AN: Here we are, another chapter here of another weekend for our little love birds.

I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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Daryl sighed a contented sigh and kissed Carol's shoulder. She closed her eyes and hummed to herself, satisfied at the tender touch. He moved his hand, and traced his fingers down her neck and across her collarbone.

They'd already had sex—the kind of sex that was hungry and barely let them get in the door good before everyone was trying desperately to get out of their clothes. The kind of sex that had been so urgent that the attempt to get to the bedroom had resulted in laughter as Carol tripped and fell out of her shoe and Daryl grabbed her, just in time to keep her from slamming down on her hands and knees just outside the bedroom door. The kind of sex that had Daryl buried deep inside her before Carol could ever come entirely out of her dress.

It had been the kind of nearly electric and entirely desperate sex that Carol had read about, but had never actually experienced.

She'd never felt desperate to feel a man touching her before. She'd never felt practically hungry to feel him inside her.

She'd always assumed it was her—there was something wrong with her. Now she was accepting that, just maybe, it had always been that she'd never found the man could make her feel that way.

The initial frenzy out of the way, and the sharpest hunger pains satiated enough for the moment, both Carol and Daryl were stripped of every thread that they'd haphazardly worn while achieving their orgasms, and they'd only bothered to re-dress, temporarily, in what they wore on a short trip to the back porch for Daryl to smoke—clothing which had been lost again upon their return to the bedroom. Each of them had taken a trip to the bathroom. Daryl had gotten a glass of water for them to share.

Now they were lounging, naked, in the bed together. Both of them were sure that there would be more sex, but it was up to biology to decide when that might actually occur, and if it would occur before the urge to sleep was too great.

Carol had accepted that Daryl was a man whose hands simply needed to be entertained at all times. He had to be doing something. She was beginning to believe, too, that much of what he did to busy his hands was simply done in an absentminded manner.

She bit her lip when he rolled her nipple between his finger and thumb and rubbed his thumb repeatedly over the sensitive skin there like it was a worry stone. He repeated the action with the other nipple without request or any kind of show.

"Why the fifties?" He asked.

"Mmmmm?" She hummed at him.

His hands left off toying with her nipple and glided down over her ribcage. His fingers pressed gently, here and there, massaging as they went.

"You like the whole—fifties aesthetic. I mean, I get it, but…why? Specifically? Why the fifties?"

Now that his fingers were rubbing her—massaging her skin—Carol felt his touch relaxing rather than stimulating. She relaxed into the mattress, entirely content to let him manipulate her body however he might please.

"I've always liked it," Carol said. "I think ever since I was a little girl. I like the clothes. The cars, of course. The music. I like—the aesthetic. How it's always represented in the movies, and television, and…even in some of my books. I've bought every book I can find with that setting. It's always represented as just—so simple. Easy. Everyone looks so happy in the movies."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Daryl said, "but don't they always look happy because half the time those movies are things like musicals and the shows are like—I don't know—like Happy Days and Andy Griffith and shit?"

"I didn't say it was realistic," Carol said. "It's an aesthetic. An ideal. A dream, maybe. You can like a dream, can't you? Something imaginary…not entirely imaginary, I mean…but…"

"You can like whatever you want," Daryl said, his hand slowly continuing its methodical search of Carol's body. "But—that's the only reason you like it? Because it's simple and people are happy?"

Carol laughed to herself.

"Yeah—I guess—to some degree, that's it. I always liked the whole idea of being the—you know—the housewife. The homemaker. The Leave it to Beaver or whatever kind of mother and wife."

Daryl's fingers turned at the bottom of her rib cage. They slid easily over her bellybutton. They massaged her abdomen and slipped over her hip bones to move around and hug her hip. Daryl kissed her shoulder again.

"You were a housewife before," Daryl said, practically mumbling the words into her shoulder. "You didn't like it."

"No," Carol said. "Because I was a bad housewife. Now I get paid to cook for people and serve them. And they appreciate what I do."

"Don't mean you were a bad housewife," Daryl said. "Just because you weren't appreciated, that don't come back on you."

His hand came back over her thigh. It trailed now between her legs. His fingers paused only a second to silently beg access, and Carol parted her legs. She closed her eyes as his fingertips found her clit and worked it in lazy circles—as though he were doing nothing more than passing the time and entertaining himself as he slowly and gently massaged her.

Carol reached her hand back and grabbed the pillow, needing something to hold onto as her mind accepted that this torture—this delicious, wonderful, mind-blowing torture—was just going to keep going on so that she hung at a certain point with her mind buzzing with pleasure. At the periphery of her mind, she was aware of Daryl kissing her shoulder and her neck—nibbling and sucking her earlobe to entertain his mouth as surely as he was entertaining his hand.

"You wouldn't wanna stop workin' at your café, would you?" Daryl asked. "I mean—just…you woudn't wanna give it up, would you?"

"No," Carol said. "No—I love it. But I still wouldn't mind…" She paused a moment. Hesitated. She knew what she wanted to say, but she was also struggling with whether or not she should actually say it. On top of everything, her body was on an edge where Daryl's touch was keeping her and, though it was wonderful, it had her wondering if she was thinking clearly. "If…things…happened," Carol said, "I still wouldn't mind having some…piece of…of that life. I would still want what I wanted. I would want to be a good wife. If I could."

"You'd be a good one."

Daryl slid his hand down and one finger stroked Carol. She didn't realize, after the buildup, how much she wanted that—how much she wanted him to touch her more. She spread her legs a little more as a silent urging. He responded by continuing to stroke her. He dipped a finger into her and stroked her from inside. Another followed. His thumb took over the earlier harassment.

Daryl bit her shoulder gently. He raised up and kissed her. Carol tasted his mouth. She moaned into his mouth. She rode his hand, seeking out everything he was trying to give her—everything he wanted to give her. Daryl panted at her, a sound like a whine escaping him. Then he leaned close to her ear.

"What'cha want?" He asked. "Tell me what'cha need."

The slightest flash of embarrassment sparked in Carol's mind as she realized that she hardly needed more than that. The sound of him simply asking her what she wanted and needed was enough to get her to let go and to allow all the knots that tied her back to unravel.

"Faster," she managed to offer. "Harder."

He obliged.

Instead of complaining that she was inconveniencing him, he obliged. Instead of griping that she took too long or had too many demands, he obliged. Instead of thinking that she should simply, magically, find her release without any particularly directed help from him, he obliged. Instead of telling her that there was something wrong with her, and she wasn't like any other woman in the world, he obliged.

And for a moment, Carol might as well have left the entire world behind because everything that had been building reached its sweet release. When she relaxed from her orgasm, Daryl was kissing her lips with soft kisses—stealing her panted breath.

He smiled at her, and gave her one more soft kiss before he got up from the bed. Carol rolled on her side and watched him make his way to the bathroom. She watched him, too, when he returned.

"I'ma smoke a cigarette," he said, stepping into his underwear. "You wanna come with me?"

"Yeah," Carol breathed out. "Let me just…"

She moved to get up and her thighs brushed her enough to send a jolt through her body. She was sensitive and she jumped at the unexpected sensation. Daryl laughed quietly and tossed the nightgown at her that she'd fished out the last time she'd padded behind him to the porch.

"Thank you," Carol said, tugging it on. She moved to the edge of the bed and got up. "And—thank you for…that."

Daryl's face blushed red. He reached for his cigarettes and lighter that were on the bedside table.

"Don't ever thank me for that," Daryl said. "But—Carol?"

She hummed at him, following him out of the bedroom. She couldn't help but notice that he was already walking as naturally through her home as if it were his own.

"You ain't broke. OK? Everything you got? Works just fine—hell, better…maybe. So—no matter what happens or…whatever? Don't let nobody tell you that'cha broke or make you think that, OK? Because there ain't a damn thing broke about you."

Carol felt an odd pang in her stomach. She felt the weight of loneliness—like a loss just realized.

She followed Daryl out on the porch and, this time, she accepted the cigarette that he offered her and she thanked him quietly for the light. She stood, instead of sitting, and he followed suit.

It shouldn't strike her that he would wonder what would happen or how many other men might enter into her life to tell her that she was incapable of achieving orgasm with a partner—as she'd believed for so long. It shouldn't strike her that he'd believe that there was, at the very least, some chance for impermanence in this relationship.

This was new. They were only just dating. Neither of them had any reason to believe that this would last any longer than the summer.

His words shouldn't have weighed in her belly like they did.

"Daryl—the same goes for you," Carol said.

"What?" Daryl asked.

Carol realized he wasn't privy to her thoughts, and some time had actually passed since he'd spoken.

"Whatever happens. If you should—if there were someone else? Don't ever…let her tell you that you're not good enough for her. Because—if anything? It would be that she wasn't good enough for you."

Daryl was quiet for a moment. He stood in front of her. It was dark, but not so dark that she couldn't see him. The neighbor's porch light was on, and it illuminated enough of Carol's yard that she rarely felt the need to use her own porch light.

"You mean that?" Daryl asked.

Carol smiled to herself.

"You don't like lies," Carol said. "So, I try not to say anything to you that's not the truth."

Daryl nodded his head.

"In that case," he said, "then—I guess…maybe I don't have too much to worry about."

"What do you mean?" Carol asked.

"I know you're plenty good enough for me," Daryl offered.

Carol felt her heart flutter in her chest, and the lead weight that Daryl's earlier words had planted in her belly seemed to roll over a couple of times.

The words were a little scary. The possibility behind them could be frightening if she looked at it straight on and thought about it too much.

But, despite all that, there was an odd undercurrent of calm and tranquility that came with the thoughts that currently buzzed around in her brain.

"Daryl…"

"Mmmm?"

"You are staying the night, aren't you?"

Daryl laughed quietly to himself.

"If you want me to," he said.

"And tomorrow night since…we have plans tomorrow?"

Daryl hummed.

"I got no place I'd rather be."