Making a Mistake
When they are finally safely in the air, flying away from South Ossetia, when everything of importance is said and done, and his presence is no longer required, the first thing Grant does is to head for the shower – he has nothing else on his mind than washing away the filth of the last two days, the dust and the sweat and the blood and the reek of the cheap vodka.
In the tiny bathroom of the Bus, he tunes everything out; for a couple of minutes, it's just him, no threats, no aching readiness in his muscles, no walls around him. There, even if only for a little while, he can relax. Maybe that's why he doesn't realize that there's somebody else in the room with him until the door of the shower cubicle opens, and his intruder steps into the small enclosed area to share it with him.
He tenses right away and turns to face them, only to find himself face to face with her.
With Skye.
She is standing right in front of him, close enough to touch, so close, too close, nude as the day she was born, the droplets from the showerhead already clinging to her skin and hair, resting on her lashes like tiny diamonds.
His breath catches in his throat.
"What…" he starts, but she interrupts him.
"I…" she looks away, almost shy (but not so shy to be ashamed of her nakedness), then reaches for his hand, taking the bar of soap from him without a word. "I thought I lost you, today, and I think it has just sunk in," she tells him slow and calm and soft, raising the soap to his shoulder and running it down his bicep; his muscles twitch under her gentle touch. "And I can make jokes about it, but…" she sighs, her chest rising with her breath; he can't help it – he looks down, enticed by the roundness of her breasts. "But I don't know what I would have done if you didn't come back. I don't know if…" she trails off, running the soap down his chest, down the contour of his pectorals, down the flat planes of his stomach, down to trail of sparse, dark hair under his navel.
He grabs her wrist.
"What are you doing here?" he asks. His heartbeat quickens, and he is painfully aware of everything around him, about her – he feels her pulse beating wildly under his fingertips, he feels as she trembles despite the hot mist in the cubicle, sees her eyes, pupils wide and infinitely black with desire, and sees her lips tremble slightly in fear, in excitement, in anticipation.
She looks into his eyes, for the first time since she stepped into the shower.
"I think I'm making a mistake," she says, her eyes boring into his.
The next moment she is rising to her tiptoes, and he freezes; he stands completely still as she puts her hands on his shoulder, rising taller, her lips nearing his.
There's hesitation; their breaths mingling, but lips not touching, she moves to reach him several times, but always draws back, unsure, tentative. Their mouths millimeters from each other, her eyes half-hooded and her lips slightly apart (he just cannot not notices these little things, nor the barely visible freckles over the bridge of her nose, or all the colors in her irises), they are so close that their bodies press together, the soft peaks of her breasts against his hard muscles.
There's only so long he can stand this torture.
He breaks first; grabs the back of her head, her hair wet under his fingers, and pulls her close – the soap drops to the floor –, claiming her lips she offered so kindly.
Their kiss is not tentative at all; the moment their mouths meet, it's a mad flurry of lips and teeth and tongues and sighs and moans. It's wild and passionate and nothing like a first kiss should go; he doesn't mind at all.
Her hands are frantic, reaching everywhere – cupping his face and sliding into his hair, clutching his shoulders and sliding down his chest. He pulls her close, pressing their bodies together, his arms around her waist. It's a wild dance, something that has been long time coming if he is being honest with himself, but still astonishing.
The moment she sinks her teeth into his lower lip is the moment he gives up all resemblance of control. He growls into her mouth and sneaks his hand under her thighs, lifting her and pressing her back against the wall of the shower. She grips his shoulders to steady herself, and wraps her legs around his waist, pulling an earlobe between her teeth, nibbling on it in an almost encouraging way.
Not that he needs encouragement.
Steadying himself with one hand, he slides into her welcoming heat the next moment – he has been hard since the moment she touched him –, making her let out a soft cry of ecstasy as her walls clamp around him.
It's indescribable, how it feels to be inside her, being enveloped by her from the tip of his member to the base of it, his pubic bone pressing against hers. It almost makes him go crazy with pleasure.
He doesn't give her time to adjust to the size of him, but starts moving right away. There's nothing gentle or romantic about it – he pounds into her, hard and fast, wild and passionate, gripping her waist with enough force to leave bruises. Not that she seems to mind it – her legs are tight around his waist, her nails are drawing angry, red lines into his skin over his shoulder blades, while she pants and moans and cries into his ear, asking – begging – for more.
So he gives it to her.
He knows he won't last long; he is worked up, high on adrenaline, but tired, exhausted, sore from the mission. He is desperate to finish, to experience that sweet abandon of pleasure – to experience it with her –, so he reaches down and finds her clit, rubbing it with his thumb roughly, coaxing her along towards her own climax, while murmuring the lovers' nonsense into her ear.
It works; soon she tightens around him, her whole body tensing, and then she is falling over the edge, her walls gripping then releasing him, then gripping again in a wild rhythm, her nails digging even deeper into his flesh (even the pain feels good when it's her inflicting it), chanting his name (the others might hear it; he doesn't care).
And then he is coming to, shooting his seed into her still pulsating core, his mind going blank, his world shrinking to her, to her soft, warm body and enticing curves and silky skin and honest eyes and loving heart. He comes silent, but holding her close, as if he never wants to let her go again.
(He never wants to let her go ever again.)
Minutes later she is sitting on the counter, her body lax, still naked, hair still wet, but a towel wrapped around her shoulders and a soft, sated smile on her face.
He can't help but smile back as he steps between her legs and rests his forehead against hers.
"It wasn't a mistake," he whispers before kissing her.