Saturday, December 13, 2014

never foresaw any of this.


Lukas, frankly, is still thinking of his twins when his mate tells him, in no uncertain terms, what she would like. It startled a scandalized little huff of a laugh from him. The humor fades quickly enough -- like smoke in the wind. He shifts. Kisses her soft on the mouth.

"I'll drive us to Uncork It and get a bottle," he says, "if you book us a suite at the W."


She taps on her phone while he navigates the streets. Wholly by accident, they've ended up right next to both destinations -- a couple of blocks to one, a couple more to the other. Uncork It is near closing time when they pull up. Lukas leaves the car running, keys in the ignition. Gets out without his coat, pulls it on as he jogs for the door. He's gone for a matter of minutes. Comes back with a bottle of Luksusowa. A blast of chill air accompanies him into the car, and he hands the bottle to Danicka. "They didn't have Wyborowa," he explains.

Barely a minute more and they pull up in front of the W. They have no luggage. They don't even have a change of clothes. Lukas gives his keys to the valet; Danicka is carrying a bottle of vodka. He grins when he sees her like that; puts his arm around her to keep her warm across the ten feet to the door. The receptionist thinks maybe she recognizes them, but it's been years, and they're such different people now. He gives her his card, she gives him a keycard. They take the elevators all the way up.

Leaning against the railing, Lukas holds his hand out for the bottle. He has his gloves in his pocket. He cracks the top open, tips his head back for a generous swallow.


In battle, Lukas prepares. And then over-prepares. And then prepares again for what might happen if he's over-prepared. His pack, while holding strength of pure brute force that cracks like the thunder of their patron, more often cuts like a surgical scalpel. This is why he leads. This is why they trust him the way they do. This is why, for some time now, he has had the renown to challenge for the fourth rank of a people who tend to tap out after the fifth if they make it that far. He is a strategist and a warrior both. Not a samurai, not a general: a wolf. And an alpha.

Danicka catches him off guard. Danicka startles him, disrupts him. Danicka undoes his footing. Because of Danicka, sometimes Lukas simply doesn't know what to do with himself.

Perhaps he just lets himself relax in her presence. But they both know better: when he was made of iron, when he refused to bend to her, it was still this way. It has always been this way.

So of course she surprises him, and he laughs, and though it only lasts for a moment or so, he is caught flat-footed by his mate's wandering attentions, wandering thoughts, wandering desires. Kisses her, because the shock of who she is only lasts a short time. Danicka knows from the first touch of his lips that he doesn't intend to eat at her mouth with this kiss. Devour her whole. Fuck her here in the car.

Truthfully, she's a little disappointed.


All she does when he parts from her and tells her what he does is smirk a little, and take out her phone. Texts her father first. Tells him they're going to be out late, but they'll be there in the morning, is that all right? And she never gets an answer because he has probably gone to sleep already, in the downstairs guest room, the television off and the house locked up. She calls the W next, because it's close to Christmas, and it's hard to get rooms by just walking in.

At the store, she stays in the car, watching outside, seeing him through the windows. Sees him frown at shelves, pluck something, take it to check out. Walks out carrying vodka and hands it to her. She smirks at what he says. "I'm sure it will suffice," she teases.

They get out, Danicka in her sleeveless graduation dress, Lukas carrying her coat after her because she didn't bother to put it on. She lets the bottle hang from the neck, gripping it comfortably as they walk inside. Her heels click on the floor; the receptionist is a wholly different person from the one here five years ago. Four years ago. Three. Still thinks she recognizes them, but can't understand how: something about them presses against primal memory, and everything in the poor young woman's life is built to numb her to those memories.

Danicka hangs back, opening the vodka, taking a drink right there in the lobby from the thick glass mouth. She looks around, and caps the bottle, and then heads for the elevators as Lukas is receiving his keycards. Walks ahead of him, dangling that bottle at her side, hitting the 'up' button before she even knows what floor they're going to be on.

It's late, but not terribly so. There are still people in the lobby, drinking, talking, laughing. A couple of people get off the elevator, glancing at Danicka, her bottle of crystal-colored liquid, her bright eyes. Her short dress. Lukas walks in after her, a dark wall, and the elevator doors slide closed behind them.

Danicka turns to him, he holds out his hand, she hands him the bottle, the body of it hitting his palm. He opens it, takes a swig himself. Danicka just watches him, leaning against the wall.

"Come here," she says, when he's lowering the bottle, swallowing.


She draws stares when she does that. Cracks the bottle open, upends it there in the lobby. She's gorgeous in that dress. She's gorgeous with that hair, those eyes. Her throat moves as she swallows, and people can't decide if there's shocked or scandalized or disgusted or attracted or what.

She walks into an elevator ahead of a wolf. He's with her. They're together somehow, that much is clear. The doors are closing when she smacks the bottle solidly into his palm. He drinks and she watches him. He lowers the bottle and he's watching her, his eyes agleam.

The bottle is cool against the outside of her thigh when he comes to her. Puts his hand on her hip, slides his arm around her waist. There's a certain claim in that; or at least, an assurance. This time he does eat at her mouth. This time he presses her against the wall with the force and sudden hunger of his kiss.


Time was, he might wonder what she wanted. Think he knew, but be wary. Now he puts his body against hers and kisses her, hungrily now, til her spine elongates against the cold interior of the elevator. Danicka sighs into his mouth, a low exhale that borders on a groan. Her arms are against the wall, too. He didn't put them there. They just are.

Their floor dings before they're done kissing. Before they've even started. The elevator doors slide open. Danicka opens her eyes, looking at him.


Ding and the doors slide open. Lukas draws back a little; aware, always aware, of what's at his back. What's around him. What happens, who, where, how. He half-turns. She's looking at him and he's looking at the door, and neither of them are making a move to go out.

The doors shut again. He looks at her. They are close, his lips tingling with the feel of hers. He starts to smile. The elevator starts to move, going for the next guest waiting. He takes a step back, but only to hit the emergency stop. And to put down their vodka. Then he comes back, dropping his coat on the ground, unzipping his fly.


As he turns, looking at the open door, Danicka's lips curve into a smirk. She knows. She knows before he turns back, is smiling at him as he turns back, looking at him with those limpid eyes and that scandalous mouth, her heart rate rising, her breath quickening. The doors shut and neither of them has moved, or said a word.

Her mouth opens when he steps away, though it's only for a moment -- she almost speaks, doesn't quite gasp. He hits the emergency stop. He puts the bottle down as the elevator halts. Their coats fall to the ground and his fly unzips and Danicka kisses him, ravenous, ferocious, biting his lower lip as he unfastens his pants, starts pushing them out of the way.

This isn't vodka. An ounce or two for each of them, mere moments ago, is not to blame for this.

Danicka remembers the time she jerked him off, sucked on his cock, while driving. Kept stroking him in the elevator, though not this elevator, while he panted, thrusting into her hands.

But that was before. And this is now. Her hands touch his face, then one reaches down to ruck up the hem of her dress, hiking it over her hips.


They seem so attuned. Not a word has passed between them, and yet they have the same idea. She rucks up her dress and his hands are immediately on her skin; one palm warm, the other cool still from the bottle. When she lifts her face she finds him waiting for her, kissing her even as she kisses him. Bites him. He mutters against her mouth, grips her by the hips, lifts her: back sliding against the smooth wall of the elevator.

She hasn't bothered to take anything off, and apart from his coat, neither has he. He reaches into his pants; mutters again, and this time the words register. "Pull your panties aside," he's saying,

Mr. and Mrs. Kvasnicka-Musil, though neither of them have changed their names; Mr. and Mrs. parents-of-two-small-children, standing in an elevator with a bottle of vodka open in the corner. She moves her lingerie or he does it for her; either way he's rubbing the head of his cock against her a moment later, which makes him gasp against her mouth.

"Hold onto me," he's saying now, though he doesn't have to. Though she doesn't have to either: he'd hold her up. Maybe she makes him hold her up, deviant thing that she is. Can be. He groans when he slides into her. Grips the railing of the elevator with one hand -- other arm's wrapped tight around her. They're suspended x floors above the ground when he starts fucking her, eagerly and rather hard, semi-literally banging her against the wall.


Danicka cries out. Not when he lifts her up or when he snarls at her to pull her panties aside. She cries out when he pushes inside of her, hard, sudden, fucking her already. Cries out and clutches her hands at his arms, her head tipped back against the wall, her lust catching in her throat.

Before that, though: he mutters wordlessly against her and lifts her up, and his hands are greedy on her thighs, and her thighs are opening to either side of him. Before she cries out he mutters, growls at her, and she shudders, says back:

"Rip them,"

and even the words fill her with lust. Loves how strong he is. Loves the sound of tearing fabric, breaking things. Gets wet for him, when he does it, her cunt clenching on nothing at all just yet, her pussy slick when he finds her with his fingers, with his cock. She doesn't hold onto him. Well: her hands do, tightening on his shoulders as he shoves himself inside of her, lifting her another half-inch on the wall, fucking her the moment he's sanctified within her.

That's when she cries out, her hands and her arms tightening around him. Her cunt tightening around him. Her legs, her thighs, her whole body holding him, holding on.

"Kurva," she snarls, digging her nails into his shoulder, through his sweater. "Kurva m ."


She's not the only one aroused by the very words. Lukas growls to hear them. Rouses to hear them. Grabs the flimsy fabric, yanks, tears, does as he's told. She grabs his shoulders. His sweater's thick, his shirt is thermal. Even so she can feel the strength there, the hardness of his flesh,

the hardness of his cock filling her. He usually takes it a little slower. Has to: they live in a house with pups, and god knows what they're starting to overhear and remember. They keep quiet these days. Fuck under the covers, whispering, panting. It's not often now that she cries out like that. It's not often that he answers it with a low, rough sound of his own.

Then she's cursing at him. Saying the filthiest things. He kisses the words out of her mouth, and she tightens on him, body, cunt, everything, and his hands are under her thighs lifting her and opening her; he's quite frankly plowing, pounding her against that wall while the elevator hangs between floors.

How long do they have before someone comes to check on them? Ten minutes? Five? Less? Maybe they should worry about security cams, all that. Not much nudity to be seen but what they're doing is unmistakable, written on her face, his position, their interlocked bodies, that rhythm. Ten minutes, five, less it'll have to be enough.


These days they're both slower. They're less desperate. They don't question each other's motives, don't bite and snap and circle warily. Each fuck doesn't feel like their last. And, truth be told, each fuck isn't a sudden, shocking discovery of what the other one wants, likes, gets off on.

Not to say they don't still learn. That afternoon he touched some of her toys, thoughtful and curious and aroused, and then spent hours watching her, exhausting her, fucking her every which way he could before he slid himself inside of her. He's learned the way she comes when he's fucking her slow and firm under the covers, learned the way she shudders and falls apart when he tells her to be quiet, shh. How that fetish of hers for fucking in cars wasn't a product of desperation or just a facet of their early relationship: on a couple of occasions, on rare drives alone, she's told him to pull over for no reason but her unfettered lust.

But tonight she cries out. And he snarls. He fucks her harder, faster, than he has in some time. She moans again, loudly, swearing whenever he's not kissing her. Keeps telling him to fuck her, fuck her. Somewhere past the walls of the elevator, out on the hotel hallway, someone can hear her and thinks it's coming from a room.

Danicka squirms between his body and the wall. Her hands roam greedily up his neck, into his hair. She leans forward, kissing him, groaning into his mouth. Fuck me, she mutters, again, grinding against his cock. Fuck that hot pussy.


It could be coming from a room. Soon enough it will be coming from a room. Lukas has no intention of stopping with one hectic fuck in an elevator. It's not often that they're alone like this. It's not often that she graduates. They're going to go into their room, throw open the curtains, turn out the lights,

(or maybe leave them on)

and he's going to fuck her brains out. On somebody's else's thousand-dollar sheets. That's the plan; he's sticking to it.

For now, though: this. An unscripted, enthusiastic, ardent, almost-rough encounter. Her hands all over him while his mostly grab her ass, her thighs, hold her right there so he can fucking drill her. She's saying the filthiest things, and he gives her just these open-note groans back; low; they sound sort of like assent. Like he agrees: yes. Fuck that hot pussy. Fuck that sweet cunt. Fuck her, fuck her, fuck her, yes.

They shake the elevator a little. Neither of them worry about it. She's a fucking engineer; knows these things are designed to take much worse. He's a fucking werewolf; knows he'd protect her if they fell. Their kisses start to taste like bites. She can always tell when he's getting close because of the way he sounds, and the way he fucks, and the way he holds onto her and grinds into her and moans, groans,

growls her name.


Let's call it his assent. His agreement. Yes. She likes that. She pants for it, tightening her legs around him, digging her nails into his body through his sweater. Hardly matters. He can hardly feel anything but the pressure of her body wound around his, the sweat on her thighs that makes her harder for him to hold up. All the same, there's no concer she'll slip; Danicka doesn't slow down, or stop riding him, using her shoulderblades against the wall, using his shoulders, using her own arms -- so much stronger now than when he met her -- for leverage. She kisses him somewhat savagely as she lifts herself up on him, bites almost too hard on his lower lip, groaning.

Her panting is hitched, though, uneven. Sometimes when she rides down on him and he thrusts up into her she shudders, she shakes, she threatens to fall apart.

It's not every day she graduates. It's not every day that she gets him all to herself. It's always been so. Sometimes it seems she sees him, has him to herself, even less now -- he has the pack, she has (had, will have) school, their families, the imminence of Irena's change, the girls. There have been times when he could only be home a short time, and the question is how he can possibly split that time. Give it to his children. Give it to his mate. Give it to himself, curled up and resting in his den, a few moments alone, a few moments of peace.

So there is some desperation to this. Some heedless need for one another. Danicka clutches at him, and clutches at the wall when her body clenches, when she feels herself close to orgasm, when her inner thighs almost slip against his hips, when her back arches like she's been shot through with electricity. Her face pulls, head tipping back, mouth opening silent for the first time since he started fucking her. Her hand claws at the wall, slips; she quivers around him, and that quiver rolls up through her, trembles her whole body. She stops breathing for a moment. She sees stars, not flashes of light preceding unconsciousness but stars, vast molten things in the sky erupting and burning, exploding and collapsing,

and then she sucks in air, and a sound comes out of her that is part god and part Lukas and part, simply, oh. That gasp for air is not her last, and the ones that follow are faster and sharper and coincide with the rolling, greedy thrusts of her hips as she rides the rest of her orgasm out on him.


She goes silent; taut. She grasps at nothing, fingers slipping on slick wood. He buries his face against her throat, her shoulder. He grabs her hips, pulls her down, thrusts up into her,

she's taking that breath, she's making that sound,

he's making this sound, this groan that fairly explodes out of him. He muffles it: bites it into her shoulder, grips her in his teeth as he drives her another inch up on the wall with his sheer momentum. She rides him. He fucks her. They move on each other in these short, hard, hungry grinds. They use each other, and there's something pure about that sort of lust: consensual, unashamed.

There was a time when he wouldn't make a sound, fucking her. As though maybe that was a form of defeat or surrender. As though it would make him weak. He can hardly stop now: can't seem to stop groaning, can't seem to make the sounds turn into words. He gets there, though. Eventually she can make out a few rough-edged vowels, consonants,

so good, so hot, you're so fucking hot.

They slow. They stop. He nuzzles her shoulder, her neck, her ear. Those slow-pulsing clenches of her cunt still make him shudder; exhale. Some errant thought steals into his mind, makes him laugh softly. He sounds happy. He is.

Lukas lifts his head after some time. He kisses his mate, slowly and sweetly and deeply. Like this, he feels so close to her: together, joined, satisfied.


For several seconds, they're just grinding together. She writhes on his cock while he holds himself deep inside of her, growling, groaning. It's only been a few minutes since the doors closed, since he pulled the emergency stop. The fact that either of them got off at all is somewhat remarkable, and a testament to how much practice they've had.

Yes: at fucking each other. At getting each other off.

It was rough. Fast, edging on brutal. Holding that edge, riding it, between what is good and what is terrible. His lower lip is livid red from her biting; all her skin is pink from the sheer heat. She holds onto him, trembling still from exertion and warmth and desire, panting against him.

Lukas regains himself a little first: kissing her, nuzzling her, making little happy, laughing sounds in response to thoughts he doesn't share with her. She's still drowsy when he lifts his head to kiss her. She's still kissing him, slow and languid and wet, when the intercom comes on and someone says hello?

Danicka freezes. She holds onto him with one arm, lays her other hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. They aren't seen in here right now; whoever just noticed that the elevator is stopped isn't even sure there's anyone inside.


Danicka freezes. Lukas freezes too. Danicka covers her laugh -- can we call it a giggle? -- and Lukas whispers shh, shh. Swallows, clears his throat:

"Uh -- hey there -- we bumped a button in here and everything stopped. How do we get it going again?"

Says that over his shoulder. Manages to sound more or less normal. Turns back and he's got this smile spreading, turning into a grin. He leans forward, spontaneous: kisses Danicka soft and quick on the mouth. Gives her one last little grind with that half-hard cock

before he lifts her carefully off, sets her down.


Lukas shushing her only makes Danicka bury her face against his shoulder, laughing harder. He answers. His dick is still inside of her. He nudges her up to kiss her while they're waiting for an answer. Grinds into her and she gasps quickly, bites it into his neck, squirms back against him. Not once or twice.

Like she's going to start fucking him again in here.

Intercom buzzes on again. Instructions are given. Profuse apologies! Offers to send someone up to their room to check on them. When no immediate answer comes, because Danicka is sliding her hand up his sweater and kissing him again, rather insistently, the person hesitates, then offers to send a bottle of wine up to their room.

Instantly she breaks the kiss and laughs brightly, but with a tremor of anxiety beneath the words -- a courageous, nervous-but-hiding-it laugh, which is easy enough under the circumstances: "Oh, don't worry about that, we're already here celebrating, we have a bottle,"

though not of wine, and she is interrupted eagerly:

"Oh! Congratulations! I'll ... I'll have the kitchen send up some chocolate-covered strawberries,"

from their romance package, of course,

"is there anything else I can do for you?"

Danicka licks Lukas's neck.


"No, no, we're fine -- " this, while Danicka is sliding her hands under his sweater, touching skin still overheated from recent strenuous exercise, " -- oh, we just figured out how to get the elevator moving again. Thank you. There it goes. We're okay now."

He pushes the emergency stop back in. Also: starts looking for the button to hang up the intercom. Also: catches Danicka's wandering hands through his shirt, pinning her palms gently against his abs. Gives her this sort of mock-scolding smirk, mouthing wait.


He has to lift her from the wall. Hold her on his body. His strength is immense; bizarrely, tenderly, even while he's inside of her, she thinks of seeing him bare-chested, bare-armed, holding both of their newborn daughters at once, looking at once awed by and terrified by their lightness, as though they would fly from his grasp at the slightest breeze. How close he held them. How carefully, all the same, as though wary of crushing them. Even then, they were hard on her arms, on her back. She could hold both girls at once if she was sitting down, if they were propped up, but Lukas more than once took up the task of plucking them up and carrying them downstairs for Danicka to nurse on the couch once she'd gotten hrself settled.

Danicka loves him for his strength. It never really mattered to her, at the beginning: it was a nice treat. His body type suited her particular preferences. She was attracted to the shape of him, to the cut of muscle across his chest, arms, abdomen, obliques. She enjoyed how vigorously and how tirelessly he could fuck her. It wasn't something that inspired tenderness or affection in her, though. Yet now it does. She's not sure when that started; it was before the girls were born, before she was pregnant, before she even decided that she wanted 'a baby' (or two, apparently) now, and not years from now. Somewhere along the line she saw glimmers of value and wonder and joy in his strength that never had mattered to her before.

She would not love him less if he withered. If some Wyrm toxin or spirit's haunting or something took him down, shrunk him, weakened him. She would not love him less. Still: she does love his strength, love him for his strength, and how thoughtlessly he expends it not in threat, or intimidation, or violence, or control. At least not with her, or the pups, or with family. He uses it to carry them. To protect. To hold

what he can keep.

So oddly, happily, she smiles as he lifts her up onto his body, ending the intercom, fiddling with knobs according to instructions while she kisses him, pants softly against him while the elevator starts moving again: "I should get off your dick."

Which she does not do. Just kisses him, her dress so rucked up it bares her ass.


"You really should," he mutters, but let's note: he doesn't move to encourage her. He doesn't seem to be in a hurry to set her down, tuck himself away, zip, get out of the elevator.

Instead: she kisses him. And he lets himself submerge into that kiss, eyes closing. Nevermind that the elevator is moving again. Nevermind that they're descending toward the lobby --

"Shit." The thought spurs him to action. He sets his brow against Danicka's. Bumps very softly. Draws another breath, and then gives her ass a little squeeze before attempting -- again -- to lift her off. "Come on. We need to change elevators, unless you want to show back up in the lobby."


So Danicka rolls her hips. Lazily, slowly, she circles him inside of her, nipping his lower lip. They may as well still be fucking. Fucking again. Whatever it is. The elevator is moving again and he's in her cunt to the hilt and she's starting to moan softly, breathily, into those kisses.

But they're going down.


"Oh, shit," she says, at the same time, or in echo -- close enough. She laughs, her mouth wide and happy, as they bump brows. He squeezes her and lifts her. She bites her lip and lets him, instantly tugging her dress back down. Nods absent-mindedly. Reaches for the bottle on the floor, lifting it up to take a swig.


While his mate drinks, Lukas straightens himself up. He is -- quite frankly -- a bit of a mess. He doesn't have tissues. He puts his cock away wet, grinning and grimacing in the same little expression; zips up his fly and wipes his hand semi-discreetly on his pants.

Reaches out with his other hand to take hers. Bumps a random button on the panel with his knuckle, which brings the elevator to a stop halfway down.

They're on some guest floor or other. Quiet. Thick walls, thick carpeting; the slightest intimation of conversations or TV through the doors. Lukas hits the up button and they stand together, waiting for the next car up. After a while, he glances at his mate.

"Bychom meli jit znovu, kdyz se dostaneme do naseho pokoje."


["We should go again when we get back to our room."]


Poor Lukas. He grins, he grimaces, and Danicka picks up her torn panties and tucks them into his front pocket, smirking at him. She has vodka on her breath.

He speaks to her, as the elevator slows to a stop and the doors ding open. She reaches up, pulling him down to kiss her, an open bottle of vodka in her right hand. She's feeling tipsy, drunk on vodka, on lust, on love. They wait for a new elevator, a new rise, to whatever room they got.

That is his only answer, to what he says: her hand in his hair. Her mouth on his mouth. Her body pressed to his.


They share that smirk, while her hand slips into his front pocket. She makes him hard again, doing that. Maybe she can tell.

Certainly she can tell moments later, standing in the hallway waiting for another elevator to come along. When she puts her hand in his hair. When she pulls him down to kiss her. When she presses against him, all slender and supple and strong, and when his hands come to anchor her hips to his. It's quite obvious, then. It's quite evident.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Lukas glances to make sure the car is empty. Then, with no fanfare whatsoever, he picks her up. Lifts her onto his body, reverse-piggyback, and walks her into the elevator. Where he hits the button for their floor again. Where he settles against a convenient wall, lifts his face, and kisses her again. Slowly, but hungrily. Lingeringly.


"So hard," she murmurs, close to his mouth, as their lips part. She rubs herself against him, best as she can, standing their in the hallway. Kisses him again. "We're never going to get in the room."

Laughs softly at herself, at them both, tipping her head to the side. Lets his mouth roam. Encourages his mouth to roam. Reaches between their bodies to touch him through his jeans, his underclothes; strokes him as surreptitiously as she can. Is still touching him, thus, when the elevator doors ding open.

Lukas basically drags her in, and Danicka's laugh is bright and sudden and disruptive. She adores him. She tangles her legs with his and grins at him while he kisses her, her arms wrapped around his neck, her kisses interrupted by her smiling. They go on kissing anyway, despite such difficulties. She adores him, she adores him. She murmurs it once, her hand slipping under his sweater again. Twice, as her fingers find his nipple, stroke him.

The doors
ding open



"Of course I am," he mutters back, mock-accusingly. "What do you expect, groping around in my pockets like that?"

And later, mid-kiss:

"Of course we are." Laughing then, low -- "We're adults. We'll practice -- mmph -- self-control."

And later still, doors opening:

well. No words then. Just his eyes opening, glancing past her bright hair to the hall. Their floor. Their hall. He steps out of the elevator with her. She's rucked his sweater up. His shirt too. There's a patch of skin visible: tight obliques, warm skin. Her forearm resting against his ribcage. Anyone peeking would know she has her hands on him. Would guess she was playing with his nipple; that he was hard; that they've been up to no good in that elevator.

No one's peeking. No one watches them. He carries her down the hall, long strides, in a hurry. They get to their door and he stands there while she digs through his pockets, finds the keycard. "Go go go," he whispers, eager, and she slides the card in and the little light blinks green and then they're inside. He shuts the door. She helps him with his coat. He pulls her dress up over her head. The windows are open and the lake is black and the night is beautiful and the bed,

the bed is soft when he drops her on it. Pulls his shirt up over his head, drops his pants. Strokes himself half-absently, climbing over her, moving her up on those covers until she can reach up and touch the headboard. Until there's room for both of them.

"See," he murmurs, while the two of them work together to get her bra off, "we made it to the room."


All she does is grin up at him. Grins up at him the way she has so many times, knowing she's doing wrong, she's getting away with it; she's breaking the rules and he likes it. He loves her for it. No wonder she loves him back so dearly. She grins like that, wicked and smug and delighted, groaning softly into his mouth when he kisses her. Squeezing his cock through his jeans as he kisses her.

By the time he tells her that they're adults, they have self control, she's forgotten the last thing she said. She's just kissing him, looping her free arm around him. By this city's standards, by this hour, it's not 'late'. But it's winter. It's not yet Christmas, it's well past Thanksgiving. It's nowhere near New Year's. They are alone. No one watches her touching his body as though it's new to her; no one sees him forcing the keycard down into the slot, cursing at it, all but shoving her through the door in his eagerness.

A few people hear her laugh, as she hops out of her heels finally and goes dancing inward. He starts taking off his coat, drops hers; she never put it back on. She wriggles as he unzips her, makes it difficult for him. The dress is pushed up and then corrected, slithering off her body, pooling at her ankles. Her panties are gone. She wears bras more often now; has to. She had twins. She nursed. Her breasts have never quite gone back to the tiny handfuls they one were. It's all right; everything is all right. The faint marks on her abdomen are all right.

Sun up, Danicka in a bikini. Tatiana pats her mother's belly, looking anxious. "Mama ow? Be kiss?'
Danicka looks down and for a moment, it's ow. She does not look like she once was. She does not feel like she once did. Tatiana looks so worried that her mother is hurt, that she has an owie.
"No," she murmurs, fingers twirling dark hair that escapes from a bucket hat. "Mama tiger. Grr."
And Tatiana laughs. "Tiger," she repeats, and kisses her mama's belly anyway. Pets her. Like a tiger.
Tatiana is the quiet one. But she's not the timid one. She would pet a tiger, if granted the opportunity.
Down closer to the water, Eliska shrieks and clings to her papa, who stands at waist-height in the water, holding her on his side. The water licks her toes.
"Mama tiger," Tatiana says again, fondly, patting Danicka's stomach.

Danicka reaches behind her back and unhooks that bra, letting it fall to the ground without preamble or ceremony. She unfastens his jeans. He's urging her toward the bed, taking off his clothes as he goes. Time was, this dark hulking thing coming at her in the dark would have made her tremble with something other than lust. Now she just trembles, and she pants softly, and the sight of him stroking his cock makes her whole body clench up with longing. Danicka bites her lip. His arm slithers under her and he lifts her up, moves her up on the bed.

She's naked. He is too -- or close enough. She reaches up to pull him down again, to kiss him, to taste him. She likes tangling their linges, twining them together, the feel of her calves against his calves.

"Miluji t ," she mutters, as he's coming down over her. As she's pulling him down over her. "Strašn t miluju."


[Czech: I love you. I love you so much.]


It's true, Danicka's body isn't perfect anymore. It's also true that it was never perfect, no more than Lukas's is perfect. They are mere mortals. They are flesh and blood, creatures of imperfection; creatures that strive for perfection. Therein lies the nobility. But we digress: point is, Danicka's body is more imperfect now than it was before the twins. There are stretch marks. Tatiana thinks they're tiger stripes, and that's all well and good, but

there was a night, earlier on. It was late, and the twins were asleep, and they lay in bed together. She was reading. He had his head on her midriff, hands roaming absently over her skin. He found those marks. He touched them, faint as they were, with a tenderness and a gingerness that drew her attention. She was uncomfortable, self-conscious, and so he stopped. He kissed her belly and he kissed her solar plexus and he kissed her breasts, which have also changed, but not so much that his big palms can't cup them in their entirety. They grew distracted; made love. They never spoke of it again, and he never mentioned those marks,

never told her how he thinks of them as scars. Glorious things, earned in the making of life, just as his own scars were earned in the making of death. There is little difference. One lives; one's body is marked even as one's mind and soul grows. There is no difference.


They don't think of it much now. The differences, the changes, the process of life and living. They strip naked and she trembles with lust, and he covers her body with his hands. There is tenderness there, as much as lust. He moves her up on the bed. She pulls him down. He covers her with his body, then, smiling, their legs twining. They fit together so well, so familiarly, so naturally. Her feet behind his knees; her thighs around his hips. The underside of her breasts against the flat of his upper chest when they're like this, when he's poised to enter her, love her, fuck her senseless,

whichever it may be. He kisses her neck, kisses her mouth. Wraps his arms around her, and that fits too, his forearms under her back. His cock against her cunt: that in particular fits, fits so perfectly; the length of one sliding over the cleft of the other. He strokes himself there, and truth is they're both still rather a mess; it takes little effort to slicken his cock again. Takes little effort to reach down, slide in. Paradoxical, but he's gentler this time, takes the time to ease his way in. Moves in slow, smooth slides, liquid, like a pulse.

Buries his face against her body after a while. The side of her neck; the curve of her shoulder. "Miluji te," he echoes back to her. They're whispering. It always feels a little holy, those first few moments when they are joined.


Her body isn't that false perfection anymore; she's allowed to have scars now. And his body never was perfect, not since she's known him, touched him. Still, all these years later, she's never asked about that raking line across his midsection. The reality of how Lukas lives, what threats to his life there are, is never far from Danicka's mind. Hearing the story might satisfy her somehow, keep her imagination from running wild -- but hearing the story might also give her mind something to chew on, to replay over and over and over and over and over. Lukas dying in her thoughts, over and over and over and over.

She doesn't ask. She doesn't think of scars the same way. She wouldn't say they are the same. His aren't glorious; hers aren't either. They're just... marks. Not proof of what she has done or what she's accomplished but in some way, who she is. How she has changed. What she has become.

And yes: the twins were new and she was still rather careful about her lingerie covering her midriff, about letting Lukas see her in full light. Self-conscious, unconsciously so, flinching away from being seen the way she always used to, though less obviously, less physically. But that night, her t-shirt had rucked up as she'd rolled over, her still somewhat-soft belly was bare, and Lukas, cuddling up behind her, touched her. Made her squirm a little, tugging her shirt down again. He relented, such as it was; later when she reached for the light he murmured to her to leave it on. Kissed her stomach as he worked her shirt slowly upward. Wrapped his mouth around her nipple and licked her, sucked at her with the infinitely soft, almost silken touch he'd learned she needed for that first almost-year after the girls were born, still nursing. Danicka melting underneath him. Danicka trembling as he entered her. Danicka forgetting.

Not to say it was always easy for her, after. Still moments, even when the girls started talking, when looking at her body made her sad, made her uncomfortable with the changes, the things that feel like losses when in other ways they are only gains.

But easier, yes:

Tatiana, pointing at Lukas's bared midsection on the beach, eyes wide. "Daddy tiger!" Tatiana growling at him, teeth bared, making tiger noises.
Eliska looking very confused. Lukas looking very confused. Danicka smiling, her mouth curled at the corner in a smirk.


She's kissing him so hard. Touches his face as she does so, her fingertips and her mouth both soft, both hungry. She's starting to moan, intermittently and softly, even before he strokes his cock against her. Only moreso, then. The way he feels makes her quiver. The way he feels, sliding into her, sets her to panting slightly, each breath long and slow but still rhythmic, still eager. "So fucking hard," she groans again, like it's still shocking, like it's still a delightful surprise every time.

It's too slow. Her cunt tries to clench on him. He's so slow. Danicka tightens her hands on his arms, her moans growing louder. His hips flex, slow, sliding, and she protests happily, deliriously. It is holy: and she is one of those wild priestesses who runs naked through the woods, who cries out and loses her mind,

when something is holy.


She is one of those wild priestesses. She was, literally, one of those wild things running naked through the woods. He saw it once, on solstice night: carries that memory still. Danicka the maiden. Danicka the wild. Danicka, fleeing from him fleet-footed as a deer from the wolf. Danicka, luring him, ensnaring him, capturing him somehow in her presence, in her body, in her love.

He still remembers it. He'll remember it forever. Yet in spite of their memories of one another, a hundred times, a thousand times over, somehow every time this feels new. She still sounds surprised by it; the way he feels, the way he fucks. He still sounds --

overcome by it. The way she feels. The way she moves. Her hands gripping his arms; her cunt squeezing, clenching, opening. He moves into her and they both moan. She writhes. He tries to keep it slow, but she's making those sounds. She kisses him and he kisses her and somewhere between all those kisses he finds the time to laugh, to whisper something, some filthy little endearment about how wet, how hot, how sweet.

And then he pushes up to his elbows; shifts his center of mass. Slides out of her and enters her again and this time it's faster, deeper, he licks her throat as she bares it. He nips at her skin, scrapes teeth over delicate anatomy; tissues and tendons, softness of her lips. He's kissing her again, wrapping one hand, one arm over her head; grips the bedspread with the other as they pick up speed. Now he's fucking her on those sheets, that bed, long smooth hip-centered strokes, and let's be honest: they've gotten quite good with practice, they're very fucking good at fucking.


Mated with her that night. Had fucked her several times by then, had made love. Had realized they had always been making love. Mated perhaps for the first time, both of them knowing it and not putting words to it, even now. They both know. They know, the way that souls know a home, that the other knows as well. It does not need to be said aloud. But that was the night when he was hers and she was his, not just in heart but by some primordial rite, some timeless sacrament.

These days their summer solstices have toddlers. Reclining in a park and then walking home before the rainstorm comes back. Finding each other in bed later on, sweating their love out with the windows thrown open and the moon shining through. Sometimes her hands grasp at him. Sometimes she bites into a pillow and he bites into her shoulder.

They are in each other, forever. Responsible, forever, for what they have tamed.


Right now she sounds so delighted to have him. She is almost laughing, the way she cries out, gasps, urges him on. Strange: he just did this. Opened her up after a long, fraught day, fucking her in a frozen elevator. Strange that she is so wet, sweat on her brow, her hand reaching into her hair to push it back, to try and give herself room to breathe while he's fucking her, giving it to her, his pace quickening until he's firmly, steadily nailing her to the bed. Fucking on someone else's thousand-dollar sheets. Strange, how much they both enjoy -- even get off on -- that little detail.

Not strange: that she is so wet, sweating from her lust, panting for air. Not strange that they enjoy, get off on, their little details. Not strange that it's so good, or that the way he grabs the bed while he fucks her, not strange how she looks down their bodies to where they seam and melt together, sees a flash of his wet cock driving into her wet pussy and she can't stand it; she looks away again, moaning.

"Roll over," she gasps, even while his strokes are speeding up again, his body knowing even before his eyes or his mind that this is good, this is what she wants, if he fucks her like this she'll come undone, she'll come for him, she'll come. Pantingly: "I want to ride you. Fuck,"

as though hearing the words out of her own mouth only turn her on more,

"I want to watch you while I'm fucking you."


He's watching her when she looks down. Knows what she sees; sees how it hits her. When she looks away he catches her mouth, eats that moan. Eats at her mouth, too, kissing her with a hunger that edges into savagery.

She wants him to roll over. She wants to watch. He laughs, panting it out with a word: "Dirty." Scoops his arm under her back and kisses her neck, bites her shoulder, uses that as a point as contact as he rolls

her atop him. Now it's her body on his, her tits on his chest, her skin soft under his hands. Which grope, and grasp, and squeeze her ass quite firmly. She lifts up over him and she can see it, the gleam in his eyes, the way his pupils open up to see her like that. Lamplight hitting her tits, which may not be quite so perky anymore but are ever so sweet and full in his hands. Or his mouth. "Fuck," he says, and he gives her ass a final squeeze before sweeping his hands up around her waist, up over her ribcage, lifts her breasts, covers them.

The first time she lifts up, slides down, his head falls back. His eyes close. He has such an expression on his face; beatific, almost. When she does it again there's a stitch between his eyebrows, and then he opens his eyes again. Looks at her. Gives her this lazy, languid sort of smile, rubbing her nipples on his palms, scooping those tits up again in his hands. Loves the way they feel in his hands, the heft and weight, the softness.

She couldn't bear to watch earlier, but he watches. He looks down the length of his body; watches her riding him. Hard cock, wet cunt. Wet cock. Hot cunt. The words spin together in his mind, dirty, searing, and now he has his lower lip caught under his teeth; catches the groans she drives out of him too.


If she's still shocked sometimes by how hard he is, he's still shocked sometimes by how flagrant she is about her lusts, how devious her little desires. He's known for years that watching him gets her off. But when she asks for it -- tells him blatantly, it's still dirty. It's still a delight, perhaps simply because she lets him see these twists in her.

They roll, and they kiss, and while they're kissing he gropes at her, touches her, keeps her going. When they start to find that rhythm again, that perfect beat between their bodies, she lifts up over him and --

leans over to the nightstand by the bed. Grabs the bottle of vodka they left there. Drinks a heavy mouthful, a drop or two escaping the corner of her mouth, while her other hand braces on his chest. Gasps as she swallows, putting the bottle back a little too hard, leaning over him again to kiss him, groaning in his mouth.

Both her hands on him then, after she pushes herself up again, staring down at him. Lips red, eyes gleaming. Starts fucking him in earnest, but slower than before all the same -- these savage, but controlled slides of her cunt down his cock. Rides him, while he plays with her tits, while he looks down at her pussy.

"That's it," she breathes, sliding her fingers up his chest, spreading them over his flesh like she's hungry for the touch itself. "That's my good boy, letting me fuck him like that," she almost snarls, riding down a little harder on him.


"Fuck yes."

That: to her grabbing the vodka. Upending it. Clear liquor splashing in that clear bottle; a dribble down her chin that he catches on his tongue when she leans down. Licks his way up to her mouth, and then they're kissing, and she tastes like vodka, and she tastes like herself, and he can't get enough of that so he leans up into it.

Until she puts her hands on his chest. Until she pushes him back down, and herself back up. She looks hungry; she looks carnivorous. She fucks him like something untamed and uncivilized, heavy slides, controlled -- a hint of control there; controlling. He groans again,

"Fuck yes,"

when she calls him hers, her boy, good boy, letting her fuck him like that. Those words make their impact too. Zip down his consciousness, straight into the base and the primitive. He grabs her hips; thrusts up into her with a grunt. She rides down harder. He throws his head back, bares his teeth.

"Faster," he mutters. "Come on, ride me. Make me come."


"You're such a slut,"

which may be the first time she's ever used that particular insult with him. She's called him bastard and fucker and son of a bitch and all manner of hair-raising things while they've fucked before, just as sometimes he calls her all manner of hair-raising things. It depends on the sex. But this may be the first time she's ever looked down at him, panting while she fucks him, and called him a slut like it's something worshipful, adoring, shocked and thrilled by him. No other word comes to her mind right now. Nothing much at all is in her mind. She looks down at him, his body tensing and rippling while he tells her to fuck him, ride him, make him come, and her eyes shine with arousal. Her voice hitches with need.

Her body grinds down on his with the word, like she needs to eke something out of him, like she has to have whatever it is -- needs it to breathe. Needs it for her heart to go on beating. She leans over him, taking his face in her hands, kissing him, moaning as her hips roll, as her pace quickens. Goes on kissing him, staying close like that, his hands on her body and her whole being centering, now, on riding this thing she needs out of his body, on his body. Til her hands are planted on the bed beside his head, her fingers grasping at sheets, her mouth open with outcries, longings, half-spoken and jumbled endearments, oaths, promises he understands even if she can't truly voice them: that she'll come, that she's coming, that she'll stay.


She's never

called him that before.

And let's be honest, the initial, the first, the very most instantaneous reaction is startlement. A flicker in his eyes, a lift of brow.

But it's not what she says. It's how she says it. It's the tone, the sound, the need and shock and thrill and adoration; all the things he feels for her. When she tells him she wants to watch him while she fucks him. When she tells him she wants him to handcuff her, tie her up, fuck her hard, rail her on someone else's thousand dollar sheets. Or even: when she comes home unexpectedly early. When she makes him kolache for no better reason than to do so. When she is who she is, doing what she does, and he


can't help loving her.

That's what he hears in her voice. That's what he makes of what she calls him, and yes, he knows: it's not bad. It's not hateful. It's not derogatory or demeaning or anything like that, anything like that. She comes down to him and he's there to meet her, his hands still gripping her hips; his mouth opening to eat that kiss up. He snarls as she fucks him; snarls as he plants his feet and lifts his hips and now he's meeting her stroke for stroke for stroke, fast, wet, messy.

Turns out he lied, a bit. Turns out she rides him, but he's the one watching her come. He wants it that way. He urges her that way, muttering filthy little endearments in one language or both; puts his hand between her legs and starts fondling her, rubbing her off, playing with her while he rails her from below.

Until she comes. Until she's grasping for purchase on those expensive sheets; crying out in mostly wordless exclamations of delight and pleasure and -- eventually -- just sounds, overcome. He's still touching her then. He's still fucking her then, but making these incoherent sounds himself. He's wrapping his arm around her and biting her shoulder the way he does; fucking up into her so swift and powerful that she becomes momentarily weightless, suspended, lifted from the pull of the earth. He comes fast and hard on the heels of her orgasm, and it's so strong, so overwhelming that it leaves him nothing. Washes him clean.

He turns her under him as he comes back down -- literally, figuratively. He gathers her up in his arms and: he can't help it. He fucks her a little more, heavy and slow, flexing into her, driving her into the bed as though to make sure she knows he means it. Means his orgasm: as though it were a sort of statement. Which it is, in the most primitive way. It means: they are mated. It means: they make cubs together. It means: he is hers, and she is his.


Danicka was already on the verge. She was tensing up, squirming, her brow constricted and her voice disjointed, breaths ragged. She was already right on the cusp of it, and then Lukas had to reach down and start stroking her clit. Her hands grab at his shoulders, her pussy flooding with wetness, rippling with orgasm. Her mouth opens with a sound that is somehow surprisingly quiet, trembling out of her, even though pleasure goes through her like a thunderclap. The few short paces that once stood between her and climax are suddenly blurring by her, and she is in the middle of it, lost in it, tipped over the edge.

She's not fucking him anymore. He's fucking her, though, fucking her all the way through it, muttering and growling and panting at her. She's molten on top of him, and when she starts to come down -- only starts -- he's pounding her, holding her right there on his cock, til his voice catches in his throat when it hits him, too.

They aren't entirely done. Because Lukas's own orgasm is still wrapped around his spine and lighting up his brain when he rolls her under him again, their bodies askew on the bedspread. Hammering her now, these deep, hard, slow thrusts that make her moan, and then whimper, and she makes this pleading little noise because every time he slides his cock in her, her cunt quivers around him. Danicka doesn't tell him to stop. She holds tight to his back, pushes her palms down his lumbar, grabs his ass. Rolls with him, rocking on the bed, her mouth opening to his when he leans over her, kisses her.

God knows how long that goes on. The kissing. The slow fucking while they regain their breathing, their names, their minds. She's finally able to open her eyes, looking lazily up at him while he moves in her.

"That okay?" she murmurs, very softly, checking in with him. Just because he came doesn't mean he might not have been bothered. Just because she said it in love doesn't mean he's not permitted to be uncomfortable. He's said the same thing in love and she's been bothered, uncomfortable, upset. He's hurt her before from the rough way they fuck sometimes and she hasn't stopped him. They're allowed to talk about it. They're permitted to love, and to fuck, and to still be imperfect.


It's finally over by then. The fuck. The fucking. The deep, hard flexion of his body; those war-carved muscles moving under her hands and against her body.

He is very nearly still by then, heavy and relaxed atop her. He hasn't moved off yet. She's opened his eyes but his are still closed, and they open only when she speaks. He moves again: as though she woke him, and these are the very first motions of a creature stirring from sleep.

Slides a little inside her. Kisses her softly, the corners of his mouth turning up.

"Wasn't expecting it," he admits, "but it's okay." The tip of his nose brushes hers. It is slow and tender, very affectionate. "It was good."


Nuzzles him, then. Lifts her chin, which is just a little bit pointy, and rubs her nose, which is a little bit too round, against his cheekbones, his jawline, the face that in her mind is perfectly formed, iconic, unassailably beautiful. She kisses his cheek, her smile lazy except when he moves in her, makes her sigh.

"Good," she echoes, her legs wrapping slowly around his lower half, both to enclose him and to make him be still for a while.

Her fingertips stroke his back. She sighs again, deeper, drowsier. Her head turns, and her eyes close. She's not asleep, though.

"Let's nap her a while," she murmurs. "Get up in a few hours and go home. Sleep the rest of the night there."

He knows, because it's happened before, or because he just... knows. She wants to be there when everyone wakes up. Be there for breakfast. Even if she's bleary-eyed.


"We're going to be such wrecks," he murmurs happily. Nuzzles her, wraps his arms around her. Flops finally to one side: lazily and heavily as some great beast going into recline. "We're going to be hungover raccoon-eyed wrecks, pouring coffee into our cereal by mistake."

His chest expands. Then he exhales. He thinks she's beautiful, beautiful, even if she has a pointy chin and a rounded nose and stretch marks and bigger boobs than she did once. He thinks she is perfectly formed, iconic, unassailably beautiful.

Or perhaps, more profoundly: he sees her imperfections. He sees those mornings, sometimes, when her hair is unpleasant because she didn't have time to wash it the night before. And perhaps her breath isn't great. And perhaps her face is puffy because she didn't get enough sleep because it's finals week, or the girls are sick, or -- he sees these things, and instead of disgust or aversion he feels fondness; tenderness. He feels love, and he thinks she is


"Goodnight," he murmurs, closing his eyes. They leave the vodka on the nightstand; the room as it is. They sleep -- for a few hours, at least.


"It's cool," she mutters back, "I'm tough. I got you." Pats his back, mindlessly affectionate, while she assures him that her infinite maternal strength shall sustain them both during breakfast with two toddlers and an eldery man when they've had half the sleep everyone else got.

Lukas is already cuddling her. Sliding out of her, wrapping his arms around her, talking about how fucked-up they're going to be come sunrise in their household. Danicka is curling up, absently reaching for some bedside tissues, throwing them away just as blindly in the wastebin. Leaves the bottle of vodka open on the nightstand where it sits. She makes noises, happy little noises, as he wraps her up. They're both so hot. They probably won't sleep long enough to even bother getting under the covers.

She rubs her foot against him, softly reminds him to set an alarm on his phone or the clock on the other side of the bed, something, so they make sure to get home in the middle of the night, stumble in as quietly as they can, sleep until the girls wake up, get bored playing in their room alone, and start calling for their parents, for breakfast. Which, as they'll discover, is already on its way to the table, the coffee already brewed, because Miloslav does not sleep so well as he used to, and wakes early, and cooks.

That will be then. And this is now. Her heels and dress on the floor with his clothes, vodka on the bedside table, sweat cooling on their bodies. It's not the sort of graduation story she would have foreseen for herself. But then: she never foresaw any of this.

Copyright Lukáš Wyrmbreaker 2010.
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