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Part 10: Impetus to linger
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It was the year 2005; and it was strange in nature, strange in hindsight – strange in its implication. In retrospect he had been in the grip of an impossible twist, an arrogant bastard – but he had not noticed it at the time. At the time he had been content.
Resentment and arrogance had not felt poisonous; they had merely accompanied the intense force of aggression he was already too familiar with. That he had been a complete and utter idiot; righteous and grumbling – a menace and a bully; well that was just a part of his nature. Flaws were always easy to spot; they were easy to regret in hindsight. Ironing out his flaws did not make them disappear altogether.
Flaws were an immense part of his framework, even if he was conscious of them – even if he tried to soften them. They were as much a comfort to him as they were an aggravation.
There had been a reason behind the madness, a reason he still found somewhat sensible. Imperfections always came out to play the moment they were urged on, the moment someone or something beckoned them to life. His own roared and came up from the depths, he welcomed them gladly – it was a suitable armor to dwell in after all. He never reacted well to being trod on – he did not react well to challenges being thrown at his feet like an offering. It really came down to the poor social skills of an outsider waltzing into his department and taking cases right out from under his nose – it came down to the fact that he could carry a grudge with a dense disposition.
It was the trouble of being overwhelmed by a feeling of superiority – a need to defend his territory. It needled him how Deputy Chief Johnson merely strode in from the outside, sudden high rank and a squad of her own – an accent that trickled his ears and an appearance that churned his stomach. It did not help that she stepped hard on everyone's toes with no hesitation at all – taking his cases and smiling in that condescending sugary way.
Still, despite the conflict of trying to undermine her, he was caught in a relatively calm sea. How could he not be calm when he had passed his ten year mark of sobriety? How could he not be calm when he had managed to solidify his relationship with his kids – when it blossomed and he no longer felt he was completely worthless in that regard?
His world was almost in a perfect balanced rhythm; the only little flaw that of anger simmering below – nestling whenever he contemplated the construction of major crimes, whenever he contemplated goddamn Deputy Chief Barbie as he called her in his head; it was one of the nicer titles he had assigned to her. Chief Bitch seemed just as appropriate.
There was a calmness to his relationship with Sharon as well. It surprised him but familiarity had dawned a sudden complacency in their midst; regardless of what would tip them off balance they seemed to zero in on equilibrium again. Oh they had quarrels that reminded him of roaring disaster, rough collisions at work but somehow they ended up exactly where they started, a thing mostly composed of calmness.
It was an unwavering foundation to fall back on; it brought as much trouble as it brought peace.
His bedroom had been a nest of calmness, enclosed in humidity and a feeling of being cut off from the rest of the world. It had been coated in tranquility.
Sharon sat atop him, thighs warm – hands alike warm as they traveled up his abdomen, forceful – warm and goddamn comforting around his cock. Intense in a slow uncurling, rocking at an almost sluggishly pace, grinding down in what really could not be described as a grind but more like an almost unperceivable tilt of her pelvis. Her eyes had been closed and her back arched, her mouth slightly apart as she had rocked against him – fingers digging painfully into his skin as if she was trying to transfer the pressure inside her onto him.
She was a conduit of sensation.
Fingers skirting around, in a pitter patter across his chest – coming to rest around the sides of his thighs, digging hard into his flesh whenever she came down on him – a little sigh of content escaping her when his cock hit home. His thumb was on her clit, the other hand running up and down in a calming pattern on her thigh; her mouth seemed to fall more and more apart the more he pushed the pad of fingers into her small bud.
It had been unhurried and glorious.
It had been calm; or at least that had been his impression.
However, now she had stopped, her eyes open in a very perturbed frown, lines crinkling her look into a glare. There was a little turn to her lips that surprised him; she was annoyed – why though he had no idea; he was hard inside her, fingers firmly upon her and circling. She had already climaxed once and he saw no reason for that little frown or the vivid ire in her eyes; gray swirls that reminded him of small kids plying apart the wings from insects.
That specific shade and he knew she was calculating something in her mind; whether it be a line of attack or something equally brutal – it always left him on the verge of anticipation; exhilaration not far behind. That look was more arousing than it was apprehensive; he always got a certain kick out of riling her up. A sentiment he knew she shared with him.
She tilted her head, kneading fingers into the sides of his stomach – a harder approach than the one she usually touched him with. A warning as much as it was a display of annoyance.
"There's a new detective in my squad," she told him in a voice that was too neutral in context, a tone that she preferred to recite regulations in, preferred to reprimand in. A little flavor of something ominous in it – she was preparing to start a storm, preparing to battle out whatever had pulled her into stopping her movements. It was always a quiet and calm tone then, with just enough gravitas to lull you into a false sense of security – usually this was the tone that bore the most promise of danger.
He felt he had spent a lifetime trying to catalogue the different little inflections to her voice and what they meant in the bigger scheme; and somehow she always ended up surprising him. A peculiar thing but he always discovered something new every now and then. This tone it was an unusual blend, flavors of different emotions mixing and leaving him with the impression of annoyance and amusement.
Trying to soothe whatever had annoyed her, his hands came around her hips and dug into the skin as he pushed his hips upwards, enjoying the sudden little grunt that came from her throat at the thrust.
"He's gorgeous," there was an undercurrent of sweetness to her voice now – a dreamlike quality and he looked on with disbelief; she was suddenly smiling and her eyes had that unique glint that told him she had nothing but unsavory thoughts. Her smile was only sweet in the way that sometimes poison can be sugary sweet like honey. It was a smile of danger – a sweet little voice that forebode only trouble.
"You've got to be kiddin' me," he grumbled, but kept grounding their groins together, kept his hold on her hips strong, kept pulling her down meanwhile trying to reign in his thoughts and figure out what he had done to annoy her. Usually it was always an insignificant little thing, always something that evaded him.
"I saw him… in the gym the other day, "she paused to sigh,"… topless"
He arched an eyebrow; there was no mistaking that puff of air leaving her lips or the dark shadows gathering in her eyes, the curl to her lips. If he had not been buried in her, both of them naked and intertwined, envy would have invaded him in a force of anger; he would have snarled.
She was a goddamn ruthless warrior; she did not mind stripping his body of its flesh if she felt it an appropriate punishment – she did not mind tearing skin from muscle and bone, leaving him torn on the floor. It was an aspect of her he found both endearing and deplorable; he recognized it as her little way of situating herself in his life – he knew the more she ripped him apart, the more she cared.
It suited him fine; he was sure he gave back with equal vehemence.
She leaned forward, coming to align her upper chest with his, the impressions of breasts warm against him, the change in angle and he felt himself slide partway out of her.
"I wanted to glide across his chest – Mmm… I'm telling you he's built like a damn fine Greek god," she whispered in his ear, loud and clear even if her voice had turned to a murmur and was so throaty he wanted to swallow it.
"Why are you telling me this?" his voice turned to a deep burr, on the brink of slamming hard into her – instead holding her hips steady and easing out and into her, his own hips strained with effort of not thrusting hard.
Usually they never shared information about other people with each other; merely the knowledge that sometimes there were other people was enough to light him on fire, a furnace of possession always burning deep in him even if he tried to ignore it. Just the notion that she let other men touch her – let other men fuck her; it was too much – better to pretend not to know about it.
There was no inner need to listen to her fantasies about other men; he would rather she keep them to herself – he did not tell her about his fantasies, he did not tell her about who he wanted to fuck; who he went out with and went home with. It was supposed to be an agreement they both treasured. Even the notion of sharing information like that was absurd. They were not exclusive per definition; at least not this year, at least not in this moment in their relationship. Exclusiveness was an off and on thing. However, they were exclusive when they were together, and he preferred it that way.
"Why have you been grumbling about Deputy Chief 'Barbie' for the last half hour? Why, you are ranting about someone else and fucking me; I don't care for it!" her words clear, broke through his reverie and he saw the line of her attack – saw her line of reasoning, heard the vibration of anger in her tone, knew it when she underlined 'fucking' with an extra deep connotation. "You can grumble all you want but not in bed."
Maybe he had ranted a bit too much about work, grumbled a bit too much about the new deputy chief.
Instead of apologizing he grinned wide, a leg against her hip so he could flip them over. The force of his weight pushing her into the mattress, his hands around her wrists, his body heavy on top – keeping her in place.
The ire in her eyes deepened but it was accompanied by her legs opened further and coming around his middle, soft. Annoyance suited her well when her cheeks were flushed from sex, her lips swollen and red – her eyes heavy in shadows. Small beads of perspiration lingering on her skin, a shine to her that was both heavy and clingy; they had lingered in his bedroom for most of the afternoon – night had slowly settled.
Lips met halfway, teeth clicking and tongues tangling, small whispers of moans in their throats as he thrust into her, fast and hard – her legs anchoring around him with angry surrender, a tight embrace, the muscles of her thighs hard.
"Andy," she breathed, her voice coming out in a short gasp, followed by air. Eyes seeking his, mouths landing on the nearest little patch of skin, pulling lips in between lips, trying to settle a softer approach in their kiss while he continued a hard rhythm, her legs tightening.
Tightening his grip around the bones of her wrists, he pressed her further into the mattress, trying to push her further in as he pounded into her – he felt the strength of her muscles become tense, her forearms strained – her biceps standing out as she tried to push against him. Her heel dug into the flesh of his ass with a forceful insistence; he was uncertain whether it was meant to push him further into her or whether it was meant to hurt him back. He chose the first; sliding out before he thrust into her again, enjoying the small quiver in his groin – felt small answering quivers in her inner muscles surrounding his cock.
Her other heel dug into his ass as well – harder, more adamant.
"Don't stop" she started, then drew a little inhalation, "God damn"
Profanities always got to him, curled into his being with a delightful little twist – forced his mouth from her lips and downwards, latching onto the skin of her throat with his teeth; he bit into her neck, delighted to feel her moan beyond the skin, to feel the tautness in her body as she writhed beneath him.
It was one of those times where she insisted on roughness – he felt only too happy to oblige. He was only too caught up in emotion anyway, already filled to the brim with a need to explode – better he fuck her than continue to vent his frustration about the new commanding officer of major crimes. Better he let himself compress into this little moment – it would pull every last little tendril of tension in his body away – would strip till him till he lay bare, panting and exhausted.
Additionally, he needed to fuck the notion of this new detective out of her head.
It was a matter of pride, mostly – he knew she was only goading him, knew she was only making a point. She had no want to listen to him rant about another woman – even if it was one he had no intention of fucking.
Traveling down from her neck and the sore flesh, his mouth landed around one nipple, drew the little bud into his mouth and sucked hard, kept it in his mouth, tongue circling. Afterwards he jarred his teeth along the inner slope of her breasts, enjoying being able to feel the movement of her shaky breaths.
"How old is he?" he whispered when he slid his mouth up along her throat again, going behind her ear – and ending up drawing her earlobe into his mouth – pulling it with his teeth.
"Oh get a grip, old man," she moaned.
"That young!"
"I was making a point"
"Oh – so he's made-up," it inflicted him with breath, almost expelling relief from his lungs.
"Yes, yes," she pouted, her lips coming together in a little o that he would never admit he found adorable, "now please, go on – move your hips, honey"
"Whatever you say, Ma'am," he replied in the same mocking tone, rocking against her again.
"C'mon Lieutenant, put some integrity to it," she teased, her voice light but strained from pressure in her thorax; he could feel the tension as his mouth travelled from her ear, down her throat, past the junction between her two clavicles before coming to her breasts again, once again sucking nipples into his mouth and enjoying her groans, rocking into her.
He let go of her wrists, the skin pale from his tight hold – he let his fingers run up and down, caressing before they travelled into her hair, tangled in among the thick hair – brought her head to his as he landed his lips on hers, growled into her mouth, grinding mouths as much together as their groins were grinding together.
Her fingers trailed up his back – came to the hair at the back of his head; a sudden hard grip in among the short strands, painful.
He broke apart, moved a little breath away from her – looked into her eyes.
How she could wear a small smile and still look incensed; it was a mystifying little detail. He had stopped moving, maybe that was the reason for the annoyance in the depths of her eyes – maybe it was the reason for that silly little smile.
He leaned down and kissed her again, anger leaving him swiftly, tension softening; a languor to their lips against each other.
Angry sex never seemed to be a thing that kept on being angry. It always trickled into comfort and slowness in the end – or it became too poignant in its touch.
Sometimes when anger came into their midst, he would get caught up in a horrible little feeling; was he any different than Michael? He never told her about his little insecurities in this aspect; he was afraid of what she would say. It had taken him years to wring information out of her; it had taken a long time to finally understand what made her propel into his life in the first place, what made her seek him out.
For many years it had been the assumption that she sought him out when Michael let her down; it was partly true. But there had been a nuance to this he had not been able to comprehend before the day she had told him she loved him; afterwards he was left with a new understanding – a more comprehensible outlook on what they meant.
"I love you," she now told him in a light voice, her eyes serious, "even if you are a grouch – even if you are" she laughed against his lips, her fingers in a soothing pattern down his back, "bad-tempered like no one else."
Curious, he could count the number of times she had told him and even now if felt like an impact. It was not the first time but it was still a rare little thing, it was not something she flung out every now and then.
This time it was different. Love being expressed was about timing and context; this time it was plain. It was more poignant than the other times she had told him – calmer; as if she was stating the fact that it was raining. The added little merriment to her tone, it slid under his skin and lingered. No one had ever told him they loved him in spite of all his small little imperfections but then again no one had ever stroked his hair and told him he was not worthless, told him that he was not to fault – she had been the foremost reason he had not drowned completely in a bottle all those times he had staggered drunk to her house.
Back then however he had not been able to see the nuance; it was vivid now – it had even been vivid back then.
He remembered a conversation they had not so long ago; he had unwittingly tried to pull out of her why she was still separated – why she was not pushing for divorce papers. It had eluded him; it had nestled within him and he had felt like a substitute – a worrying nauseating feeling within. It was strange when he wanted to pull her in and hold her close; strange when she skirted from his touch – sometimes belonging to him and sometimes far out of reach.
"You can love more than one person at a time," she had told him. One little sentence, a warm voice and she was able to impress upon him a whole spectrum of enlightenment.
It was not about loving one thing more than another; it was not about belonging to someone more or less – she did not love him less or more than Michael. In that aspect he was a different thing; a separated thing that had its own compartment in her heart.
It had soothed him; maybe he was rooted in the left chambers of her heart – Michael would be in the right. Both components essential but not alike in their essence; he liked to think he was the brute strength of her left ventricle – expelling blood with force and animation; it would account for the devastation when they did not work properly. When the left ventricle failed it was a dizzying concept whereas the notion of the right ventricle was different; it was an undercurrent, hidden whereas the left was more vibrant in both its distress and in its proper function. The right ventricle was alike a congestion when it was out of balance, the left was breathlessness.
Curious; he liked to think she leapt between the different compartments of his own heart; sometimes she was the force that kept life flowing, sometimes she was the foundation of quietude – always flickering between being forceful and lingering; but never not constant; flickering between grounding him and pushing him.
Tickling the back of her knee, he took both of her legs and settled them across his shoulders, expelling heavy breaths as he started again; another rhythm this time – still hard and fast but enveloped by a little sweet touch along her legs.
However absurd it was, he did not mind that she still loved Michael; he knew it was a thing she would not let go of – eventually though it would fade. It would dwindle, maybe it would not altogether disappear but he knew it would be a small little undercurrent – weak. In comparison he knew he was at the other end of the spectrum; flourishing and evolving, even if sometimes their rhythm was a bit absent. Absence in her life did not mean he faded; he was just as vivid when they came together again.
It was a rather unconventional relationship when he found himself ruminating about it. He treasured it nonetheless.
Groins meeting groins, the sound was loud and mechanical – hurried; but it was the outside. Inside it was mountains rumbling in earthquakes, it was the ground heaving and roaring, readying to be split apart and cast around.
Outside it was bodies rocking against each other, rough in appearance and in stark contrast to slow. Inside it was a connection of warmth and the little tight ball of pleasure soaring in the horizon, coming unbearably closer and closer.
She had already climaxed once; he had been adamant between her legs, mouth on her clit before he had been unclothed himself. Unsurprisingly he had been too angry after leaving work, and he had merely wanted to be able to listen to her moans as she came. Now he could feel her trembling beneath him, could feel the strain in her body – the stretching and recoiling of muscles as she tried to alleviate some of the pressure.
Pressure building within was twofold; always caught in between wanting to let it steam out in climax and the need for it to continue building and rising without release. He was undecided whether he wanted release or whether he wanted to let it keep going, inevitably more unbearable the longer it kept spiraling beyond release.
There was a tint to pleasure that was painful the longer it kept on building; a tint that was unbearable but mesmerizing – the notion that it would never come to an end. He liked the notion of infinity; not in the immortal meaning of never-ending age – but in the notion that sometimes a moment was drawn out. Sometimes a little moment in time seemed to hover in a long drawn out breath; unbearable in its motionless, in its abrupt stop – in its lingering.
He liked the notion of lingering when it came to her.
Another realization had hit him; something he had been able to see suddenly – it was obvious once sobriety had permeated him to the core. They were able to rely on their friendship in a way they would never have been able to if they had not had a platonic relationship all those years back. It was a comforting little part of them; it kept them more entwined than he had imagined. The dark notion that she was still separated it had diminished and he barely gave that status any thought anymore; it was inconsequential – as she had tried to tell him a number of times. The distinction between separation and divorce had nothing to do with him – it had nothing to do with their love.
He slowed down – changed the rhythm to a slow glide; the sudden change instantly reverberating in another sensation. She let out a drawn-out moan – a tone that slipped away in the room but left an impression of its existence. He impressed himself into letting his hands dig into her hips – her legs over his shoulders, her heels into the muscles of his back.
"You should get riled up more often," she panted and he answered with a grunt.
Fucking, he thought, was a wonderful thing – even more when it was composed of a familiarity that propelled you into lingering.
It had an impetus then; a very compelling fragment that felt not dissociated but cohesive.
Going from slow to fast again, holding them together with his hands on her hips and the momentum of his pounding; she came unexpectedly. Usually there was a certain shimmer around her body and a certain tension; this however came all of a sudden and brought him with it.
She seemed surprised as well, her body tense then slack with a surprised flavor – her eyes wide and clear when she opened them.
A smile blossoming on her lips when he felt his own strength waning and he let go, coming to rest on top of her, heavy and exhausted.
A deep kiss, her lips seeking out his as she stroked his back, stroked his neck – came to rest calmly in his hair.
"I love you," he grunted into her skin, warm and slightly damp; he liked the sheen of exertion on her.
She hummed; and he listened to the voice. He could linger in the tone.
If she would let him he could linger in her existence.
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