I do not own I Think We're alone Now.
It is just absolute perfection and I love it.
Home Becomes You
Grace is a Siren, Del is a Thirsting Man at Sea
Then weeks later, months, after she has stopped having nightmares and the hollows under her eyes have gone away, after tears and rage and sadness have begun to ebb away.
After he has gingerly taken the staples out of the back of her neck and her head thankfully did not fall off.
After he brings her home, one night she comes to him.
"Grace?"
Laying down next to him in his bed, curling her body against his.
His arm automatically goes around her, always ready now to protect, to care.
"Are you alright?"
She reaches out her hand in the dark, strokes gentle fingers along the scruff of his jawline.
"Mmmh."
Down his neck, down along the fabric of his sleeping shirt.
She's never been this physical with him before, this forward before.
When he doesn't reciprocate, she advances further.
Wrapping a leg around him, kissing the side of his face, the highly sensitive lobe of his ear, down the side of his neck.
"Grace, . . . you don't . . . you don't have to do this."
Turning his head gently to face hers, finding his lips with hers, soft and moist and wanting.
Coaxing deeper and deeper kisses out of his hesitant self, the one that worries he shouldn't, their age differences, their self differences.
But if he asked her, resolutely insisted, he thinks she would stop.
But he . . .
"I know."
. . . doesn't . . . want . . . to.
And her hand migrates south, finds the growing tent of his sleeping pants.
He does reach out then, mind a feverish scramble.
Grasps her hand, brings it back up to his chest.
Breaks the contact of lips, watches her open her eyes, hazy with desire.
She looks at him and he searches her face.
"Is this what you want?"
Asking his question.
"Yes."
Trying to find truth.
"It's what I want."
And reason.
And she responds with her question.
"Isn't it what you want?"
He swallows, unable to deny what he has been devoutly setting aside since she kissed him in the dark cab of the truck.
"Yes."
It comes out as a raspy murmur, hardly more than a breath.
She smiles and it's real.
"Okay."
And he closes his eyes as she brings her mouth to his once more.
As her hand resumes its exploration.
His hesitantly reaching out to the pointed tips of her simple, white, oversized t-shirt.
She moans into his mouth at his touch and that makes him more awake than ever before.
His sleeping pants are slightly more complicated to remove than her white cotton panties based on their current positioning.
They take care of it easily both ways.
And then . . .
"Del . . ."
"Grace . . ."
. . . she lithely slips herself over atop him.
He's careful, tries to be so careful with her.
And the pleasure is so exquisite, so intense, almost painful, and he thinks his groan matches her moan.
"Oh god . . . Del . . . is . . . is this what you thought you were protecting me from . . ."
No.
It's what I was protecting myself from.
". . . oh god . . ."
He tries to let her lead as she moves, it's her body and her choice, he randomly feels that was a slogan somewhere at some point, though he can't think of where at the moment.
He tries to contain, control his emotions, this man never having experienced this type of physical contact in the fifty-plus years he has been on this planet.
"Del . . . oh . . ."
Nevertheless, his hands somehow slip themselves under the hem of her shirt anyhow, find firm flesh of her thighs, her hips.
Instinctually, almost against his will, he molds his palms to the outside of her hips, her rump , grips them, and moves them.
Encouraging movement, a rhythm.
And they find it together and he watches her through half-lidded eyes in his own haze as she rides her desire to completion, crying out, face an open expression of pleasure.
He cries out a little himself at the end, after he's held out as long as he can to give her as much of what she seems to be enjoying so much.
In the end, she slumps over him, gasping for breath, and he instinctively wraps his arms around her.
Their heartbeats race together, begin to slow.
She eventually slips off him, resumes her previous cradle, his arm around her, her hair tickling his cheek.
Fingers playing with the cotton of his shirt.
And it's a long time . . .
"Del, . . . you don't have to say it back if you don't want, I don't mind but . . . I love you. I have for a long time."
"I . . . I love you too, Grace."
. . . before either one of them speak again.
Ahem.
Yeah.