I know, I know, it's been months. But, before you stake me, read ahead to the sweet lemon pie that I promise. :3 Don't say I didn't warn you. (;

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Audrey awakes in the middle of the night to something that is far too warm and smooth to just be the blankets she sleeps under. The vague memory of Matt crawling into bed beside her creeps at the corners of her mind. And then she realizes that she's got an arm draped lazily over his bare chest, and that the crown of her head is nestled into the crook of his neck. For a moment, she's a little stunned. She expects him to wake up and fly out of bed. She expects his eyes to widen with the shock of a kid caught smoking. She would have expected anything, really, anything but the slow, languid breathing and the lazy, sleeping dead weight of his body against hers; unflinching.

A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. Audrey begins to recall their first moment at this sort of proximity. The lazy drag of his mouth over her shoulder, the tender pressure of his lips that had shocked her nearly into sitting bolt upright, and the warmth, the warmth of a human body that has never laid in such a way beside another… the pure heat of him was enough to make snow feel like embers. She feels his chest rise as he takes in a deep breath. And then, she feels him stiffen as he holds it in.

Curiosity impends on her. She lifts her head upward.

Matt's eyes are looking straight ahead, into the pooling shadows on the ceiling, and he is quiet, and still, as if he's never slept a day in his life. Like his eyes are those of a statue that has never known the pleasures of snow-light touches that feel like embers. Audrey's eyebrows pull together and she tilts her head into his shoulder to better look at him. Matt notices. He closes his eyes and lets out his breath.

They remain quiet for a moment, testing the waters, seeing if they are both okay with being where they are, seeing if they can be okay with being awake while being where they are, each expecting the other to sit up, mutter some sort of apology, and make their leave.

But neither move, or even breathe too deeply, for a long, long moment. Matt is the first to speak, as he usually is. It is a slow, quiet drawl; a question that has needed answering for quite some time now.

"Is this," he says heavily, "what you want, Audrey?"

She swallows down the uncertain knot in her throat. Of course, she cranes her neck, this is what I want. Her mouth hovers over that tender breadth of lurid skin, this is what I've always wanted, that is the hollow at the base of his jaw. "Yes," she breathes out. "Yes, Matt…. yes."

"Say it," he strains. He is gritting his teeth down on each other. God, I need to hear her say it. God, I need her. I need her. I need her.

"I want this, Matt," she implores. "I've wanted this since before I can remember, I've always wanted this, and you, and -" One by one, words get lost as she closes the distance between her mouth and his warm, warm skin.

Matt closes his eyes when she drops her lips to the skin of his neck. He closes his eyes and tightens his grip about her waist and slips his hands under her loose t-shirt in one fluid, impassive movement. A deep breath draws into his lungs, and is loosly expelled when she kisses the side of his neck again. Matt doesn't open his eyes. He moves his hands over the curves of her back, just feeling, the way a blind man might. God knows he's been blind, God only knows…

She kisses the base of his neck; that gentle slope where his shoulder begins, and Matt nods his head slowly.

"Good," he breathes. "Good, because -"

Her mouth moves a little more adventurously to his collarbone. He is rendered momentarily breathless.

"B-because, I don't know how you'll expect me to stop after this point."

Audrey's listless kisses drag to a stop at the center of his shoulder. Matt thinks he feels a timid smile crack the corners of her lips, and he is uncertain for a lengthy moment if her quiet comes from fright, or nervousness, or the same brand of dizzying, intoxicating need that is blooming over his skin. She moves her hands up his arms, holding his forearms in place around her, and she nods, pouring her gray eyes into his, like an oil spill in a swamp. It is a leaden motion, but its enough.

Matt bends his neck and crushes his lips to hers, which are, in fact, smiling softly, with a glint of excitement floating in her half-lidded eyes.

Dear God, he kisses her. He kisses her like a man who has never shared lips with a genuine woman before. He kisses her like his life is going to end if he stops. And she returns the gesture, feeling every bit of broken down, shattering want the way he does, if not ten times more fierce, as the embrace goes on and gives way.

And give way it does, like water gushing out of a cracked dam. He holds her close and opens his mouth to her.

Hesitation is lost between limbs and lips that wrap and take, to each his own. There is no give and take, but a mutal receiving of things that have been a long, long time coming.

Hands to hips and lips to lips. And things are give, give, giving.

Giving way to his hands smoothing up her legs, under the hem of the oversized t-shirt she stole to sleep in, over her thighs. Giving way to her legs twining over top of his, to the touch of something that is electrified to full attention to something that is giving itself away for the want, and the need, and the Sweet God, have mercry, because he's touching her gently, his hand between her thighs at the center of something raw and untapped, and so warm, warmth everywhere, and so full of breathless need -

Audrey throws her head back with something between a gasp and a groan. Her lips fall apart, just the way the rest of her is. Matt bends his head and moves his lips over the flushed skin of her neck, to her ear where he lays quiet, flurried words of apologies and confessions between kisses and groans. With hands that are light and heavy at the same time, he strokes her carefully, cups her carefully, holds her carefully until she's moving against his hand, grasping him, holding him, touching absolutely anything she can keep her hands on.

Glory God, he needs her. He needs every movement of her skin, and every sound out of her mouth, and the shade of dizzy gray that covers her eyes when he touches her. And touch her he does, because she's putty in his hands, and he's trespassing on something beautifully virginal, but he's not sure it matters anymore, he's not sure anything matters anymore, because she's touching him, too, and it's all he has not to lose his mind in her hands.

It's all he has not to lose his mind here. But God, the way she's on edge puts him on edge, too, and if this keeps up, they'll both fall off a cliff they won't be able to breech ever again.

Their lips meet in a blind rush. And they are both thinking, maybe that would just be okay.