly basis), she would have made a perfect playmate, David suddenly decided. When it came to sex, she had a looseness, a sense of unreservedness that had been surprising and yet equally welcome. She didn't act shy about his body, or embarrassed to have him see her own, and she didn't seem to have any angsty hang-ups or regrets (though David's mind cautiously reminded him that those worries were always for the morning after, and daylight was still many miles away).
She returned back to center, moving further up the bed to bring her mouth back to his with unexpected tenderness, her chest melting against his as she put all of her thought, all of her need and want, into her kiss. David's hand was in her hair again, awkwardly trying to pull it from its no-nonsense bun, which was now really a nonsense dilapidated thing, already disheveled from the previous forays of his fingers. She sat up, pushing his hand away as she brought her own hands over her head, easily unfastening the pins and clips, letting the long blonde corkscrews fall over her shoulders and down her back again.
This simple act was the final transformation of Erin Strauss. David had never seen her with her hair down, and the curls only accented her feminine features, softening her cheekbones and bringing more attention to the delicate lines of her neck and collar bone, making her seem even younger. Now she was observing his expression with a light, amused smile, and he suddenly realized how she could be thought of as pretty—when she took down the ice queen barricade, she was actually quite human and bearable.
The look in David's eyes was unlike anything she'd ever seen from him—and though she was fairly certain that it was a positive reaction, it still filled her with a strange fear, for some reason. So she decided to take that look away, straddling him as she brought her mouth to his neck, taking a few moments to simply kiss and caress his skin, letting her breath create warm ripples across his flesh again. David's hands were at her breasts, kneading them, sampling them between his fingers, and she let out a light moan at the action. Then she was shifting forward, and he understood the motion, because he was countering her move, his mouth finally coming down to taste the soft flesh of her breast, silently singing at the feeling of her tight nipple brushing against the tip of his tongue.
Yes, she'd predicted well in the elevator, during that first kiss, when she'd decided that David Rossi had a very talented tongue—Erin gave a small smile of self-congratulations at her correct assumption as she leaned further in, pressing her flesh against that warm, wet mouth as her head dipped forward, placing kisses atop that dark head which was so studiously focused on his task.
Then she shifted down again, bringing her face back to the same level as his, gingerly settling her hips onto his abdomen—she watched his expression as he felt the hot moisture of her center absorbing into his skin. She pushed her hips further back and found him already hardening again, and she grinned (of course David was a quick recovery, why wouldn't the Casanova of Quantico be?). She transferred her weight to her knees, sitting back so that she was pressing against his cock, already wetting it with her essence again, then she slowly moved away.
She got off the bed, retrieving his pants from across the room, reaching into the pocket—she pulled out the rest of the condoms, turning back to him with a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin as she held them up for inspection.
He expected her to say something caustic (presumptuous aren't we, Agent Rossi?), but to his surprise, she merely took one and tossed the others onto the bedside table, decreeing, "Well, thank goodness we won't have to send you downstairs for more."
He grinned at this. "Wouldn't want to waste precious time, would we?"
She gave a nonchalant shrug, "And I think I prefer to keep you out of your clothes for as long as possible."
She straddled him again, keeping her hips just above him, not quite ready to start the next round. She shifted forward slightly, her own hand slipping between her legs—David was watching her in rapt fascination now—her fingers drawing out her wetness, then moving downward to massage his cock, soaking him as she gently brought him back to a full erection. Then she sat back, opening the wrapper, slipping the condom over his red and wanting organ, her eyes straying up to his to watch his reaction (gods, he was always expressive and overly-emotional, and usually, it irked her beyond belief, but now was one of those times when she actually preferred it—she never had to wonder what he was thinking during sex, and that was a welcome relief).
She was smiling smugly at him, and he had to admit—Erin Strauss certainly had some tricks up her sleeve. But David Rossi had at least a decade's worth of carnal knowledge on her, and he couldn't wait to show her just how much she still had to learn.
Perhaps a little demonstration was in order.
She was shifting forward again, her fingers dipping into her core, and this time, he reached out, stopping her hand before it could return to his cock. She gave him a look of mild confusion, but she didn't ask questions—she simply waited for his next move (oh, yes, in a different time and place, she would have been the perfect companion). He drew her hand back up to his mouth, and her eyes widened slightly as her mind quickly comprehended what he was doing.
The first light suckle of David Rossi's warm mouth against her fingertips was enough to make Erin Strauss' knees go weak. Then he brought her fingers further into his mouth, and she felt her lungs stop completely with the electric jolt that he sent from her hand all the way back to the tips of her toes.
The look of shocked arousal on Erin Strauss' face was priceless and beyond description. At this point, normally David would be grinning triumphantly at his obvious win in this little game, but this was not about winning—he was busy seducing her, despite the fact that he'd already had her. Of course, it didn't hurt that the dark taste clinging to her fingers was like a powerful drug cocktail shooting straight into his system, clouding his mind and overpowering every other need or thought.
His tongue was slipping through her fingers, parting them to seek out every drop of her own juices, and Erin shivered at the simple action (yep, that tongue…oh, she had many more tasks for that tongue, before this night was over). Then he pulled her fingers away, which suddenly felt cold in the open air, his hand still gently gripping her wrist as his lips moved down to her open palm. Her fingers reflexively curled around the contour of his face, leaving behind the mixture of their fluids and her heart caught in her throat at the realization that he was sucking at her palm, making sure that he truly consumed every taste of her. Each pulse of his mouth against her flesh sent a corresponding wave through her core, her muscles tightening with heat and need. Then his teeth came out, lightly sinking into the meat at the side of her palm as his dark eyes locked onto her green ones.
She got the message, loud and clear: I'd devour you whole, if I could.
Impulsively, she turned her hand, her wet fingers slipping back into his mouth: I'd let you, if you could.
Then she pulled away, slightly surprised by her own actions (though she shouldn't be surprised at all, he always made her react in ways that astonished herself).
Again, she had the distinct feeling that she'd just been fucked by David Rossi. Though it was a lovely experience, it kept the scales unbalanced, uneven, and she did not enjoy that feeling—she'd meant what she'd said on the way to the elevators earlier this evening (I don't want to be indebted to you for anything, David Rossi).
So he thought that he would prove himself the more consummate lover. Well, he might have been her elder by twelve years, but Erin decided that it was time to show him that despite her youth, she still knew a few tricks that perhaps he hadn't seen yet.
She rose up again, using her hand to guide him back inside of her, pressing her lips together to smother the soft moan building in her chest at the way he seemed to stretch her to the limit. Then she composed herself, quietly instructing, "Don't move your hips. And don't try to move mine."
He was obviously intrigued by this request, but he silently obeyed. Then he felt the first light pulse of her inner muscles against his cock, followed by a second, stronger pull.
He'd heard about this, but he'd never been with a woman who could actually do it—at least not one who could for the entire time, until her partner's climax. He saw the victorious smile on Erin's face, and for once, he didn't begrudge her for it—even he could admit and appreciate a well-played move. He'd let her have this round. But there were still plenty of chances to prove his own abilities. Just you wait, kitten.
Erin actually felt a giddy rush at the expression on David Rossi's face—she was truly flooring him, and she knew that wasn't something that happened very often, so she took the unspoken compliment. But she pushed aside her sense of elation and focused on the timing and pressure of her muscles (she'd only done this twice before, once as an anniversary gift and once as a birthday request for her husband—she shouldn't be thinking about that, not when David was as deeply inside of her as a man could be—and more than anything, she wanted to do this perfectly, to prove to the dark-haired man beneath her that she was so much more than he ever imagined…purge, remember?).
Yes, yes, this is perfect. This is exactly what I need. After this, the weirdness will be gone and I'll go back to happily detesting David Rossi, and vice versa. A strange cure, but a cure nonetheless.
She leaned forward slightly, and David offered his arms for support, which she gladly took, threading her fingers between his. With her arms outstretched and her honeyed curls drifting around her classical features, she looked like a living painting, some Renaissance depiction of an angel (perhaps not a chaste, heavenly creature, but still an angel). He smiled to himself—that anyone, especially him, would ever consider Erin Strauss an angel!
"What are you grinning at, Cheshire Cat?" She was still slightly distracted by her endeavors, which were greatly appreciated.
"You."
He meant every ounce of that simple answer as his eyes returned to her face, smiling softly at how her expression was drawn in concentration as her talented core continued to massage and pulse against him. He found himself wishing, yet again, that they weren't themselves, that they didn't have the lives that they led in the world that they lived in. Maybe then they could follow this rabbit trail and figure out just what this thing was between them.
Sadly, they lived here, now, as themselves, and so tomorrow morning, he knew that he would pack away these memories and whatever emotions and thoughts that they inspired, and put them into a little box in his mind, filing them away, never to be mentioned or remembered again.
Oh, if only things were different….
Of course, things were different, and becoming more different by the minute. Whatever this was, it was changing everything.
Something wasn't right. Erin blinked groggily, trying to regain her bearings. She was in a hotel bed, but there was someone here with her. Someone's arm wrapped around her. A well-endowed someone.
David Rossi. The name was like a lightning bolt to her brain, and suddenly, she remembered every detail from the night before. But they had fallen asleep on opposite sides of the bed, not even touching one another—how on earth had they ended up in their current position, spooning with his arm draped around her waist, her hand in his, their fingers linked together as he rested his head quietly against her shoulder?
She suddenly realized that their left hands were joined—they were both still wearing their wedding rings, and the two bands were pressing together, silently mocking the vows and other people attached to them. She shifted slightly, grimacing at the light protests of her muscles (gods, she'd never gone at it like that, not even on her honeymoon, and that was another betrayal, in and of itself). She could still feel the greasy remnants of their fucking coating her thighs, clinging to her like a traitorous stain.
She was going to be sick.
She slipped out of his grasp, hurrying into the bathroom, retching into the blindingly-white toilet as her headache reminded her that she'd really had too many drinks the night before. She glanced over at the trashcan—also full of reminders of her recent sins (she didn't want to lean over, didn't want to count, didn't want to remember each time that she'd opened her legs so willingly for him, for a man whom she despised, to recall all the times she'd taken him inside of her, knowing that it was merely a physical exorcising of the twisted, hateful thing that had blossomed between them over the past week).
She clutched her forehead, feeling a sense of horror at the thought that she didn't actually regret the previous night—she knew that she should, and she told herself that she did, but really, it was a logical voice telling her these things, not an emotional pull that she truly felt.
It was a purge. It was just fucking. It's OK. People fuck. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't have to mean anything.
She nodded in agreement with herself.
When she finally returned to the bedroom, she took a moment to stand over the bed. And despite her previous words on purging and returning to a past status quo of mutually assured destruction, she found herself wanting to slip back under the covers and curl up against the warm sleeping body of David Rossi, whose face was so perfectly peaceful and handsome in the silver lights of the city, which seeped from the cracks beneath the heavy hotel curtains.
She reached forward, lightly pushing a wayward strand of his hair back into place, without even thinking about it.
Then she pulled her hand back quickly, as if she'd been scalded. What the hell was she doing?
The gravity of the situation dropped in her gut like a stone. She had been wrong. This would not fix their problems. This would not be something that could be forgotten or ignored. That was the mistake—not the act itself, but the lies surrounding it, the lies they told one another, to justify their actions.
This changes things. This changes everything.
"Don't expect me to be sane anymore. Don't let's be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes—you can't dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous...I saw you as the mistress of your home...eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can't see how I can go on living away from you—these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when [your husband] came back? Was I still there? I can't picture you moving about with him as you did with me. Legs closed. Frailty. Sweet, treacherous acquiescence. Bird docility. You became a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old—you are a thousand years old." ~Henry Miller, in a love letter to Anaïs Nin