song_tra_bong | (no subject)

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Mary Anne is pretty sure she's found the right world. That knowledge isn't as comforting as she'd thought it would be.

The trail leads her to a hotel, where she almost drops the ball. The description of the man sounds like Ramon, but the presence of two kids throw her. She almost lets it go.

Almost.

But then she figures the guy could be mistaken, or maybe it's part of Ramon's cover, or maybe...

She follows the lead.

Ramon (she's assuming it's Ramon) did a good job of covering his tracks. But there are still things to point the way: someone cleaned the cabin, stocked it with food. Even false names on rental paperwork are names, and they're names she's seen before.

(Spain, France, Switzerland)

She doesn't think she's assuming any more.

She rents a motorcycle, an offroad number with chunky tires and an engine that growls like a bear. She rides it most of the way up the mountain, before parking it and hiding it off the side of the road. She continues the rest of the distance on foot.

There's a gun in the small of her back, money and ammo in the bag at her hip; knives in all the usual places. She thinks she's right, but it's important to be prepared.

She steps up onto the porch, careful not to let the boards creak, then knocks on the door.

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He doesn't realise that she might not want the tattoo touched but it doesn't matter anyway; as soon as she straddles his hips his hands move, one arm wrapped around her, trying to push her down harder on to him, the other under her shirt, finding her tits because he's missed those and hers are fucking glorious.

She doesn't mind it touched, but it's a strange feeling; she likes it, all the same.

She takes the hint and grinds her hips down, while trailing kisses down his jaw and throat.

That gets a strangled moan out of him and he's pulling her shirt up, wanting it out of the way.

'Get this off.'

It isn't until her shirt is halfway over her head that she realizes she can't remember if he knows about her scar. Her bra provides some coverage, but not enough.

This thought passes through her brain in an instant, and then she's flinging her shirt across the room and turning her attention back to layering a mix of kisses and bites to the corner of his jaw.

He runs a trail of kisses cown her neck, across her collarbone and down, and it's only when his lips brush it do they stop. He pulls back and his brow creases as he looks at it, then up at her face with an enquiring sort of expression.

You're his property?

She traces the edges of his face with her fingertips. Her smile is small, but honest, but sad.

"It doesn't mean what you think," she murmurs.

She could have gotten rid of it, when she took the mark. Could have healed it away. The reason has nothing to do with belonging, or how she feels about him.

"It's about what I let him do, and why I can't forget that.

But don't look at him." She takes one of his hands, covers the scar with his palm.

"Look at me." Hand over his, she leans in and kisses him.

He doesn't understand at all. But the thought flashes across his mind that he can hardly judge - he's wearing a ring that he could take off, only he can't, doesn't want to, won't. He can't cast stones about ownership or relationships when he doesn't even understand his own.

Besides, he is not going to spoil this. It feels too good to stop. So he kisses her back, fingers stroking her sides under he pulls back and says, throatily;

'C'mon, upstairs. Lets do it properly.'

She leans in just long enough to whisper in his ear, "Show me the way."

Then she climbs off of his lap, standing up. And if she takes her sweet time about it, well, she's always been a tease.

He half-smiles at her, shaking his head because he knows exactly what she's doing but hey, there's nothing wrong with teasing and there's always time to pay her back later. Besides, it's a really nice view.

He kisses her again when he's standing, slow and soft, then takes her hand and tugs her gently in the direction of the stairs.

The payback is half the fun of teasing.

She has just long enough to think that she will never, ever get tired of kissing him, before she follows him to the stairs.

He keeps hold of her hand as he leads the way, rounding a corner in the hallway at the top to open the door to his room. It's quite large with plush furnishings but neat because he hasn't brought much with him. Not that she'll really get a chance to notice much anyway seeing as how he pins her to the wall - not violently, just firmly - and claims her mouth again as soon as the door is closed behind them.

And doesn't this feel deliciously familiar.

(We should have done this months ago.)

The memory is so vivid that for a moment she almost answers him out loud, but this time is different. This time, there isn't a petrifying knot of nervous tension in her stomach. This time, there isn't a gnawing (guilt) worry in the back of her mind.
isn't there? should there be
This time is so much better.
not tonight
She slides one leg between his and hauls him closer with a hand on his hip.

He refuses to even contemplate any idea of guilt. Until the morning anyway. It helps that at the moment he is decidedly not thinking with his brain, something that should be obvious at the way he exhales hard when she pushes a leg between his.

He bra is unhooked with an expert flick of one hand at the catch, then it's pulled off and tossed away. For now he just touches his forehead to hers, toying with a nipple between thumb and forefinger, seeing if she likes it.

She hums, catching her lower lip between her teeth.

"You're pretty good at that," she murmurs, eyes glancing in the general direction of her thrown bra before meeting his again.

'I'm talented.'

Also, he's had a lot of women.

'If you want to put it back on, I can pretend to fumble around with it like a teenager if you prefer'.

"Oh, hell no."

She rocks her leg up into him to emphasize her point.

His eyes shut and he swallows hard - he's probably not going to metion the fact that it's been almost a year since he's had sex because it would sound really lame - but it is on his mind that he's going to have to work to prolong this.

She is pulled towards the bed. Bed seems like a good idea right about now.

The bed seems like a great idea right now.

He pulls her and she lets him, using the momentum to get out in front of him and hit the bed first. She pulls him down after her.

Almost as soon as they hit the sheets he's fumbling with the button on her pants, kissing her again before leaning down to suck lightly on a nipple. Perhaps she would prefer it harder, he thinks, but he can't seem to find it in himself to be rough tonight.

Damn pants. He never finds them as easy as bra straps.

Much as she might enjoy rough sex, she doesn't need it. Right now, she's happy enough just to have him.

She slips one hand down to try and help with her pants, although she may just be getting in the way.

He pushes her hand out of the way and manages to get the damn button undone. Exactly half a second later, his fingers are slipping under her panties and stroking her gently, looking for her clit and all the while revelling in how nice it is to touch a woman again. it's hardly a novelty but there has only been...one? two?...in the last five years or so.

She arches her hips up into the touch, gasping, while she hauls his face closer for another kiss.

He smiles, presses a little more firmly, satisfied at her reaction but making sure there's more of it.

'Bet you taste amazing,' he murmurs, between kisses. 'And you're not getting out of this bed until I find out.'

She moans, back arching slightly.

"Want you to find out," she gasps.

'Soon,' he says quietly against her ear. He's loving seeing her like this, not going to rush. Fingers probe lower, pushing into her as he nips lightly at her earlobe.