12: Break It on Down

In the morning, Helena was shocked to find Butcher in her kitchen, making coffee in his pajamas. And not just the cheap instant coffee she kept in the cupboard, but the expensive, European grounds she liked to brew in the French press. The smell was heavenly.

But him actually doing something for her was not as surprising as the fact that he was still here, in her home. After she broke down on him last night, she had expected him to be long gone by now. Allergic to emotions, as he was.

"You're still here?" she said, unable to quell her incredulous tone. He looked up at her with a raised brow, then a smirk.

"What, am I trespassing?" he replied, with his usual snark.

"Do you even know what you're doing there, Chef Ramsay?" She nodded at the French press. He was stirring newly poured hot water in with the grounds in the carafe. He seemed to be doing it correctly, which was yet another surprise.

"Ya know, I'm not some cave-dwelling creature," he said defensively. "Just 'cause I don't buy into this fancy bullshit doesn't mean I can't work it out."

He then put on the lid and left it to brew. "Instead of belittlin' me, maybe you could get some eggs going."

He then pulled out a package of bacon from the fridge, presumably to start frying up a few slices.

"And you might think about restocking sometime soon, before all you've got left are mustard packets and a two-year-old packet'a fish sticks," he added. "How the hell did that survive the move?"

A smile threatened to curve her lips. Helena closed her robe more securely, as she was still just wearing her nightgown underneath. He'd already seen it last night and hadn't made any flirtatious overtures, despite some looks she'd caught him making when they were baking cookies. He was only a man, after all. But she didn't think he truly saw her that way.

Not anymore, at least.

Sure, he made his sly remarks every now and then, but that was just Butcher's default. Any chance they might've had of breaking that boundary died the moment they discovered Becca was alive. The fact that she was gone now didn't change anything, in Helena's mind. Whatever was left of Butcher's heart only had room for Becca. And out of respect for her, Helena wouldn't cross that line. Not even for one night of easy, no-strings fucking.

Because even that, she knew, wouldn't be just once. And it probably wouldn't be easy—not in the long run. When she couldn't trust her own heart to not get…attached.

So, what are you doing exactly? she thought, as she moved around Butcher to grab the eggs from the fridge. Are you running a bed & breakfast for ex-cons, or are you just playing house with your best friend's husband?

No, she reminded herself. It was for Becca that she was doing this. She wouldn't have wanted Butcher to twist in the wind forever, with no safe place to come home to…but could Helena really be that for him? Could she handle it—and the many perils that came with a man like him?

She changed into a comfortable yellow sundress, and they eventually sat down to breakfast at her small dining table, fit for two. Even with this large house, she hadn't seen the need for a bigger table. It wasn't like she often had company out here in the sticks.

But first, Butcher poured her a cup of coffee. His long fingers brushed hers when he passed her the mug. Her eyes flicked up to his, and she murmured her thanks. His mouth quirked upwards, then he took the seat across from her. She found herself smiling before she realized it.

"So," she began. She cleared her throat a little and took a sip of coffee. It was fucking perfection. "Are you finally going to tell me what you've been up to?"

He was already digging into his eggs and bacon like the carnivore he was. She followed suit at a more human pace.

"What?" he said, unfortunately with his mouth full. She inhaled, and chanced on touching something sensitive.

"Ryan, for example. Have you looked in on him at all?"

Since it happened, was implicit. Butcher's gaze finally met hers. It took him a while to reply, but eventually, she sensed he gave the truth.

"Every now and again, for whatever it's worth," he replied.

"I'm sure it's worth a lot to him," she said. "Becca didn't just want him to be safe. She wanted him to be taken care of."

"Mallory's got that worked out."

"I'm sure she's keeping an eye on him too. But who's taking care of him?"

"What's it to you, anyway?" Butcher said. There was a bit more bite in his tone, and Helena could see him tensing up the further the conversation went. She wasn't going to pretend she completely understood Butcher yet, but she was learning.

"I saw you with him, Billy. Much as you're trying to deny it, you care," she said. "Ryan may not be your son, but you're all he has now."

After a moment, Butcher gave a short, humorless chuckle before he brought his coffee mug to his lips. "Ain't that a scary thought."

Helena saw the self-deprecation in his eyes, and was sad. Billy Butcher was by no means a perfect man. Most times, he wasn't even a good one. But he did have a heart, no matter how much he tried to bury it. Despite his calloused edges, there was a good man in him. She had seen it.

Maybe that was why, as hard as she tried, as much as M.M. and Mallory and Becca's death warned her otherwise…she couldn't say no to him.

Butcher was starting to feel that familiar itch: the reminder that he should be moving on. He had dropped in here more than too many times, because it was convenient. Because it was a safe place with free food and a comfortable bed. But clearly, if he could be roped into baking cookies at 2 a.m., it was too fucking comfortable.

Still, when Helena acknowledged that he was eating her out of house and home, and she needed to go out and replenish her kitchen, he found himself agreeing to go with her to the local grocery store.

"Really, you don't need to take off anywhere?" she asked. She was trying not to show it, but she looked hopeful. He wasn't expecting that, and wasn't sure if he felt pleased, or just uncomfortable.

"Nah, I can stay…as long as you're cooking," he replied.

Helena rolled her eyes and grabbed her purse and keys from where she left them on the kitchen counter.

"Right. I have a feeling if it hadn't been for M.M. or Frenchie in your little boy band, you'd have withered up and died of starvation before any supe managed to stomp you out," she quipped.

"That's what Shake Shack is for," he countered. He then followed her out the front door, with his own wallet and keys in his pocket.

Really, he should be checking in on Ryan. She had unknowingly reminded him about it at breakfast. Mallory certainly had the night before, in a text designed to be equal parts guilt-tripping and blackmailing. Butcher should just ignore the old bat on principle.

But then again, he was 99% certain Mallory was the reason he'd been able to move off the radar for the past eight months. Homelander-free. So essentially, she was likely the reason Butcher was still breathing.

Tonight, he decided. He would set out tonight to go see Ryan, like he promised Becca he would. And then he wouldn't come back to upstate New York for a good long time.

That decision solidified in his mind as he followed Helena around the grocery store. She seemed comfortable in her new house, and in this slow, small town, where she already knew her neighbors and almost every shopper in the store knew her. They greeted her with inane, civilized chitchat.

She didn't seem to mind it, and had smiles and polite conversations with all of them. First there was a married pair and their two kids tearing around the display of canned corn and green beans. Then there was the old man and his emotional-support ferret (Butcher wasn't one to judge, but as a New Yorker, he had a disdain for long rats).

Meanwhile, Butcher was the scruffy, somewhat dangerous-looking shadow behind her. And their surreptitious side-eying confirmed what he already knew: he was out of place here, and in her life, and it was time for him to go. Maybe for good this time.

"I was thinking of making fajitas. What do you think?" she asked. He sensed her looking at him, and it shook him out of his thoughts.

"I'm not choosy," he said. "Just don't go overboard on the poblano peppers. Last time I couldn't get off the shitter for six hours."

Helena choked on a laugh, but shushed him with a reprimand in her eyes for speaking so loudly. She dragged him into the produce aisle to hide him from the now frowning couple and their giggling kids.

He graciously bent down to say, maybe a little too closely, "I'm serious about them fucking peppers."

She narrowed her eyes at him over her shoulder and smirked.

"Lightweight," she said, and pointedly nudged him in the arm. "Now behave."

Helena then spent the next few minutes ignoring him. She inspected various fruit and veg with a scrutiny that reminded him of Mother's Milk. While she was preoccupied with the merits of organic versus non-organic avocados (they looked exactly the same to him), he snuck over to the bakery.

Really, who decided to put the veg next to the cakes and cookies and shit?

"You know, avocados are technically a fat, but they're really good for you," Helena said. She tossed a few into one of those plastic, yet paper-thin, can't-hold-more-than-a-Brussel-sprout produce bags.

"So I've heard," Butcher said, only half-listening. When he first met up with Helena after all those years, she was a chili-cheeseburger eating, Chinese takeout-every-week kinda girl. Now she was apparently scouring health-nut blogs and doing yoga lessons off of YouTube.

Well, the yoga he didn't mind. Her ass did look great in spandex.

While she was still contemplating fruit, he came in behind her and dropped a strawberry cheesecake into the cart. He hid it under a broccoli stalk and a bunch of bananas.

"Yeah, they're made of monosaturated fats, so it's the good fat. Not me-in-middle-school-fat, before my mom made me join the swim team," she said. "Like she wasn't the one who raised me almost exclusively on Cuban pastries and fried chicken."

"Parents," Butcher scoffed in sympathy, even as he added a container of cherry Danishes to the cart. "The fucking nerve."

"Right?" She finally decided on the normal avocados, crossing the item off her shopping list. She even starred it on the notepad, reminding herself that she was only buying three of them instead of four. Yet another thorough, bordering on anal trait he would typically associate with M.M.

But even that simple thing, Butcher was sure, was part of what made Helena successful at Vought. She was meticulous, catching details and patterns that others missed. And like Butcher, she could be relentless about it. Which might've been why she found out Becca was alive before he did.

And according to Mallory, she had given them a thorough intel report that they were still sorting through, eight months later. That included access codes and memos Helena recorded herself, from memory.

In Butcher's experience, the CIA recruited on that kind of talent. He wondered, in fact, if Mallory had offered her the same "in" with Supe Affairs as she has offered him.

"Hey, you okay?" Helena asked. Butcher inwardly shook himself from his thoughts again and met her gaze.

"Why?"

"I don't know. You've been broody all day," she said. Her brows crunched with concern, and maybe a little bit of suspicion.

"Do what you want with dinner," he said. "Looks like I'm gonna have to take off when we get back to the house."

Her suspicion grew with her crossed arms and pursed lips. "Why, what happened?"

"It's better you don't know," he said…which wasn't exactly a lie. But she clearly sensed it wasn't the whole truth. Her expression dimmed, and she turned away from him to push the cart. It felt very much like a cold front was settling in.

Butcher almost sighed in annoyance. He followed her into the checkout line, where she started loading everything onto the conveyor belt.

He tried to hand her the eggs, but she only looked up briefly at him before she said, "I've got this. You can wait in the car if you want."

Before he could answer that he wasn't going to wait in the car like a little boy, the cashier brightened when he saw Helena.

"Welcome back," he said with a friendly smile. Though he was too busy staring at her ass, bent over as she was to reach into the depths of the cart for the bananas. Her dress was just long enough to hint at said shapely ass and tanned thighs. But his gaze quickly moved back up to her face when she turned around.

Butcher's lips thinned.

"Andy," Helena said flatly. She finally found the cheesecake and Danishes under the bananas and sent Butcher a raised brow. He offered his most charming smirk. It earned him a roll of her eyes, but she still put it on the counter with the rest of the groceries.

"Hmm, I see you changed those nails for me," Andy said. He raised flirtatious brows at her respectable French tips.

Helena couldn't muster more than an irritated sigh as she waited for him to bag her groceries. Meanwhile, Butcher hung back to watch the little scene play out. Frankly, he was surprised she hadn't verbally ripped the guy's dick off like he knew she could. Like any true New Yorker would.

It was disappointing to know she was going soft out here in the suburbs.

He gave Andy a short glance. It didn't take much to get the seize of him. He was young, maybe late-twenties, fresh-faced, with blonde hair that screamed of early-2000s frosted tips.

Three strikes, Butcher thought with an inward smirk. He watched the cashier try to flirt with all the game of an ex-football player who peaked in high school. Helena was quickly losing patience, tapping her credit card on the counter and wearing a mix of boredom and irritation.

"Look, much as I love this song and dance we do every time I come in here," she said at last, "I've actually got other things on my to-do list today, so…"

"But you keep coming back here, to my register, so I just thought—"

"You're the only register open," Helena snapped. "And considering this is the closest grocery store to my house for another twenty minutes—"

"Ah, live nearby, huh?" he said, jumping on the line she unintentionally threw him. "What neighborhood? I'm over by Westchester."

Butcher almost burst out laughing. The warning signs of the impending eruption of Mt. Helena couldn't be more entertaining. But his patience was also wearing thin. He finally stepped in behind Helena and presented her with a container of peaches he grabbed from the closest display table.

"Ya wanna try these peaches, love? They're on sale."

She glanced up at him, a little curious at his downright cheerful tone. But she shrugged. "That's fine."

Butcher gave Andy a cheeky wink.

"I love me a good peach, don't you?" he said. His free hand slipped down to the small of Helena's back. For her, it was barely a brush of his fingers. It still made her spine stiffen and a heated blush flood to her face. She gave him a suspicious look over her shoulder.

But to Andy, it looked like he'd literally made a claim on her ass.

"That wasn't necessary," Helena snapped, once they'd left the store with their groceries in tow. She was still blushing though.

Butcher smirked. "Shut him up, didn't it?"

They loaded her groceries into the car while he watched her silently fume. Until she slammed the trunk shut and glared up at him.

"I don't need you to save me," she said. And a little more pointedly, "I don't need anything from you."

Butcher's smirk faded. She got into the car without waiting for him to snark back.

On the ride back to her house, he was pensive. He was usually too drunk or too in the mix of a mission to be pensive. But he'd quit drinking four months ago, so there was no other choice.

When Butcher made decisions, he was efficient. They were quick. They were final.

He'd decided this morning he was going to leave, and so he was going to. But first, he helped Helena get the groceries in the house. He helped put them away, as he now knew that the milk went on the fridge door but the vegetables went on the second shelf so she wouldn't forget about them in the bottom drawer. He knew that she now liked setting out honey rather than sugar for her coffee. She had a special jar for rice, like a "true Cuban" (her words, not his), and so never left it in the bag.

Somehow over the past few months of being in and out of this house, his subconscious had filed these things away and now he couldn't forget them. Like the way he used to leave the tortilla chips on the middle pantry shelf so Becca could reach them. And how he used to put the Doritos on the top shelf because she couldn't.

"I suppose I have time for a quick bite before I leave," he said, breaking himself out of his thoughts.

Helena shrugged. It seemed she no longer cared what he did. She might well want to see the back of him…but he had a feeling he knew her better than that.

When he took a poblano pepper from her hand and broke out the chopping board from its cupboard, she stared at him with an annoyed frown.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"What?" he mocked. "I could sit on my ass and catch up on The Voice if you prefer."

She scoffed. "Yeah, wouldn't that be a change of pace."

But she allowed him to help. It strangely reminded her of the first and only time they had cooked together in her old apartment. They worked pretty much in silence, and it gave Helena time to think. Really to wonder, what the fuck is he doing?

She set a timer on the stovetop to let the fajita meat and veggies smoke in the cast iron pan for a while, then she set to making some rice. It was familiar. It was methodic. It let her brain go on autopilot while she measured and washed and drained and watered again. And she would have finally set the rice on the stove to cook. She just didn't expect Butcher to be right behind her when she turned around. It knocked the pot filled with rice and water a little and splashed some on the floor.

She uttered a small gasp and jumped, but Butcher's hands on her hip and elbow stopped her from slipping on the wet floor.

"Sorry," he said with a smirk. He reached around her to drop the used cutting board in the sink, but his other hand never left her hip. It slid up to her waist, subtly bringing her close enough for their bodies to align—the way they shouldn't be, she reminded herself.

Or maybe…the way they were meant to. Maybe she wasn't crazy to think there was still something here. Maybe he didn't look at her like a sister after all.

Helena couldn't help the thought when her eyes met his, always so intense and focused wholly on her. She really couldn't fucking take it anymore.

Her heart was beating fast. And faster still, when his gaze dropped to her lips after she nervously wet them, then tugged her lower lip into her mouth.

What—

The stovetop alarm beeped loudly.

It startled both of them, but Helena used it to breathe and slip by Butcher. She stopped the alarm and set the rice on the stove, not knowing that he was standing there behind her back, frowning. Disappointed, with a heavy dose of self-loathing. One moment he was determined to leave, the next he was contemplating fucking Helena in her own kitchen.

They ate in silence. There was a movie playing on the TV, but neither of them were really watching. It was some mind-numbing action movie blessedly free of supes, a rare find that was.

When it was finally over, she shut it off while he started taking dishes to the sink. He cut on the water, but a moment later, she turned it off.

"Stop," she demanded. "Stop it right now."

Butcher crossed his arms defensively. "What's your fucking problem?"

"What are you doing, Billy?" she asked. "You say you're going to leave, like you're trying to run from me or something. The next you're…pretending to be my boyfriend and acting like you're going to devour me on the kitchen counter. What the fuck is this?"

She gestured wildly between the two of them. Butcher leaned in, until his face was inches away from hers. He similarly waved a finger between them.

"You put a stop to this a long time ago," he said, with that deep, rough voice of his that made her absolutely insane. She expelled a sigh of frustration.

It would be so easy to fall into this, into him.

But M.M. was right. Butcher carried baggage he would never let go of, and ultimately, it would get him killed. It could get her killed.

As reckless as she had been by letting Butcher stay here, she didn't want to die. Even now, if she closed her eyes, she could feel Homelander's hands around her throat. She could hear his whispers from her nightmares. I know what you did for them. I know everything.

"I stopped this," she said at last, "because I'm not Becca. I can't be her replacement."

As if I ever could be, she thought.

Butcher's brows pinched with a glare. "I fuckin' know you're not."

"Don't lie to me!" she snapped.

"That's fuckin' rich, innit? When you're the one who lied!"

She took a step back from him, incredulous. "When the hell did I lie?"

"The day Black Noir came for us at your apartment," Butcher said. "You didn't tell me you had a run in with that goddamn golden cunt."

Her shock silenced them both, her heart falling into the pit of her stomach. She swallowed past the lump of anxiety in her throat.

"Who?" she asked. A feeble attempt to deflect.

Butcher's eyes narrowed.

"You're lying right now, to my face. You know who the fuck I'm talkin' about," he shouted. "Homelander choked the shit out of you. He nearly killed you in the middle of a fuckin' hallway."

Her gaze fell, and her hand raised unconsciously to her neck, where the bruises had long since faded. She sighed, more shakily this time.

"How do you know about that?"

"Mallory showed me the bloody footage," he said. "I heard what he said, saw what he did. You could've quit your job, right then and there, and old Stan wouldn't a' been the wiser."

She didn't have an answer for him. She tried turning away, maybe to hide in her room until he left her alone, but Butcher wasn't having it. He held fast to her hand and prodded her to turn back around.

"It's not like you owed me anything," he said. "Why didn't you skip town?"

Interesting, she scoffed. That wasn't what he said when he "recruited" her, all but blaming her for Becca's disappearance.

"You know exactly why. It wasn't about you, it was about me," she said. "I wanted to find Becca. I can never…fix what I did. Or what I didn't do, I don't know…I needed to redeem myself."

She was sure that was something he could understand. And he seemed to, if the fire quelling in his eyes was anything to go by.

"You know, I thought saying goodbye to you both that day was going to be it," she said. "I never thought she would be gone while I'm still here."

She leaned a hand against the kitchen counter, fighting for the things she wanted to say. Maybe Butcher sensed that, and was giving her a moment to figure it out.

Eventually, she grabbed onto his shirt, near his collar. As much as she wanted to fight the pull of him…it had been a losing battle from the start. His hands found her waist, her hips, molding to the curve and shape of her.

"It's been eight months. Almost a year since then," she said. "This thing…about you, for you. It's driving me fucking crazy."

When he kissed her, it was a sweet relief. It was dominating heat and need. Her hands found purchase on his shoulders while his continued to burn her skin over her clothes, kneading her hips, her ass. He pressed her into the counter and she could already feel the length of him against her thigh. Meanwhile, his tongue found hers and she had no qualms with being devoured. Her entire body was on fire.

She wrapped her arm around his neck for better leverage, but he had his own ideas. His grip on her hips became firm enough to heft her up onto the kitchen counter. Maybe it was cliché, but it made perfect sense to Helena. She wrapped her legs around his hips, forcing him to rock into her clothed center. She shivered, and he smirked into her kiss. His hands slid up the soft skin of her thighs, bunching up the skirt of her pretty yellow sundress.

He briefly squeezed her thighs and let his thumbs draw between them, towards the heat pooling between her legs. He brushed against the dampness in her underwear.

"Don't take much, huh?" he teased.

She reached down and felt his hard erection straining against her hand. He groaned in response to her touch.

"I could say the same," she retorted with a cheeky smile.

Butcher's lips quirked, then they met hers, tasting her long and slow. To her, he felt solid and confident, and she actually felt safe in his hands.

He began kissing his way down her neck. It just mildly distracted her from what he was doing further down, grabbing the delicate material of her underwear and ripping them down on one side, then the other. Her eyes widened in shock at feeling the lacy material slide out between her legs. She blushed the sensation making her skin tingle deliciously.

She should be mad that he'd just ruined a $30 pair of panties. But the strength she felt in his arms as he did it only quickened her heartbeat and enhanced the flood between her legs.

She sucked in a breath when he finally began teasing her slit with one finger, then sliding between her slippery folds. The muscles in her lower belly tightened in anticipation. They were really doing this.

"Yep," he said.

Helena snapped her head up at his smirking face and realized she'd actually said that thought out loud.

Butcher smirked, and then two of his fingers sunk into her wet heat. She uttered a short whimper of pleasure as he began to work her with an expert hand. Her breaths deepened in his ear and she all but grinded down rhythmically into his touch, especially when his thumb found the swollen bud of her clit. She carded her fingers through his black hair, and his name fell from her lips. Like a prayer.

His fingers moved deeper within her, curling against that special spot inside. Finally, that dam of heat within her broke in waves as she shuddered against him. But his fingers didn't stop their relentless onslaught, drawing out her orgasm and pulling a long moan and a couple of of Spanish expletives from her throat. Because fuck, had it been a long time since she'd felt this good.

Helena clung to Butcher's shoulders while he eventually stopped to let her catch her breath. Her head was resting in the crook of his neck, so she first pressed a kiss below his ear, then raised her head and he met her with a fierce kiss.

"You nearly cut the circulation in my fucking hand, love," he said with an indecent smirk. "Thought I was gonna lose it in this sweet pussy."

She was sure her face was red as a cherry by now. Still coming down from her unbelievable high, she had no words. She watched him withdraw his glistening hand and make a show of licking one of his fingers clean.

"Sweet indeed," he added. "But we ain't close to done."

Her hands shook, but she pulled him close again by his belt and began to unbuckle it for him. "You're goddamn right."

Then, it became a race for whoever could remove each other's clothes first. Helena unzipped his pants while he helped wrench up her dress. Her hands glided up under his stupid fucking Hawaiian shirt and forced it over his head.

He all but tore the clasp of her bra and freed her breasts, which fit perfect and full in his hands. He kneaded and caressed and rolled his thumbs over the pert brown buds, and she panted and arched into him. She met him with a deep kiss, sucking his lower lip into her mouth and let her nails drag a little down his back. It earned her a throaty groan and a warm, rough hand between her thighs.

She could feel his wet tip positioning at her entrance—and it snapped her out of autopilot, back into her head where red alarm bells were flaring loud and insistent.

She grabbed one of his hands, stopping him.

"Wait. Billy, wait."

He was panting and straining with need himself, but to his credit, he stopped. His eyes snapped down to hers, his brows crunching in mostly curiosity.

"I can't do things halfway here," she warned him. She'd been alone this long for a reason. "I can't be what's convenient for you."

His eyes studied hers. For what, she couldn't be sure.

"That ain't what this is," he said eventually.

She laid a hand on his chest, over his rapidly beating heart.

"Tell me the truth. Why did you look for me?" she asked.

His iron, demanding grip on her waist gentled. He sighed, and she felt his breath on her forehead.

"You know exactly why," he said.

Hope and warmth bloomed in her chest, making her smile. She let go of his wrist and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her head tilted to the side as she considered him suspiciously.

"I don't know if I believe you."

Butcher's eyes darkened. His brow rose suggestively. "I can be persuasive."

He pressed a biting kiss just beneath her ear. Her hold on him tightened as she sucked in a breath. But then she offered him a claiming kiss of her own.

"Prove it then," she said against his lips.

He took that challenge to heart, pulling her body right to the edge of the kitchen counter until he could align himself at the right angle. The moment his length slid deep into her core, she almost came apart right then and there. He stretched and filled her entirely to capacity—to the point where she worried he might be a little too big for her.

He grunted and pressed his forehead against her shoulder. She moved her hips a little to adjust to his size. He groaned.

"Jesus, you're tight," he hissed. "Fuckin' hell."

She gave a breathless laugh.

"You're welcome," she replied with a cheeky grin.

Her legs wrapped around his hips, her heels digging into his ass. He pulled out just enough to slam into her again, making them both shudder. He eased out again, and continued into a building rhythm that soon became frantic. Most of the time, she could only hold onto him for the ride.

But feeling his body tense up further, she knew he was close (along with the sounds he was making). She could see the road ahead and almost taste her release, but to help them both, she reached down between them and touched the nearly overstimulated bud over her entrance and whined into the crook of his neck.

"I gotcha, babe. Almost there," Butcher muttered. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, and feeling on the verge of his end, he bit down between her neck and her shoulder. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make her cry out at the peak of her own release. Her nails reflexively bit into his shoulders and he hissed with similar pleasure mixed with pain.

He soothed her afterwards with his hand cupping the back of her head, smoothing down her hair. His hand remained at the back of her neck when he leaned back and pressed his forehead to hers, closing his eyes. Her legs detangled from around his hips. Then her hands drifted softly down his bare chest.

"Well," she said, "that happened."

He nodded with a mellowed grin. "Still happening, actually."

Butcher shifted his hips to remind her that he was, in fact, still inside her. He eased out and grabbed a clean hand towel from the counter to wipe up the slick between both of their legs. He was slower with her though, letting the cloth slide tantalizingly across her swollen lips.

He then smirked at her renewed blush. He didn't think he would ever get tired of those honey brown eyes, red, thoroughly kissed lips, and flushed cheeks. It was about to get him going again.

"Join me in the shower?" she offered, despite her blush.

Butcher helped her down from the kitchen counter and held her naked body against his. He towered over her by quite a few inches, but her body was strong and her abundant curves gave perfectly in his hands.

His voice was deep with suggestive grit.

"If we're smart, we could christen just about every room, hidden nook, and otherwise flat surface in this great big house," he said.

She laughed and framed his face with her hands. "Hmm. In that case, better take my vitamins."

Then she covered up what would've been his smart-ass retort with a deep kiss.