Chapter 43: Runaway

 A/N: Yeah, I'm not even gonna try.  LOL  I apologize forever (and for any future delays).  Hope you enjoy! 








Chapter 43: Runaway


Rob had been twitchy the last week or so.

I wasn’t sure if it was because we were leaving for a trip to London soon, or the fact that he was starting Remember Me soon after we were back from the London trip—both, or some other unknown stressor that was causing the twitchiness.

He sort of yo-yoed back and forth between being really fucking happy because we both felt like we were in a really good place relationship-wise after his whole recreated plane crash dinner, and really nervous, moody, and sullen. Whenever I asked him what was bothering him, or pointed out the fact he was being a cranky dick, I could see the visual shift in his face and his effort to try to stuff whatever it was down and just be happy again. I knew his smile was forced sometimes. He’d deflect and kind of change the subject if I asked about filming, and he assured me that the London trip was not bothering him.

I knew him well enough to know he was lying about both, but I couldn’t force him to tell me, either.

I finished The Runaways a few days ago, and the trip to London had been in the works for a while. We’d be leaving in a few days, and I wasn’t sure exactly why he’d be stressed about visiting home. He had always been excited before, and usually I’d heard nothing but nostalgic rhetoric about how most shit was better in England for weeks up until he would actually go.

I didn’t get much of that at all this time and I couldn’t really figure out why. I thought it might have something to do with the actual flying part, but I hadn’t really wanted to bring that up—I wasn’t exactly gleeful at the notion myself, but travel was travel, and with our careers, we’d have to bite that bullet sometime if we ever wanted to work again. I simply reassured myself that the planes we were taking were much less likely to crash than the puddle jumper we’d been relegated to then. This had seemed like a really good way to break both of us back into the grind of air travel because it wasn’t a trip for work, and he was going home, so I thought the stress level would be really low. And we were staying for over a month—coming back after New Year’s with a few weeks in between before he had to be on set for the movie. Like an extended vacation before he had to work—that final rest-up. I thought the planning had been quite genius on my part, but for some reason it didn’t seem as settled with him.

Remember Me was sort of its own beast. I wasn’t sure he was completely ready to take on any role, especially this one, and I wasn’t sure how he was going to deal with it physically or emotionally. People tend to think that acting is not a difficult job, and while we do have a lot of perks, there are horrendously long hours, and it’s an exhausting process. For some people it’s easier to turn things off, and I think of the two of us, Rob was definitely the one to hold onto things more than I did. I usually saw myself outside of the character. I could empathize, I could put myself in their position, but I didn’t bring them home with me. I think Rob tended to immerse himself in things, over-think, and usually to his own detriment. The first Twilight had been like that—he arrived before anyone else, and he basically shut himself off from everything. It wasn’t like he was completely method-actor, but I just thought he let go of things a little slower than I did.

This role, though, on top of being extremely demanding because he was in almost every scene, was really heavy. The subject matter itself was weighted, and his part was it—the story was through his character’s eyes. There wasn’t a lot that was light about the movie, and he’d never carried an entire movie of this magnitude before.

We’d had a number of appointments with doctors, Ethan, and a required psychology appointment—which, much to our surprise, he’d come out of with a rating of sane. But the longer the process went on, I wasn’t sure if he got more annoyed they kept doing shit to prove he was ok, or more afraid that they were going to clear him for everything. I think the studio was trying to be very careful. I think they wanted to make sure that he wasn’t going to freak out or have something reinjured. They were in it for money, after all, and if the star couldn’t hack it, they needed to get someone who could. It wasn’t about Rob at all really; it was a business. But I think they were alternately afraid of not letting him do it, too. PR fallout from that could be really fucking detrimental to them.

We had so much ammunition for lawsuits that they treaded carefully around just about everything, but funny how they can be so concerned and callous at the same time. If we demanded something completely ridiculous like two hundred red M&M’s inscribed with our initials every morning, along with fresh Himalayan Spring water, twelve black teacup Chihuahuas to keep us company, and an afghan hand-woven by a blind Native American woman in South Dakota that included the colors yellow, blue, green and a little black, but not too much black because it might offset the color of our twelve new pets, they’d have rushed at the chance to fulfill our requests, but simply asking for more time for him to be ready was out of the question. Even with the lawsuit possibilities, they had the right to get someone else if he wasn’t able, so we kind of had no choice.

In a way, I think that may have been why he had so many appointments—so that if he wanted more time, or we thought he wasn’t ready yet, they’d have ample backup to say he was. It was stupid.

There wasn’t a question as to where I was going to be. I hadn’t really given him a choice; not that he necessarily wanted to go alone, either, but I hadn’t entertained that option at all. I was coming with him. Full stop. I pretty much made all of those arrangements without including him; which, if that annoyed him, he never said anything. I made sure they had an apartment lined up for us that was far enough from the set to be a healthy distance, and we just had to get there—everything else was furnished.

I drilled into his head from the moment we started talking about it that every doctor had suggested a limited schedule to start, and that launching back into a full work day was not a wise idea. He still tired more easily than he had before, and no one thought it was good to push his limits from day one. He was mostly quiet during the appointments; he nodded when appropriate, answered shit that he was asked, but for the most part he just let me ask the shit that needed to be asked back, and seemed content to just play along as long as he was working.

I do think there was a fair amount of annoyance that my experience with going back to work was not exactly the same. While I started on a limited schedule, as well, it was for the dual purpose of easing back in, and being able to still be there if he needed me. So he was occasionally bitchy about that, but I let it roll off because I knew it wasn’t fun or easy to be told what you were capable of.

I wasn’t exactly sure how I’d come up with my current plan—it was some mixture of gift and tension reliever all in one. See, The Runaways was finished, and Rob had expressed a certain aversion to the idea that clothing items worn in said movie were never going to be on me again. There seemed to be an affinity for the leather pants/Sex Pistols T-shirt/leather jacket combo, and I’m thinking it was probably the leather that did it—because the pants were ridiculously tight and damn near required a pulley to get on—and we all knew he was an ass man.

So, I sort of acquired those items before I left the set. Basically, I fucking stole them. I mean, I had rights to them—I’d been plastered in them for months because that was, like, the entire Joan wardrobe. No one was going to miss them. They were lucky I didn’t have to be cut out of the fucking pants.

He left for an appointment with Ethan, and I hadn’t gone along expressly because I wanted him to come home to this—to Joan. I knew he would never expect it, never think I’d have stolen the outfit, and the boy really needed to just fucking let go before he exploded. We only had a few days before we left for London; he should have been in a better mood, and I was determined to make that happen.

It really didn’t require much, other than me in the clothes, and I decided weed was required because it made him lazy and calm. And usually it made him pretty fucking happy. Sex and weed was a good combo.

I had a fairly good buzz on already when he came in the door, and somehow I had also gotten a beer that I totally didn’t even remember getting. Maybe Joan was running the show. I was sitting on the counter, so that no matter which door he came in he would notice me. I was glad he came in the kitchen door—that gave him more of a view than if he’d been coming through the front. And so I was basically just sitting there on the counter, beer at my lips, and joint stuck between two fingers of the hand that was bringing the beer up.

I don’t think at first he really knew what to do. He sort of stopped and he looked really confused, and then I think it kind of clicked and he still didn’t know what to do. Must have been a really good or a really bad session with Ethan, because I thought it was pretty fucking obvious what he should do.

Instead, he kind of just stood there blinking at me and opening his mouth a few times before closing it again each time, finally blowing a breath out loudly. He actually looked tired, and not in the greatest of moods either, but I was determined to change that.

“Uh…” was his brilliant first utterance.

I chuffed out a noise, swallowing before setting the beer on the counter and bringing the joint back to my lips. “You want a fucking invitation or what?”

Honestly, I expected ravishment. Usually this would have been at full-on penetration already. He never lasted this long with me in these clothes before.

He kind of didn’t even move after my cocky question-comment. So I took another drink from the beer, sat it down, and another pull from the joint, blowing the smoke out slowly, and said, “C’mere,” jerking my head slightly to get him to start fucking moving.

There was the hint of a smirk there as he started forward, stopping next to the counter. He pointed to my mouth where the joint was resting between my lips. “I get one of those?”

I shook my head, jumping off of the counter. “No.” I grabbed the beer as I started to walk away. “C’mon.”

He didn’t follow right away, watching me walk away for a while. I stopped to glare back at his lack of movement.

“Do I get a beer at least?”

“No,” I said in that final tone I only used when it was necessary to pull out the big guns. I turned again and kept going. “Just get your ass in here.” I added a second later, “Now.” I didn’t look back this time to see if he was following.

This wasn’t going at all like I imagined. It wasn’t bad; it was just surprising. And I think I was just going to be playing this one by ear. Whatever I thought he needed? I misjudged or misunderstood. The tension relief was obvious, but maybe the idea that hard and rough being the key for his mood had been the part I hadn’t gotten right. Or maybe he just hadn’t gotten started yet. Regardless, I’d make sure he got whatever it was that he needed.

He trailed in the bedroom shortly after me, sort of hovering just in the doorway. Because he asked about the weed and alcohol like he needed permission, I was assuming it meant he wasn’t going to be taking anything without some sort of provocation.

That was ok. I was ok with being the giver.

I hadn’t sat down or anything, just waited for him. I pointed to the bed. “Sit.”

He offered zero resistance shuffling in and sitting down on the edge of the bed, facing me.

I leaned against the wall across from the bed, dangling the beer between my fingers. “Unbutton your shirt.”

His head dropped and his fingers moved immediately—instructions seemed to be received well. I watched as he slowly undid each button, nearly sluggishly—sitting made him seem more tired. He didn’t do anything beyond the unbuttoning before slowly bringing his head up to look at me when he was done. Like he was just ready for the next set of directions.

We watched each other for a minute; his attention bounced between my eyes and my mouth as I inhaled slowly and let the smoke out in measured tendrils. I may not have known the source or specifics of what was bothering him, or why this wasn’t eliciting the normal reaction, but it was clear that he just wanted me to tell him what to do. There was probably some metaphor there for our relationship, and it wasn’t ever an imbalance, this was just one of those times he was telling me that he was relinquishing whatever control there was to be had. That probably wasn’t the right way to say it either—it wasn’t like we ever had huge power struggles for control; it was just a time where he didn’t want any at all. He just wanted me to take care of him.

His eyes dropped first; his hands were folded in his lap, just waiting. I suppose to someone on the outside that could have looked very much like obedience, but it was just one more sign that he wasn’t making any moves tonight. He wasn’t asking me for anything specific, either. I really don’t think he cared, just as long as he didn’t have to make any of the decisions.

I pushed off from the wall and set the beer on the nightstand. I stood in front of him for a second before nudging his leg so I could stand between them. He shifted to let me stand there but made no other movement, his head still down until I tipped it up gently. I don’t think he expected me to still be smoking, but I had other ideas now. I inhaled quickly and leaned down to kiss him, exhaling the smoke into his mouth with the kiss.

If anything, that broke him out a little bit. His hands moved up to my sides and he moaned into the kiss. Wisps of smoke escaped from our mouths when I pushed my tongue into his, and his eyes slipped closed as I leaned into him, pushing us back to lie on the bed. They only opened when I pulled back for another hit, and he followed the track of the lit end, watched me pull in another mouthful of smoke, and waited for my mouth to meet his.

I don’t even know how long we spent that way—with me just lying on him and passing smoke into his mouth. Long enough that I lit another joint and he seemed much more relaxed. It was sort of strange how erotic and intimate that could be. Smoking was sort of that way anyway, but when you were physically sharing the smoke instead of just the joint it was heightened even more.

I sat up so I was resting just above his cock. I could feel him hard behind me, pressing against the material of his jeans. I left the joint between my lips, so my hands were free, and gently pushed his shirt off his shoulders, running the pads of my fingers back over the newly exposed skin. I trailed them down his chest, watching his reactions, the way his fingers tightened on my hips, the muscles jumping under my fingertips as I ran them down his stomach. I pushed back over his legs—the leather moved surprisingly well over denim. I have no idea what exactly gave me the idea, but I took a long pull from the blunt and blew the smoke over his chest. It wasn’t like he was actually going to get any of the high from that, but from the moan he let out, and the way his hips shoved up into me, it was a great fucking idea—like the wisps were just washing over him.

I think he’d been sort of lost—most likely in his own head, but in general, too—and he needed me to bail him out. Enough to make him forget what he was lost about. Or to remind him he was never really lost with me, no matter how far into his own head he found himself.

I worked my way down again to his pants and popped the button, dropping the zipper slowly. When I glanced up at him, his head was raised enough to watch me, and he looked weed-lazy. That was perfect.

I got off the bed and he chuckled as I tugged his jeans off, going back for the boxer briefs and pulling those off, as well. I killed the lights quickly and was highly amused that he stayed right where I left him, legs still hanging off the bed, his cock hard and waiting, all hooded eyes and slow smile. He looked downright lethargic. Aroused, but lethargic.

And I was still completely fucking clothed in leather. Maybe that was part of the reason he was smiling. I shrugged the jacket off and it hit the carpet with a louder thud than I anticipated. It was seriously fucking quiet in this room, though, so that could have been part of it. I lifted the shirt next and his head tilted to the side when I caught his eye after removing that bit of clothing—no bra, of course—and I knew he always liked that. I did the pants slowest, half because they were nearly pasted on—but he seemed to be enjoying the little show, too—and because it took a fair amount of shimmying to get out of the fucking pants.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t ready—my half strip tease had only made him harder—but he looked so fucking tired. I got rid of the joint and climbed back over him. “You wanna sleep, baby?”

He shook his head slowly, his hands skimming up my sides and pulling me down to him gently.

“You want me on you?”

That was about two things: confirmation for my assumption that he wasn’t going to be fucking me, and that Joan wasn’t what he needed, wasn’t required. Kristen in Joan-clothing was fun, and arousing, but he wanted gentle. He just needed Kristen tonight.

But I knew how that went. No matter what we did, just-Rob was always what I needed.

“Please,” came out whisper-quiet.

“We don’t have to fuck, Rob.”

I didn’t exactly know what other alternative to give him—all the words that were tumbling around in my head sounded really fucking cheesy—but he could have whatever he wanted.

“No, I want to.”

I nodded, letting my fingertips linger on his face for a minute before moving to take him inside me. I tried to keep everything relaxed, the entry slow, swallowing the breath he let out when I sunk on him with a kiss. From there, I moved on him slowly, and I got why he wanted this if he was lost. Fast and quick would have almost ramped the desperate part of his need for this, and I don’t think it would have solved anything. Sometimes, the faster it was the more energized you felt after.

And I’d never complain about feeling him this way—the way I could feel him so much more acutely, like focusing became easier with the slower pace.

I made sure I never lost eye contact and never let my hands wander far from touching him. I held onto his face while I moved on him, kissing him gently before deepening the contact, and then broke off to kiss his cheek, down to his jaw, all along the sharp line there.

He kept sighing—a content sound, like it was settling him—and eventually I started following the pattern of the sighs, breathing them in, and he picked it up immediately, everything in sync. Only for us.

His brow furrowed at one point, and there was that edge of something again, so I slowed and rested over him, my hand on his face again. “You ok?”

His hands moved to hold me to him the second I stopped. He nodded shortly. “Don’t stop, ok?”

“I won’t stop,” I replied back quietly, skimming my hand down his cheek and picked up the motion again.

I only tried to quicken the pace once, sitting up and resting my hands on his chest, but he kept trying to follow, lifting his head off the bed. And while the angle was good, and the pace would have gotten him off faster, he didn’t like the openness, and the position wasn’t something he could hold for a long time. It wound up working, anyway, because I closed the space between us and tried to help support his neck if he wanted to stay that way, kneading while I helped him arch, and it must have been something Ethan had worked on earlier because he sort of buckled like that last bit of tension or whatever this was broke and…I dunno, the shift was just really noticeable.

Honestly, I think he just kind of let go of everything. Which I think had been the point all along. He just gave it to me.

I think there’s this misconception about orgasms—that they’re always these incredibly explosive events where people are clinging to various pieces of furniture and ripping down curtains and screaming in ecstasy. And, sure, that’s fun, and it’s often like that, but there are also times where it’s not so much about the physical release but much more about the emotional one—where everything just kind rolls through. It’s not necessarily any less intense; it’s just a different kind of intensity. It’s easier to watch each other when you’re not otherwise writhing in back-bowing rapture.

While it’s great to enjoy my own orgasm burning through me, it’s almost more satisfying or gratifying, especially when he needs something—when I want it to be more about him—to be able to just to see the whole process. Watching his forehead scrunch and his eyes squeeze shut, the crinkles that appeared at the edges, the way his mouth would part just a little bit and these hushed and low groans would tumble out—but, mostly, it’s not the release; it’s the relief that’s there after. On nights like this, seeing that, seeing that it was exactly what he needed—that’s epic.

I liked the quietness of it. The way quiet sort of pervades everything then after—the way I touch him, the way he looks at me, everything. 

It amused me that the whole time he’d spent it with legs dangling over the edge of the bed, too. It wasn’t that we hadn’t done it before, but it wasn’t normally a position for comfort sex. It was actually a really vulnerable position. In a way, that was kind of perfect for this, too—whatever he needed. He wasn’t afraid to be vulnerable like this; and I guess it had always been that way. I was the one who had vulnerability issues in general at the start. I hadn’t enjoyed being vulnerable in front of anyone, but I didn’t have a problem just letting him take care of me if I needed it anymore.

I eased off of him then and urged him to follow me as I rolled to rest against the headboard. I held my arms out as he sat up to give me room. “Come back here.”

He rolled back into me, all of him on the bed, head on my stomach, and I started combing my fingers through his hair while I reached for one of the leftover joints. I passed it to him after it was lit. He was still quiet, but he seemed better.

“You wanna talk?”

He shook his head against my stomach, nuzzling in, and we passed the joint back and forth a few times.

“We don’t have to talk about what’s been bothering you. We can talk about something else. Or I can just shut the fuck up. Your call.”

I could see he was smiling as smoke drifted off of my stomach. “We can talk about something else.”

“What should we talk about?”

His brow furrowed as he thought and I traced a finger down his forehead, smoothing it down. His head tipped up. “Thank you.”

I scrunched my eyebrows; he didn’t have to thank me. “Anytime.”

He didn’t start any other conversation, so I moved the hand that was combing through his hair down to his neck and kneaded there again. “Ethan help today?”

“Yeah,” he said dismissively, leaning back into my fingers. I really didn’t know if he even heard what I asked about Ethan. “I don’t want you to think I didn’t appreciate the Joan clothes.”

“It’s cool.”

“I’m sorry if it seemed that way.”

“Rob, it’s cool.” I traced over his ear, cupping his jaw. It was tight, like he didn’t want me to let him off that easily.

“I’m sorry if you were expecting something else when I got home.”

“It’s doesn’t matter what I expected. I wasn’t expecting anything.”

He scoffed quietly, the smoke puffing out shortly. “Right.”

I pulled his head up. “It went exactly how you needed it to; that’s all that matters. Got it?”

His face softened, and he smiled at me. “Yeah, ok.”

I nodded, satisfied that he got the point, and grabbed the joint out of his mouth. I blew the smoke down at him, smirking. “So…what is it, exactly, about the outfit that gets to you?”

“Where do I start?”

“Anywhere you like.”

“Well, the leather is fucking sexy. That’s the start.”

“I knew it,” I happily chimed.

“What did you know?”

“That it was the leather.”

“Well it’s your ass in the leather, specifically.”

“Ha! Knew it!”

He grinned. “Yeah, it’s...” a little shiver went through him “…it does shit to me.”

I tried to hold back my smile and couldn’t really make that happen.

“So there’s that, yes, and the fact that every time I see you in them all I can think about is you touching yourself in your trailer that day we had sex on the phone, and then I’m pretty much gone.”

“So that’s it, huh?”

He shook his head. “Not even close. It’s the no bra thing, and that the shirt is also ridiculously tight. Everything is ridiculously tight, and it’s like every curve is just begging me to touch it. And it’s the whole persona.”

“The Joan persona?”

“No, the Kristen-as-Joan-persona. I could give a shit about Joan. It’s you in it. It’s like…rebel Kristen. No authority Kristen. It’s the attitude that came across when you were Joan. It’s incredibly sexy, and it makes me really, really horny.”

I giggled at him. “Rebel, huh?”

He nodded slowly.

“You like your women a little rebellious?”

“I love you any way, but the rebellious thing, yeah. It’s really a turn-on.”

I nodded. “I’ll remember that.”

~ ~ ~

I didn’t remember dozing off, but the weed, the orgasm, and just the knowledge the he seemed better was more than enough for me to crash with. It didn’t feel that much later really when I woke to wetness between my thighs. I shoved my hips up, following the sensation, and opened my eyes to see Rob’s blue ones looking up at me. They looked clearer, less troubled, and still pretty fucking high, so I couldn’t have slept that long at all. The minute I locked eyes with him, his fingers pushed into me, his tongue swirling around my clit, and my legs fell open to give him all the room he wanted.

I got the impression that he was making up for whatever he thought I’d missed before— sucking on my clit, lips sealing over it, tip of his tongue flicking until I fisted my hand in his hair. His fingers never stopped thrusting in and out of me, his thumb rubbing my clit as he started trailing up my body with his tongue instead—straight up the middle, from my clit up over my abdomen, swirling through my belly button, wet open-mouthed kisses accompanying, a stripe of wetness between my tits, and up my neck until he reached my mouth all while his thumb was still insistent and relentless, making my clit burn with feeling. I let go of his hair and latched onto the back of his neck instead, breathless as he pressed tiny kisses around the side of my mouth and jaw.

I wanted his lips against mine; I wanted his tongue in my mouth. I loved the way he kissed me—always—because he never managed to be anything but completely tender, but with every ounce of energy behind it he could find, pouring himself into it. It was easy to get lost in his mouth; hell, it was easy to get lost in him period. Probably why we rarely kissed just once.

I came apart with his fingers in me, my hand clasped tightly around his neck, and his mouth nipping over my neck as I shuddered from the way he was rolling and stroking my clit. He moaned quietly into my neck, nuzzling into me. “I love when you come.”

I could only make noises back as I tried to stop tugging on his hair with each of the waves of the orgasm. The noises meant something akin to I fucking love when I come, too, and your fingers are the reason. I think he got the gist.

His face was suddenly right in my vision. “Ride me again.”

A corner of my mouth went up the same time my eyebrow did.

It was quite obvious that this one was going to be different; even the way he was looking at me was different. I wasn’t going to be doing all of the work—he didn’t need that this time. We shifted seamlessly, his hands guiding my hips as I straddled him again. He had me so wet that taking him inside was smooth and easy.

He sat up with me then, his fingers kneading at my lower back, thumbs curled around my sides, and I couldn’t decide where I wanted my hands. Normally, my hands would be all over his hair, but his shoulders seemed really fucking sexy to me, and I started kneading in the same rhythm he was on my back. I liked the way we lined up when he sat up, how I was situated just a little higher, how I was taller this way, and for some reason, I was fixated with the way my stomach pressed against his. How it felt different than when he was over me, and how his mouth could reach my tits with just a small bend, how I could control how far and how fast we moved, and how he could lift me like he couldn’t in any other position.

I loved that when I wanted to, I could fucking shove him back to the bed and ride until my legs couldn’t do it anymore. He smirked when I shoved him, thrusting his hips up as I dug my fingers into his chest and used it to push off with. His hands weren’t idle for long, reaching to palm my tits, kneading at the same tempo I was riding him, pinching my nipples, and pumping his hips with my grinding down on him.

It felt so fucking natural. And fluid.

There was something about this position that was just…I don’t even know. Just knowing that I was getting off, and he was getting off on me getting off on him. “God, I need to tell you something.”

“Yeah?”

I have no idea what was wrong with me, or what possessed me to say it at all. It was just… I mean, I didn’t care, but it sounded incredibly slutty. “I love your dick.”

Just matter-of-fact like that, words tumbling out as I rode him slowly. It was like a sexual sickness, like some form of temporary insanity tied to the act of fucking and the way he always felt completely amazing inside of me.

He let out a short burst of loud laughter and followed it with a bout of giggles, his face so amazingly bright and happy and amused and open. I was so happy to see it there.

I was so fucking serious, though.

“I do. I love the way you feel in me. I love your dick.”

Amused smirking. “My dick loves you, too.”

“That’s good.”

“My dick loves your pussy, as well.”

This was my fault completely—that this conversation had taken this turn—but he said that just as seriously as I meant my first statement.

And of course he typically followed it up with: “I’d stay inside you all the time if it was plausible. Never leave.”

Jesus. I mean…I wanted to say something equally romantic and heartfelt back, but there wasn’t anything that wouldn’t have been reiteration.

“I’d never let you leave this bed.”

I dropped to kiss him, shoving my tongue in his mouth and slamming down on him at the same time. His hands held my hips down over him, sealing me there while he lapped at my tongue.

“Tell me.” He nipped at my lip. “Tell me it’s mine.”

I didn’t hesitate a second, pressing my forehead to his. “It’s yours. It’s always been yours.” I pulled back then, sitting up and riding him faster. “It always will be.”

He nodded, and I think we both knew we were talking about more.

I was all-out bouncing on him then, slamming my hips down. I loved the sounds he made when I moved on him this way—loud and grunty, throaty moans when I moved my hands up to cover his on my tits, kneading with him. Intensely blue, hooded eyes when I looked down at him; so much inherent there—control was limited, inhibition low, release imminent. And I was basically shamelessly riding him while he balanced me and I made a complete fucking mess of my hair while he molested my tits. The hair move was a little cliché, but it was certainly affecting.

He sat up again suddenly, growling at me, hands firmly grabbing my ass, and I dunno if it was the possessive and rough way he was helping me move on him, or the look in his eyes, but all I wanted to do was grind my clit into him. I fucking came grunting in return, my head tipping back, which only gave him more access to mark my neck up with his mouth.

His orgasm chased right after mine, and I pushed myself as close as possible while he kept his hands full of my ass, pinning me to him. I smashed my lips into his and loved that he poured all the noises into my mouth instead.

I slumped over him as he lay us back, feeling his cock pulsing as he finished, loving the way he pushed up into me a last time when I closed my mouth on his shoulder, biting hard enough to make him moan with the thrust. I chuckled softly and kissed gently over it, but I wouldn’t deny completely fucking loving the teeth marks that would be there for days.

His head leaned toward me, nudging into me, and I returned it before turning my head to press a kiss into his neck. I trailed my bottom lip up his neck to his ear, nipping at the lobe briefly before I whispered, “Always.”

“Always,” he echoed back.

~ ~ ~

“Ugh.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just more fucking sheets to wash.”

“That dick of mine you like so much might be offended by that.”

“No, no, I mean no offense to your dick, which I love, I just wish they’d make come-proof sheets or something.”

He laughed at me again. “Don’t have to worry about that.”

“Pfffft, yeah, I do.”

“Nope.”

“Why not? We’re covered in come. The sheets are gonna be trashed. Like usual. Are you gonna wash them? They don’t wash themselves.”

He just kept smirking at me. Ass. “What?”

“You didn’t notice.”

“What?”

“You were too busy loving on my cock.”

Ok, I’d give him that one. “What?!”

He nodded downward. “Look.”

I dumbly looked down.

There was a motherfucking towel under us.

I crashed my mouth into his after smiling at him like it was the best fucking secret we ever had. Like using towels to fuck on was the great love-bond of our relationship.

The little things always made him so goddamn happy.

And the fucker had made me that way, too.

He rolled us to the side and spun me around, facing me away from him, and slipped into me quickly, no resistance, the towel soaked under us evidence of how many times we’d fucked already pressing into my thigh. I’d lost count.

Such a fucking dork.

Such a fucking genius.

His hand rested over my stomach, fingers fanning out, and it felt so huge—fuck, it looked huge. His other arm curled under my neck for support so I was comfortable.

God. I just…can’t sometimes. With him. I can’t put it into words. There aren’t any.

It was slow and easy. The slide inside, the pull back, the slide in again.

Invasive.

Marking.

Owning.

All incredibly, staggeringly wonderful things.

He wasn’t going fast and he wasn’t being rough, just strong; consistent; deep—all forced deep inside, pushing right up against my g-spot, but it felt so much further than that.

Insistent and bottomless.

My legs were so fucking tense, toes curling, my body grinding back into his thrusts, back bowing but everything still inclined in his direction. Made no fucking sense how I could bow and shove into him at the same time, but I was. I had a hand clasped around the upper part of his thigh, feeling the power there as he kept pushing inside. It felt almost sluttish, the way I wanted to feel that power—needed to, just for me—and really for no other reason than just knowing it was there. Maybe it was a grounding thing, too. Just keeping me anchored to him so I didn’t spiral away.

The arm pillowing my head shifted, moving so he could curl it around me more, kneading and holding onto the tit closest to him. Maybe that was like my hand on his thigh—something to ground him. The other hand never moved from my abdomen. Just stayed pressed flat there, feeling every one of his thrusts inside. Evidence of the pervading way he was inside me maybe?

And I fucking loved that, too—feeling it, knowing he could feel it, feeling that little nudge at the end of every one of his thrusts. I dunno if that sounded normal or not, I didn’t really care, but I knew we both liked it—it felt…real.

Basic.

Necessary.

I couldn’t get any words to form but short phrases, so I kept repeating the same things over and over and over—Oh, God. Rob. Yes. Then strung all together—OhGodRobYes. I wasn’t conscious of patterns, and he didn’t fucking care because I was convinced at times like this there wasn’t a lot swirling around in his head other than incredibly similar things. It wasn’t like we could have an actual conversation at this point—things were reduced to minimalist sounds and reiterated sentiment. Of course, it was him, so it was probably incredibly verbose and well-articulated…and most likely made no sense.

It was increasingly difficult to hold onto anything other than feeling, and I don’t think I was capable of more than just Oh, God – Oh, God – Oh, God near the end. It’s weird how I can feel both completely fucking lost in something, but know exactly what it is, and where I am, and what it means at the same time.

Or how my entire world can be reduced to just bursts of feeling. Like the sensory experience of the thing as a whole can’t be taken in, so it’s broken up into sections of it at a time: his cock bottoming out, that nudge under his hand feeling him inside and out, his fingers rolling my nipple, his thighs pressing into me, the never-ending piston motion of his thrusts, his hand trailing up to cup my neck, his thumb rubbing back and forth over my chin, the pad edging along my bottom lip, his mouth sucking a hickey into my throat, his thumb pushing into my mouth and running over the tops of my bottom teeth, his fingers curled under my jaw as I trapped the digit between my teeth, the jolt of energy of complete satisfaction and fullness…

Oh, God

Oh, God

Oh, God

Convulsing into orgasm, hearing him groaning into my ear through his own, shaking behind me. My eyes shut tight like they’d fucking burn out if I dared to open them at that moment. Harsh breathing into my ear, his hand locking me to him, body pressed close.

My hand had been wrapped backward around his neck until I couldn’t hold on there enough, fisted into his hair instead as I came, just leaving it there afterward.

It felt like I was going completely fucking insane—everything exploding, screaming inside my head—the intensity. I was definitely going crazy. Sparks from the orgasm were flushing over my body, like little electric shocks flowed down my feet, making them tingle. Everything prickling as my pussy compressed so tightly around him.

I felt sore—a deep ache—I fucking loved it.

His breathing still ragged in my ear while still managing to come out like a satisfied sigh. “I love you so fucking much.”

I groaned, moving off of him and turning in his arms before locking mine around his neck, my mouth crashing onto his. No air. “Me, too. So fucking much.”

Desperate.

I felt desperate.

I shoved my forehead into his. “Again. I need you again. Now. Right now.”

It felt like I would fall apart if he weren’t in me again. Like he was the only thing that kept me together. I never wanted us to lose that. I always wanted to feel that desperation for him.

He rolled us immediately—I never had to ask twice. My legs were lifted to wrap around him and I arched as he pushed in again, bowing off the bed, deflating when he pulled back.

I wanted to ask him about before—I wanted to know if that’s what he felt when he came home—I wanted to know if we shared that, too. I wanted to know that I wasn’t the only one that felt it—felt literally like I’d go insane if I didn’t have him, and yet it felt like it anyway when he was there. There was no way to really explain the feeling because saying that it felt both ways was confusing and contradictory. Was it possible for something to feel so chaotic and out of control and still be so intensely right? Was it normal for chaos to be positive?

His eyes locked on mine again and emotions explained in words just couldn’t really touch what was there. It wasn’t quantifiable.

Watching him move over me, feeling him move inside me, my legs around him scrambling and desperate, my hands pulling him down until I wasn’t sure how he still had room to move, but he managed to.

Frenzy—it felt a lot like frenzy.

He slowed, touching his lips to mine gently, forehead brushing against mine. I could feel the ends of his hair tickling me almost as acutely as I could feel his hands, his cock. His nose nuzzled mine, his mouth never moving far away from my own now.

I sort of wanted to scream with all the feeling—the love I felt for him—that just built more every time we did this, that rose not in my chest but almost like a guttural knowledge that flooded my body. My body knew it, of course, but so did my heart, my head—which was so fucking cliché, but every part of me physically understood it. Something I can never be without.

“Fuck, I love you.”

I think it came out a lot more…emotionally than I intended. It didn’t really matter—I didn’t care that it came out that way—they were true feelings, but it just wasn’t really the way I meant for it to come out. It was just the result of what I’d been thinking about.

If it was possible, his face softened even more, and he was already at a pretty intense level. I don’t think he could explain or articulate any better than I could, and when he looked at me like this, it was just another case of can’t. I just can’t. There is no verbiage.

His fingers cupped my cheek, thumb caressing my cheekbones, and it was like he propagated tenderness—profusely sensitive, sentimental, romantic tenderness.

Rob was just warmth. Always.

He pushed in, holding it, and kissed me gently. “I love you, too.”

And with just one little moan, it was over.

“And I love fucking you.”

The moan I let out was rather salacious, and the fact that I basically moaned that entire statement to him, too—salaciously. And again, not really something I intended, just something that he always seemed to be able to draw out of me. Really, it was all his fault.

There was another one of those really noticeable shifts here—like when he just let go the first time—only this one was completely the opposite. He pulled back a little, my legs dropping from his waist, and I could tell what was coming. I could tell when our eyes met, when his hands moved to hold my legs open, holding them down, his thumbs pressing into the sides of my knee, fingers wrapped almost all the way around my leg—such big hands—spreading me completely, the way he shoved hard and deep inside.

And then just kept doing it.

Over and over again.

It was possessive, and forceful, and I couldn’t have felt more…innately his at that moment.

He was too far away from me then. I think I made a noise, something throaty and deep, but coupled with some sort of hand gesture or grab, and he shifted again, reading me, knowing what I wanted, and let my legs go, wrapping them around him again. I tightened my legs immediately, reaching up to touch his face, running my fingertips over his eyebrow, down his nose, and he nuzzled right back into me, nipping at my fingers when they reached his mouth, and that was about all she wrote.

Once he moved enough to be over me again, still fucking me into the mattress, his hips never stopping, his arms flexing, his hands right next to my head, fingers digging into the pillows… There was no misconception about this orgasm, it was exactly what it hadn’t been the first time. There was nothing quiet about this one. My back was full-on bowed, my hands were fisted in the sheets, gripping his arms, pulling his hair, raking my nails over his back, his chest, whatever the fuck I could get my hands on. Nothing rolled through—it fucking blared and roared, and I screamed his name all over again.

I fucking loved the loudness of it—so loud it rang in my ears for minutes after—the way it took my heart the same amount of time to get back to anything close to normal.

I certainly got what I asked for.

I pulled him down to my mouth, and it struck me that this was probably just as vulnerable as he had been before; they were all just different levels, different kinds. The level of trust we had in each other and the give and take…it was completely natural and anticipatory now. It just was—a given.

He pushed his forehead into mine, lowering himself more, covering me. His kisses were gentle again.

Man, everything was so fucking sticky. Like, I think I was going to be stuck to this towel indefinitely. “How did you get this under us?” I was genuinely curious.

“I put it under you before I went down on you. You’re incredibly trusting while you’re sleeping.”

“Well…if I’m sleeping with you.”

“An excellent distinction.”

I traced my finger down his nose gently, over his cheek, along his jaw until I ended at his chin, pinching it. He smirked at me, the puff of air from his quiet laughter washing over my face. I smiled back up at him, and I dunno, it was just one of those really sappy moments where we just smile at each other, still all entangled together in every way, where we’re both so fucking happy we really only have each other to share it with.

I’d never been one to say those three words a lot. Especially not in the beginning, but I saved it for particularly meaningful times—I always thought it meant more then. That was another thing I’d left behind. I didn’t think I could ever tell him enough that I loved him. I didn’t think saying it again was ever too much.

“I love you.”

“I know.”  




Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7a Chapter 7b Chapter 8 Chapter 9a Chapter 9b Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17a Chapter 17b Chapter 18a Chapter 18b Chapter 19a Chapter 19b Chapter 19c Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44