Whispers in the Night

"Tell me what you want."

His voice is a breathy whisper against her ear as his fingers skim along the skin of her hips – feathery-light touches that leave her dizzy –, and she just can't help but moan.

She won't lie (there's no point to) – she has been imagining how sex with Ward would feel like basically since the day they met. (The version of him who lived in the realms of her wildest fantasies made several long, lonely nights more bearable.) But she would have never guessed that it would be like… like this.

Tender. Loving. Tentative. Sensual. Waiting for her approval.

He places an open-mouthed kiss on her neck, his tongue touching the sensitive skin. A tremble runs through her body.

"You," she whispers, breathless. "I want you."

There's a moment of stillness when his gaze flickers to look into her eyes, seeking confirmation, and when he gets it, he kisses her, rough, demanding, passionate, while grabbing her hips and lifting her, until her legs are wrapped around his waist.

She doesn't protest, just keeps kissing him, the flames of desire rising inside her body as he takes her to his bunk, lays her down on the bed gently, almost too gently, and starts unbuttoning her shirt, kissing down the center of her chest as he pops open button after button.

It's great, it's amazing, it's heavenly, only… It doesn't feel like sex, she comes to the realization suddenly, almost scared, almost bolting from his bed.

Because he is kissing her – worshipping her – a lot like as if he loved her.

And she is not sure she's ready for that.

But then he sighs "Skye…" against her belly button, kissing the shallow dent in the muscle, and there's something in his tone that calms her, that makes her stay.

(She can love him. She loves him.)

So instead she sits up, pushing him back slowly. She shrugs off her shirt, reaches behind her back to unclasp her bra (she doesn't miss how his eyes darken as the garment comes off), and then, only then, she reaches for the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it off. She helps him get rid of his clothes, her eyes locked on his awe-struck gaze, to tell him that she is in it just as much as he is.

When he is finally bare against her nude form, he doesn't take her right away – he is still so unhurried –, but sits back as she lies in from of him, offering herself to him. He brushes his fingertips along her heated skin, tracing the contours of her breasts, the inward curve of her waist, his fingers slipping between her folds, until she is so aroused by his gentle, barely-there touches that she can hardly think.

When he finally slips into her, it's nothing like she's ever felt before. It's familiar and strange at the same time, as if they've been doing this for years, her body recognizing his, and yet, it's a shock, it's undiscovered territory, it's exciting, it's terrifying.

She loves it.

He sets a slow, unhurried rhythm, adjusting his movements to her sighs and moans and whimpers, as if he wanted to savor every single moment of their coupling, etching it into his memory (as if nothing matters, just her). And all the while he keeps whispering into her ear – whispering sweet nothings, things she wouldn't have thought he was capable of – things like that she's beautiful, that she's perfect, that she's his salvation. She wants to answer him, but she just can't, at least not with words – so she just buries her fingers in his hair, drawing his head up and kissing him, kissing him as she feels her orgasm approaching.

They come together, she spasming around him, he grunting and stilling, spilling himself inside her – and it's surprising, because it's something she's never experienced before, not with Miles, not with anybody else. She just wasn't attuned enough to them, she guesses.

But that raises the question: would she be so attuned to him?

Afterwards, when they both start their slow descend from their highs, he collapses next to her, his head pillowed on her chest, his hand resting on her hip. She doesn't even try to move – she just places her hand on his cheek, caressing his face, learning every line and angle.

And all the while, her pleasure-addled brain is turning – she knows she's gotten a lot more than she expected (than she deserved?), and that she is already deeper than she has ever meant to get.

But she doesn't care. She isn't even scared.

(Why would she be?)

Suddenly she knows, with perfect clarity, that she is right where she is destined to be.