[Danicka Musil] Smashed as he is -- and he is very, very smashed -- Lukas still sees what's going on behind those currently dark green eyes of hers in that moment before she gives him her hand. But then: she wants him to see. And it isn't that he forgets where he is immediately or that he forgets that Katherine and Teodora are right there, it's just that for a few seconds, everything else falls away and Danicka holds him with that gaze, because she hasn't looked at him like that in --
well. In weeks. Not since they woke up in bed together the morning after dinner at Jesmond's. They made love and even had each other a little roughly, a little harder than they'd given themselves when she first came back from New York. It was good. They showered and ate and spent as much of the day as they could working on their garden before it got unbearably hot. And showered again, wet and slippery and kissing each other but for one reason or another it didn't go anywhere, and that was good, too. That felt nice, to not feel like they had to devour each other every chance they got, because they were home, and together, and they could make out playfully under the water, knowing they'd have another opportunity soon. That they'd make an opportunity soon.
Danicka thought that's how their date the other night was going to go. They'd get home from dinner and the movie, wash up at her place and have sleepy, lazy sex before dropping off in a tangle of limbs and soft sheets. Sleep for about twelve hours, sleep in, til Lukas nipped her earlobe and murmured that he had to go, or til her phone reminded her that she really needed to get ready for her three o'clock yoga class.
He might still be amazed she could stand to sleep in the same bed with him after what happened that night, instead. Danicka has questioned herself over and over again, asked herself things she knows it would crush him to hear even crossed her mind, but this is why she deals with them in her own mind, separate from the emotions of anyone else. She has thought of her mother and her brother and of her father and of her brother's mate so many times since then. She's thought of her sister's mate, dead now. He never met Emanuel. His two Garou children and his four Kinfolk are now the wards of their aunt. He never lived with them.
Her sister says she loved him, and he loved her, but --
well. Danicka knows why. She understands better than most could. She watched Lukas out of the corner of her eye a few times as they put together her new toys and played with the tachometer, watched him sharing her apartment, her space, her belongings. She watched how carefully his large hands handled sensitive instruments, partly because he is an intelligent and not graceless man, and partly because -- he was in her space. He was touching her things, and understanding that they were pleasing to her, so he did not want to damage them with his overpowering strength.
And Danicka thought of her own bones and flesh. She thought of the children she has never met, the ones she may never see, the ones who may never be born. She thought of the difference between a fragile, expensive toy
and a living creature that sings to your very blood, that tells every fiber of your being to hold. To protect. To guard, with everything you have, down to your last breath if that's what it takes.
There's a startling gentleness in Lukas sometimes.
Don't drink too much, he tells the fifteen year old, and Danicka -- who was on the way to getting herself pregnant at that girl's age -- smiles at her warmly, as though in agreement. Teodora knows they're there now. If she needs anything, she can ask. Given that Ted seems a bit oafish and his hot friend oblivious, she probably won't need to ask. And he bumps the Philodox, winks at her. Danicka just says a quiet "Bye, Katherine," and moves her hand further into Lukas's, lacing their fingers.
In a little while, Kate is going to go downstairs, too. Slink through the dancefloor to let them know she's heading out. They won't see her. She won't actually come right up to them once she sees them together.
For now, they walk down the narrow stairs slowly. Because Lukas is smashed and Danicka is in shoes with a slight platform and one of the highest heels he's seen in her closet, and she's had two very strong drinks in a very short amount of time. They're in no rush, though there's also an urgency beginning to vibrate underneath their skins, an unrealized shudder of anticipation that rises along with the voices of the crowd on the floor. Both answer the same primordial beat of what's pumping through the speakers now, all heavy bass and looping drums and entranced, vibratory vocals.
Her eyes flick to his again when he kisses her knuckles. When he smiles. She doesn't smile back. No, the look in her eyes is something other than pleasure, something darker than enjoyment. And it echoes what she said to him upstairs.
yes
i want
Which was always the case. His mouth, tasting of oranges. His hands on her. His body in her bed. His cock in her pussy. Him. She always wanted him. Not in spite of what he is. Not even though he's a raging beast. Not enough to make up for the fact that he is, at his core, an animal. Nor even because of these things. He is what he is: Ahroun. Raging. Animal. And she loves him.
Wants him, enough that even at the beginning she damn near made a fool out of herself with it. She said it when he dragged it out of her, she said it when he didn't want to hear it, she said it even when he forced her and it got her hit so hard her jaw nearly cracked. She said it, pursued him, though she thought he might very well hate her despite his own desire, which licked at the inside of him like flames trying to get out. She wanted him enough to stay naked and in a motel room with him when he nearly frenzied at the touch of her bare skin to his. She ached for him to kiss her. Touch her. Lose himself inside of her, and obliterate her senses with the shift and roll of his body.
His body, which she likes... very much indeed.
Lukas has never danced with his mate. He's seen her dancing. He's come up to her and touched her and they've ended up in the bathroom of a nightclub to almost fuck up against the wall, coming out to find their compatriots had gotten into fights or left or both. When he goes to clubs without her, perhaps alone or with his pack, it makes him think of her. But he's never danced with her, and he knows in moments
she doesn't dance like this with anyone. For anyone.
At first it's just finding the rhythm of the music and letting it change the pace of their own heartbeats. He's drunk. She's buzzed enough to relax. They let go, but not of each other. He lingers when she begins to draw her hand away, releases her when Danicka moves closer to his body. Even with the music as fast as it is, pounding so hard the floor seems to vibrate under them, her form seems to brush up against his rather than bump into him. She's moving with him, and
there's something to be said for why all those good Christian girls don't dance like this, or don't dance at all,
because it's hard not to think of ways that they've fucked each other when she's moving like that. It's hard not to think of how she's loved him before. To this beat. To that rhythm. To those last moments spent chasing down pleasure, harrying it like prey, singleminded and intense and ravenous for it.
Her hands are on him when the song slows down for a few seconds, as dancers all around them either hit a small hitch -- they don't know the song, they have to find the beat again -- or just flow into it -- they know the song, they feel the song, or they're just that good -- the way Danicka does. And her flow takes him closer to him again, moves her hands up his chest, and his shirt would rustle if it were quiet and they were alone. Perhaps this is when Kate glances through the crowd and sees her Alpha with his eyes locked on his mate, and his mate
in that sinfully short skirt and those dangerously high heels and that suggestion of a shirt
running her hands over him like she's unearthing him, her lips parted
like her thighs to either side of his knee
and the way his hand lays so heavy on her lower back, keeping her right there
even when the beat picks back up again, and the crowd goes from a slow writhe around them into another burst of thumping, pounding response to the music.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] They're moving slow now, slow and deliberate and felt, keeping time with the deeper, thrumming undercurrent of the beat. Not the pounding, thumping four-to-the-floor that has the dancers around them slamming their bodies, stomping their feet, flashing and whirling and laughing around each other. Not that, but the lower, rhythm rise and swell of bassline, bone-deep, like a pulse.
That's the one they obey.
That, and the quickening pound of their own true pulses. Their bodies are so close now, her hands exploring him like she were unearthing him or crafting him anew or touching him for the first time, naked, and
his hand on her lower back is so heavy, so sure, keeping her right there as he steps into her, and moves with her, and bends to her, and
they don't kiss, quite. This is not a kiss, their mouths parting to each other. Breath shared. Lips moist, close, nothing quite closing. There's a sound in his chest beneath her hands, a sort of subaural growl, a rumbling that has nothing to do with the bass. He nips at her lower lip. His mouth drifts past hers. He kisses her after all: her neck, that flash of tendon, to bend of her shoulder.
Kisses her softly there. Kisses her, and sucks gently at her flesh, and pulls her closer, closer, until their bodies seal together, swaying to some subconscious awareness of the beat.
He's hard already, unmistakeably aroused by her nearness, the way she touched him, the things her eyes told him that she did not have to. When his mouth drifts back to her ear, he nips at her earlobe.
Whispers, "Nebudeme-li brzy odejít, budu muset tě šukat vpravo tady."
[Danicka Musil] And they keep getting slower. Not just a sway, not exactly a grind, but the movements of their bodies come from shifts of deep muscle, of controlled motions buried far beneath the skin. They may as well be underwater, their limbs heavy with pressure, the rest of the world dim and distant and disorted. Danicka's breathing is faster. It takes more effort to keep it steady.
Normally she wouldn't caress him like this in public -- much less with Garou and Kin mingling in the club tonight -- without being fucking smashed. Hell. Even drunk off her ass Danicka is almost always... restrained, with him. The night at that Polish restaurant, a hot summer night like this, stands out. But her hands linger on his chest now, flexing on his shirt once, twice, then sliding around behind his neck as his fingers tug -- not necessarily with intention -- at the fabric of that impish, fluttering skirt.
They don't kiss. Danicka breathes in when he bites at her lip, presses closer to him when he makes that sound she feels more than hears. Her eyes close and her head tilts and she bares her neck to him as he puts his mouth on her, licking at her pulse, making it race. His cock is warm against her thigh through his jeans or his slacks, and at the words he whisper-snarls to her, her eyelashes flicker upward, looking past his shoulder at nothing.
Danicka turns her head and whispers back to him, "Finish this song with me first." Moves her hands to his hips, pulling back enough to look down at their bodies, then dragging her eyes back to his. "We could get a room. There's a place just up the street."
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas's eyes fall gently shut for a moment, a beat, as his mate's hands fall to his hips. There's strength even there, in the anchors of the long muscles of the thighs, the broad ones of the side and back, inserting into that narrow girdle of bone
where her thighs ride so easily when she wraps her legs around him in bed.
Then his eyes are open again, and it's not only the lighting system in here, the flashes of green and purple and blue and yellow, that make them look so brilliant. So coruscant. So absolutely, utterly blue; like the light shed from the deadliest of radiations.
He is deadly, this mate of hers. She has seen him rip things apart with single, terrible snaps of his teeth. She has seen him turn on her with blank brutality in his eyes, and she knows what he can do. That knowledge kept her from him for so long. Kept her from daring to love him even as she fell in love with him. That knowledge split them from each other for the better part of a month.
It's not that it doesn't matter anymore, even now.
It's that she loves him. All of him. Not in spite of or because of, but simply: yes. i do.
i want.
He nods, a single small movement. Her hands pull at his shirt. He moves his to her cheek. Gently. And gently -- his mouth touches hers, seals. He kisses her.
[Danicka Musil] The way they kissed the last time he saw her could have led to more than they had that afternoon. When he first arrived and sat with her on the blanket in that little courtyard, and when she kissed him again later, slow and lingering, they might have walked together back to her apartment and she might have asked him to come up and they might have sweated a few precious minutes of the afternoon away in her bed before he went back to deal with all this business about a much-disputed kinsman.
But it didn't. He didn't put his hand on her thigh on top of that pretty yellow dress and go on kissing her, and Danicka didn't invite him to come up with her to waste a little bit of the summer inside of her.
She wants to ask him --
right now she doesn't want to ask him anything. Right now her mouth is parting to his, like she was waiting, and he can feel her breasts on his chest where she leans into him, just like he can feel the presaging of movement at the base of her spine before she rolls her hips forward and against his leg.
Danicka is past gentleness, past any tender acknowledgements of what came between them, or what has kept them apart, or the fact that it's been weeks, or that she could not do this if she did not love him, and want him,
so much.
He's the drunk one but her arms are loose and warm around his neck, and they're hardly even dancing anymore. While they did dance she turned her back to him and let her body slide against his, and while they were dancing she pulled his hands to her hips so he could feel the way she was moving and while they were dancing she was moving in such a way that made him hard, that made him start to touch her like this, but now they're barely moving. They're kissing.
A single long, slow kiss that eats away at the existence of everything else until it fades with the song unraveling into the next one. And they're not the only people in this club more interested in something other than what the DJ's spinning up next, but Danicka is one of the only women who has her hand between her partner's legs, stroking him through his clothes and underneath the shadows for a few stolen, stealthridden seconds, while she catches his eyes and mouths
-- or says, it's hard to hear, this song is so loud --
Call a cab. I'll get my purse and meet you outside.
as her hand slides away again.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Earlier, they'd danced. Closer and closer, moving into each other while words fell away with the distance; winding around each other, sliding and brushing, until all distance vanished altogether and they pressed together and
they're hardly moving now, and his arms have returned to wind around her, his hands large on her back, covering her. They're kissing, a black hole of a kiss that pulls him under and drowns him and leaves him swaying into her, gasping, when their mouths part and he finds that her hand has found him beneath his pants, his boxer briefs.
He makes a single quiet sound, so stripped with want --
"...oh."
And then his eyes are opening again and she tells him to call a cab, and they probably both drove here, or perhaps Kate drove her, but it doesn't matter. Her hand slides away. His teeth scrape at his lower lip; the look on his face is almost pained. His hand catches hers, and for a moment she might think he'll press it back to his cock, but -- no. He holds for a second and lets her go.
"Okay," he says. Who knows if she hears him. The DJ's spinning something a little slower now, and the beat is so heavy it makes his lungs vibrate in his chest, makes the breath he draws seem oppressed, compressed, half-held.
They part on the dance floor. Lukas has to stand still for a moment, truth be told, to control himself. Then she's getting her purse, and he's going outside, and when she emerges he's standing by a yellow cab, one of the ones that trawl this section of the Mile around this time waiting for men and women to tumble out of the club laughing and drunk, holding onto each other for some one night stand in some hotel or motel somewhere that they'll only half-remember in the morning.
Not quite the case with these two. Lukas is drunk, so drunk that he leans against the open door of the cab, and even so, even so, he frightens the cabbie a little. Something about him. Like lightning crackles in his eyes. Like fire burns in his veins.
He straightens as he sees Danicka. He holds his hand out to her, hands her into the cab, and gets in after her. The door shuts. She knows the way, and she'll tell the cabbie; he leans his head back and draws a breath and mutters under his breath,
"Umírám zde. Už se nemůžu dočkat.
-- which, sober, he might not even have said whether or not the cabbie understood.
[Danicka Musil] Her car is in the garage beneath Kingsbury Plaza. His is parked somewhere, it doesn't matter. He couldn't drive it without shifting anyway, and Danicka shouldn't be, either. She hasn't mentioned the other three girls they came with, who met Kate and promptly found other places to be in the club. She has no idea how Kate got here, whether by car or driver or some other means and she doesn't care anymore. Kate can step through a mirror and shift and run home in lupus for all she cares right now, and for all she cared at the start of the night.
Danicka's never told him, bluntly or otherwise, what a fucking turn-on it is when she touches him and he makes those sounds, mutters curses, gasps, or pushes himself into her hand as though to wordlessly ask her for more. He so seldom asks her for anything. It's as if he knows (he always knew) what just being with him meant. What being with him would require of her, demand of her, not just at the worst times but always. Every night she spends alone, every Garou who is in her life now who wouldn't have been if she hadn't accepted him, every time she runs her hands over his body,
hoping she won't find some new scar, some new proof that ultimately he is mortal, though in a far different way than she is.
Lukas almost never asks her for this or that or the other. He has not pushed her in so long she no longer expects him to make demands, no longer believes he would force her to do anything against her will unless it was utterly, absolutely necessary. For survival. For the war. For things beyond either of them, bigger than them.
Even when they make love she makes more demands than he does. Like this. Like that. More. Right... there. Now. Wait. Finish this dance. Go slow. Faster.
And somehow, almost every time, it makes him groan against her with longing, giving her what she wants. What she asks him for, as though there is almost nothing else he has to offer her but
himself.
(Which is, in the end, all she ever really wanted.)
The next time he sees her after they leave the dancefloor is her coming out the door, ripping the paper bracelet off her wrist and tossing it in the bin as she walks to the cab he's flagged down for them. She walks right up to him, takes his face in her hands, and kisses him while the cabbie -- slightly irritated -- gets the meter going, if they're going to be that way.
Danicka sucks on his lower lip for a second before she lets him go, climbing into the backseat before he does. It smells like a cab, like the hundreds of other people it's carried, like disinfectant, like the cabdriver's sweat, like a dozen perfumes, like the night air trying to filter it all out through cracked windows. She gives the driver the address and is sliding across the seat to be closer to Lukas. Her leg hooks over his knee, which makes her all but indecent, and her mouth goes to his neck, and her hand goes to his chest, undoing one, two more buttons til she can reach in and touch bare flesh.
Words come out of his mouth. Her fingertip circles his nipple til it hardens. Her tongue slides lightly over his adam's apple.
The place she's sending their cab to is a badly lit, two-story motel in a surprisingly quiet area. The rooms are clean and the rates are cheap. It's a five minute drive from the club, five minutes of Danicka murmuring things like
her answer to his muttered confession:
"I know, baby," this murmured, this fluttering softly into his ear, "Když jsme se dostat do místnosti budu postarám se o tebe."
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] It's a sort of drunken, pleasured daze she puts him in. Lukas's head lolls back against the headrest of the cab, his lips parted, his breathing uneven and right on the edge of sounds he would not allow himself, even in this state, to voice in front of a complete stranger.
They're not the first young couple to go at each other in the back seat of a cab. Not even the first young couple to go at each other in the back seat of this cab. That's the danger of running this circuit at 2am -- most people stumbling out of clubs looking for cabs are going to be inebriated, aroused, pawing at each other all the way to some anonymous locale or other where they can fuck and not have to worry about attachments.
They are, however, perhaps the first couple to make the cabbie this unsettled. He can't look into the rearview mirror. He doesn't understand the waves of terror rolling out from the shadows back there; doesn't understand why the young man's face, slack with pleasure and drunkenness, lit in flashes by the passing streetlights, strikes in him such a primordial fear.
He doesn't understand how the woman can be all over him like that, either. Can dare to, or stand to have her mouth so close to his neck when any moment he might snap into a fit of primitive defense and
tear her fucking throat out.
That's not what happens, though. Far from it. Perhaps it never even occurs to Danicka to fear such a thing; not right now, not here. She's only beginning to understand how intelligent she is; how strong, compared to the greater population. The ones who literally cannot even look at her mate. The ones who would never imagine
undoing two more buttons on his shirt and slipping their hands in against his skin, so warm, so smooth and soft beneath its scattering of hair, above its hard slabs of muscle. He inhales when she finds his nipple -- the breath drawn just beneath her lips, shuddering at the edges. His hands pull at her, pull her thigh further across his, pull her half onto his lap as he raises his head and catches her mouth and
kisses those words, that promise, right off her tongue.
His fingers have slipped under her skirt. They're splaying over the underside of her thigh, spreading over the curve of her ass, when he catches himself and, with a soft filthy curse, withdraws his hand. Curves it over her leg just over the knee. Nuzzles her under her jaw, sudden and heavy, like an animal seeking closeness.
It's not a long cab ride. When they pull into the motel parking lot, they disentangle. "I'll get a room," Lukas says softly while Danicka pays the cabbie. He's just a little unsteady on his feet as he climbs out, standing a moment before he gets his bearings and heads into the lobby where the sleepy nightshift clerk takes his card and charges it.
No keycards here. Plain old brass keys strapped to big plastic tabs with the room number on it. Theirs is 208. Lukas pushes open the lobby door as Danicka's coming in and the cab is taking off, and as she passes him, even in that instant of closeness, he can't help bending to her and catching her mouth. Glancingly. Pullingly.
Then his hand's falling from the doorhandle. He's following her to the stairwell, catching her hand as they're half-running up that flight of stairs even though there was an elevator, laughing under his breath as he stumbles on the second to last step because he's drunk, he's drunk, he wants her so badly he's drunk on it.
They hit the wall by the stairwell door. His mouth is on hers and his hands are on her breasts, heavy and tender, cupping her through her top and grinding himself against her thigh, her hip, her belly, until she swats him away and he wakes to himself again long enough to take her hand and pull her through the door, down the hall, to 208. Lukas is so intoxicated Danicka has to help him with the key, and while she's fitting key to lock he's fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, and as soon as the door is open and they're inside he's tearing it off, tossing it aside as his hands go to the fastenings of his jeans.
"Chci, abys jezdit mě," he says, and pushes his jeans down. Whoops, he forgot his shoes. It's takes some effort, some stomping, to get shoes and socks and jeans off all at once. Boxer briefs too. They might as well go.
He catches her up on his way to the bed, clasping her against his side and lifting her, swinging her about, tumbling down on his back on the bed, his nipples hard, his cock hard, the fine hairs on his arms standing on end as though the air around him has turned to electricity. He looks up at her like he's forgotten his own name.
It's unclear if this is an and or an or statement: "Chci vaše kočička na mé tváři."
[Danicka Musil] The edge of being overcome is where Danicka takes him, and it's where she keeps him, riding that line between pleasure and madness with the attentions of her mouth on his neck, her hand on his body. She moves closer as he all but pulls her onto his lap, his wandering hand finding her ass bare to his palm but for the interruption of a few lines of some silky fabric, some ephemeral thong she put on tonight, not even knowing she would see him.
When he realizes what he's doing, and mutters that curse under his breath, Danicka all but purrs a chastisement in his ear: "Jazyk," she murmurs, and nuzzles him beneath his earlobe. Heedless of the cab driver in front of them,
-- or if not heedless and unaware, at least uncaring and unembarrassed --
she reaches down and pulls his hand back up the smoothness of her thigh, right under the edge of her skirt again. She kisses him fully again, still caressing his chest, her free hand sliding up the back of his head to tangle in that dark, dark hair.
Sober -- or a hell of a lot closer to it than her mate -- Danicka gets out of the car and holds to his arm for a moment before she, too, steadies. It isn't the alcohol. It was the way they pulled away from each other when the cab stopped, the way they had to tug apart in order to get out. She just nods, taking a breath and paying for the cab while he walks to the lobby and gets them a room, he doesn't care what floor, he doesn't care how many beds. That's what he says: I don't care to every question the clerk attempts to ask.
Danicka comes to the lobby and they link hands and find the stairwell past the vending machines and ice machine and there they stop, Lukas leaning against the wall with his feet on two different steps and Danicka against him, between his legs, kissing him with a sort of languorous fervor, every breath she pauses to take a soft pant against his jawline or his cheeks. Then they're tumbling upwards, and she's pulling another button on his shirt free as they stumble into the second-floor hallway, hiding a noise in his mouth, slipping it under his tongue.
And then he's all over her. Touching her breasts, feeling the weight of them in his palms through that flimsy excuse for a shirt, mauling her face as he presses her to the wall. Rubbing himself against her, which hikes up her skirt and makes her part her legs a little for him and it isn't Danicka swatting at him that makes him wake up instead of just fucking her there in the hallway but a door opening up and someone uttering a startled "Oh!" then closing their door and laughing behind it to whoever is with them.
That wakes Lukas up, his shirt half-undone and his mate's lips red from kissing him, her cheeks flushed and her blouse askew, almost indecent from his attentions. She's looking at him with eyes darkened by lust, looking
ravenous. Carnivorous.
They barely look at each other for more than a few seconds before they start searching for that goddamn 208 on the identical doors lining the hallway. "I'll get it," Danicka whispers, when Lukas fumbles with the key, taking it from her, which frees his hands for her body, grazing his palms over her before finishing the work she started on his shirt,.
The room they got because Lukas didn't care has two beds, each a queen. The door slams behind them and it's cool inside, almost frigid, and it feels good against their overheated skins. Danicka mutters some wordless acknowledgement or agreement at what he says while he's whipping off his shirt. She wriggles out of her own, dropping the silvery-white scrap to the ground while he's realizing his shoes are still on.
Danicka laughs as he's all but dancing out of his lowerwear, standing back. She doesn't even try to help him. She does wait for him, though. She hooks her thumbs in the waist of her skirt and strips it down her legs, then steps out of it, still wearing those tall black heels with the little peephole hinting at her manicured toes. And still in that thong his fingertips graced in the cab, seamless and white and adorned with purple lace below her navel. When he -- naked -- grabs her and pulls her to him in those arms of his, he seems eager and mindless and
not quite playful. Not this far. Not with his skin like a fever or his cock like stone, not when she keeps her heels and her panties on because she knows what it does to him, and he knows that she knows, and it all tangles together until
she's coming down on top of him, straddling him, guiding his hands to her hips and to her breasts and winding her hips so that her cunt brushes over his cock again, and again,
so he can feel that she's wet, so he can feel it past the edges of that line of fabric between her legs, and through the fabric itself, and listen to her purring in the cold room lit by a couple of dim lamps, purring
"Ano," like confirmation, before her hands touch his chest, before she crawls up his body, pausing only to lick his neck, "Vy chystáte se jíst moje kočička."
It takes only a second, but it matters that she makes sure the pillow is beneath his head, that in his drunkeness he's still laid down where he'll be comfortable. Just a second, before she spreads her legs to either side of him, holding herself up with aid of the headboard and the wall, reaching down to pull the thong out of their way, watching him between her thighs.
"Podívejte se, co jste udělal na mě, Lukáš. Chuť je, lásko."
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas's eyes close when his mate straddles him like that, pulls his hands to her hips like that as though to introduce him anew to the body and to the way she winds over him, grinds on his cock.
It makes hims groan aloud, the way he couldn't or wouldn't in the cab. It makes him push his head back, arch his hips, grind back against her. The motion of her body is familiar under his palms. He remembers it -- of course he does -- from the way she moved on the dance floor, her back to his front, her hands holding his against her hips
just like this.
When she comes down over him, puts her hands on his body and crawls up along him like a wild, carnivorous thing, his eyes flick open again. Blue in this light; blue in any light. Brilliant. Pupils blown, black. His hands skim up along her sides. He wraps them around her wrists and, holding her hands gently against his pectorals, leans up to catch her mouth.
He eats that promise out of her mouth, too. And groans again into her mouth, turned on anew by the very sound of it, his own words echoed back to him as an affirmation and -- very nearly -- a demand.
She rises up. He lays back. He looks up at her and he looks dazed, waiting. His hands slip from hers when she reaches to hold onto the headboard. They graze down his own body, finding his cock blindly and unerringly. She doesn't even have to see what he's doing to know when he starts to stroke himself -- it's in the shift of muscles in his shoulder against the inside of her knee. It's in the darkening of his eyes, the faint furrowing of his brow,
which is an expression that shifts and intensifies when she reaches down to draw aside her panties to show him
what he's done to her.
The sound he makes can only be called a growl. He lifts his head. Meets her more than halfway, so ferociously and suddenly that he seems utterly starved for her, utterly impatient to have her just like this, just like this, sweet and wet and grinding against his face.
[Danicka Musil] They were apart for three weeks when she went to New York. They didn't talk about sex. They didn't reach under the covers while they spoke to each other and touch themselves, letting the other hear the lust caused by just the mere thought of them. When they finally made love again he hadn't seemed to expect it. He hardly seemed to know what to do with himself now that she was with him again, now that he could feel her, now that he could hold her in his arms and with his teeth and know she was close enough to hear him if he howled. Or groaned in her ear. Or gasped her name.
That weekend they made love only a handful of times. They had only a couple of nights and a couple of days but they lived together as though it was normal for them to do so, as though it wasn't as thrilling as it really was for them to be back together after so long. They touched each other with happy nonchalance, and sometimes with tenderness like a gift, and sometimes with nothing more than a pure, primordial comfort in the tactile reassurance of each other's nearness.
And then another three weeks. Nearly a month. It's not as bad as before: some instinct of Lukas's tells him that his mate can hear him if he howls for her. They have slept in each other's arms. Kissed each other's lips. Talked to each other, eaten with each other. And now she's danced with him, too. He is not a wreck of loss and anger and primal confusion that he can't put his finger on nor control.
If it matters, right now, that she couldn't make love to him for awhile because of what happened that night in the street, he can't tell.
Danicka exhales in a rush when he arches up to put his mouth on her, almost a gasp. The movement of his shoulder and his arm as he jerks himself off to the taste of her cunt jostles her, and transfers that motion up through her thigh to her hips, to the wetness slicking down his tongue when he goes at her. She lets out a short groan, arching her back, and it takes effort to make herself keep her hand between her legs, holding her panties aside for him. She braces herself against the wall, and watches him while he eats her pussy, gasping truncated encouragements like
that's it. oh... baby, lízat že píču pro mě. jsi tak dobrý. ach, ty jsi tak zasraně dobrý.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] He loves that she has to brace herself against the wall like that. He loves that she can barely keep her hand between her legs, and he loves that she's still wearing her panties. And her fucking heels. He loves that the words coming out of her mouth now most definitely qualify her for the sort of laughing chide she gave him in the cab:
jazyk.
He loves that of all the women he's fucked in his short vivid life, this is the only one he's ever wanted to love like this. This is the only one he's gone to his knees for, and not only gone to his knees for but done so unasked. This is the one he learned with his mouth, little by little, carefully, watching her and tasting her and feeling her reaction until he knew her well enough that
even now, even drunk off his ass and delirious with want
he can make her fingers curl and clutch against the wall like that. He can make her so fucking wet her slick is on his tongue and smearing over his lips, messy on his chin and on his face.
Lukas watches her, this mate of his. He watches her with his eyes so intense, almost glassy with the state she's put him in. He watches her as he fucks her with his mouth, ferociously, and then -- slower; luxuriously, lapping at her like a lion, a big cat, some lazy and languid and
slow, slow, the flat of his tongue gliding up the tight slit of her cunt; his lips closing around her clit.
He's fucking himself slower now, too, sliding his hand up and down the shaft of his hard cock with maddening slowness, and every brush of his fingers over the sensitive arch of flesh on the underside makes his breathing change. Makes the way he's sucking at her clit, licking at her cunt, change. She can feel his body rolling beneath hers, pushing his cock against his hand in time to the things his mouth is doing to her: as though he were fucking her without fucking her.
His breath washes warm over her when he lays back for a moment. He looks up at her, a fucking mess: his dark hair tousled from her hands, from dancing, from that mad ascent in the stairwell and that tumble into bed. His face wet, lips wet from kissing her and fucking her. His eyes lazy, afire.
"Miluji tě," he says, and he means it with every fiber of himself. Every passion burning in his blood right now. All the darkness and lightning of his heritage; everything he is, for everything she is. He means her: he means her cunt, the taste of her, and the way she laughed when he was stomping out of his pants, and how she touched him and drove him mad in the cab, and
the way she looked in the airport, coming home to him, and
the way she looks down, half-undone over him, pierced by her own pleasure, riding his face and shuddering from his tongue.
It's not light, the fastening of his teeth on her thigh. It's not vicious, but it's ungentle, and it's unafraid. His voice is low, rough: "Víte, jak moc tě miluju?"
-- and then his mouth is back on her clit. His free hand comes up, opens over her ass, grasps at her and pulls her down and holds her right there as his eyes close, as his brow furrows, as he starts fucking her with his mouth like he wants to bring her to a shattering orgasm right there, right now; like he wants her to come on him before he's ever inside of her.
[Danicka Musil] Earlier he said he wanted her to ride him. He said he wanted her on his face. And it wasn't clear if he meant one then the other, or if he meant this, what she's doing now, which is
grinding her cunt on his mouth like she does his lap when she gets on top of him and fucks him, riding his tongue and his face like she has some sort of right to use him for her own pleasure. In a way, maybe she does. She has all the rights to him that he's given her, and he has given her almost everything. Which means more, not less, when taken into account that though she believes she has very little to give in the first place, she has given it all to him.
The keys to her apartment were, at that point, mere symbolism for what was already between them.
This is what she wanted, when she started thinking about fucking him. And she was thinking about fucking him from the moment he sat down in that booth with her, so drunk he sprawled more than sat, like his limbs were barely attached. She was thinking about how warm he is, the hard musculature under his clothes, the way it feels when he reaches down between her legs and plays with her with those shockingly soft fingers of his, licking her taste off of them, sliding his cock into her.
But she started thinking about getting him somewhere. A bathroom, his car if he brought it, a hotel room, her place, and pushing his head down between her thighs to lick her. Not to dominate him, not to humiliate him, not to use him -- never that, never any of it. There was no sense of either rulership or submission in the thought of it, erotic and enticing, just... lust. Want for him.
She knows he never really kissed women he was with the way he kissed her that first night. And she's kissed so many men and women she didn't want to. She's kissed so many people she regrets. But she could say the same: that was unusual. That was unexpected. That was something she did because she couldn't not. She couldn't help herself, or stop herself, from climbing onto him and holding him and opening her mouth to him
opening herself to him
when she knew even then that it was a mistake, that she shouldn't, that it was wrong, that he would inevitably hurt her, that she could not love him and that he would reject her sooner rather than later. But she couldn't stop. She kissed him out of longing, yes. And she kissed him because, quite simply though inexplicably, she needed to.
Needed him.
But that aside, Danicka has never had confirmed, and does not need it confirmed, that he didn't do this for anyone else. That she was his first in this, and will be his last. She doesn't care. It means something, but very little, because in the end it goes with all the other things he does and never did for others. He loves her, and she loves him, and neither of them ever thought they would love someone.
Certainly he knew that if he survived long enough he might eventually take a mate. Breed on her as much as she could bear. Press down on the part of himself howling to know and train his offspring.
Certainly she knew that she would eventually be given to a male that could tolerate her weaknesses, and one whose rage was dim enough for her to not make a fool out of herself and her family, and she knew she would have as many children as she could bear. Maybe if he died she would be given to another, like her father was. Like her half-sister would have been, if she were not ill, and if she were not so close to being too old as it is.
But this is more than that, more than either of them ever thought they could hope for. So they give themselves over to each other, and receive each other in return, and though the exchange is equitable, both come way feeling that they have profited from it so much that they can never repay what they've been given. They could not possibly have done anything, either of them, to earn this. Or deserve it.
She's gone. She's forgetting that he's fucking his hand while he licks her, and she's forgetting that she's still wearing heels, and when he looks up he can see the color on her eyelids because her eyes are closed, her mouth open with every shivering breath, her hair tumbling down her back, loose and swaying with the rolls of her hips to fuck him. To fuck his mouth. To be loved by him.
Lukas lays his head back.
"No, don't stop --" she gasps, when he does, jerked out of some reverie. She looks down at him, plaintive, aching, trying to squirm closer again, but his words stop her from simply grabbing him by the hair and moaning for him to give her more. She does touch his hair, though. She reaches down and looks at him, panting, lost for a moment. The next thing he says makes her brow furrow with ache, and
no. He doesn't put his mouth back on her. He's arching to do that, grabbing at her body to move her back down to him, but Danicka wriggles under his grasp and bends over him, kissing him hard and suddenly, moaning an answer into his mouth. Her own wet gets on her lips, on her chin, rubs off his skin and onto hers, and she groans, searching blindly for his hand and bringing it to her breast, cupping it under her left tit
so he can feel her heartbeat, and the way it trip-hammers in response to him.
It is the only way she can speak now, the only way she can say Ano, já vím.
Miluji tě taky.
He gets a taste of his own medicine a moment later. Danicka slides her mouth from his slowly, searchingly, sucking for a moment on his tongue and biting gently on his lower lip before she's getting off of him, drawing her legs up and arching her back to take that thong off, working it past the heels on her feet and not even bothering to throw it over the side of the bed before she gets right back on top of her mate, straddling him
with her back to him
and reaching between her legs to take his cock, to stroke her fingers over it once, twice, three times, before smoothly, slowly,
guiding him into her.
Danicka looks over her shoulder at him as she starts to work herself down on his cock, watching him
as she takes him.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] So -- he doesn't fuck her with his mouth again after all. He's flexing up to put his mouth on her again, to put his hand on her and hold her there, but she moves; she slips out of his grasp like a fish and just when he's starting to protest, starting to groan the very beginnings of
co to kurva, Danička --
she's bending over him and that curve of her slender body makes him think, briefly and so vividly, of plant-life, of those growing green things they planted a few weeks ago, of those growing green things etched onto that bracelet, those bangles he sees her on all the time now.
Then he's thinking of nothing at all but the heat of her mouth, which drenches him in a warm darkness in which he is lost. His hand comes up to her neck, her hair, firm but careful, gentle, because once upon a time he was not gentle; he grasped her by the neck to try to make a whore of her when all along, from the beginning
he was drawn to her. he was falling in love with her.
She kisses him now the way she kissed him that first time: like she has to. Like if she doesn't she'll die. Like if their mouths didn't meet, and open, and meld right now the both of them would spin apart into particles, nothingness. Danicka guides his hand to her body, cups it against her heartbeat, and the sound she makes in his mouth is echoed right back to her. He meets her mouth the way he would have met her cunt: ferociously, unafraid, throwing himself into her utterly.
When that's over, when that comes to its own slow finish, she's still grazing at his mouth, his lips, and he's sighing as he lays back. He tastes like her wet. He tastes like the alcohol he drank, even now. He tastes like himself.
She straddles him.
He lifts his head again.
Her back is to him, and even drunk as he is, even as far gone as he is, licking his lips and panting at the very taste of her, he knows the significance of this, senses it, remembers it. Once upon a time he asked her why didn't want to make love just like this. She used words like exposed, like objectified; words that made him understand immediately and absolutely; words that made him promise himself never, ever to turn her around like that again.
Only, he's not the one turning her around this time. She's the one swinging around, the long lean lines of her back to him now, and it's on his mind to say no, no, you don't have to do it like this except he knows, better than anyone, that if she did not want to -- she wouldn't. She would tell him so.
The words die on his tongue. He pants out once, short and harsh, as she takes him in hand. He's hot and so fucking hard in her palm; slick with his own precum. She can feel his pulse echoed even there, and she can feel the way the muscles in his abdomen jerk and twitch as she handles him, involuntarily; can feel, perhaps, the way his eyes are fast on her, fastened on her, are unable to tear away as she
takes him into her
and makes his head fall back with a groan.
It's like he's enslaved to the feel of her cunt sliding down on his cock. Like all the world has concentrated down to this motel, this room, this bed, this union. Like the origin and answer to all his existence is right there, focused on her hotness and her wetness and the tightness of her cunt, taking him in. She works herself down another inch, another two, and he groans again, louder, harsher.
His hand comes forward and brushes inexactly, mindlessly against her back; curves around to her hip. He doesn't try to pull her down. He's raised his head once more, and he's watching her, and she's watching him, and their eyes meet over her golden shoulder and he looks so wracked, speared and crucified on his own pleasure.
He has no words for her. He has nothing but his own uneven breathing, the flickers of tension across his face echoed in his torso, echoed in his hand on her hip.
When she's taken all of him he lays back. The slightest pressure on her hips now: both his hands holding her right there, filling her full, his chest rising on every pull of air. Seconds pass. His eyes closed: he's just feeling it. This. Her. Then his hands shift, rub slowly over the crests of her hips, over her ass. It's a sort of unspoken acquiescence:
okay.
go ahead.
The first time her hips move, Lukas moans, loud and long, nothing held back.
[Danicka Musil] She does wait for him.
She goes slow, as though the three weeks of separation have made him more tender, more sensitive, than she is. She watches him every second, for every inch, panting softly underneath the melody of his groaning. Danicka does not, for a moment, feel exposed. She does not feel used or objectified the way she might if he were sitting up, arms around her, touching her, pushing her to her breaking point with almost no way of truly responding to him. She doesn't feel... separated from him.
Like this, Danicka is free to move. She can ride him. She can feel his hands on her, traveling over her skin, and it makes her gasp. She can see him, though peripherally, the lamps turning his swarthy skin to gold. She touches herself, and in touching herself, touches him, too. She murmurs to him, whispers dark and filthy,
telling him how good his body feels under her,
and how she missed that big, hard cock inside her.
Telling him to fuck her, fuck up in that pussy
as she's riding down on him.
But oh, at first she goes slow. She's gentle, and she's slow, and she's waiting for his groans to be less overcome, less harsh and ragged. She slides slowly onto his cock and coos softly to him as she does, as though to tell him that's it, that's alright, baby, let me have you. Give it to me,
just like that.
When he gets a hold of himself, when his mind settles into some sort of order for a moment, though, Danicka swings her hips in a long, lazy circle on him, and he lets out a noise they can hear two rooms down and across the hall, and she chuckles low and dark to herself,
and starts to ride him. Starts to fuck him with her words in the air, and her hips on his lap, and her pussy on his cock, tight and wet and needful.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] The sounds she's making. The things she's saying. Some part of Lukas -- buried under an avalanche of sensation and lust, far from himself now -- wonders, laughingly, if she really thinks these things will soothe him. If it'll help him be anything but utterly overcome, utterly swamped.
Most of him, though, most of that shattered consciousness which is him right now: is just lost. Is just holding on, and feeling, and gasping until he can bear for her to move again.
When she does -- they hear him two rooms down. Neighbors won't be getting much sleep tonight. They don't hear her laughing, though, that low dark sound she makes that he's never, ever heard her make anywhere but in the bedroom, in bed, when she's driving him out of his mind. It makes him laugh too, sudden and short and tatters, more a breath than anything else. He's opening his mouth to say something, but then
she starts to ride him. And he's just groaning again, like he can't help it, and his hands are flexing against her hips, riding the roll of her hips as he flexes up into her. And fucks her back. And thrusts up against the downstroke of her pussy.
Slow at first. Slow for a while, his hands running up and down her back, over her sides, reaching around to tangle with hers and grip against her fingers while she touches herself; touches him.
"Yeah," he's murmuring now, "that's it. That's my good girl. Ride my cock."
And then he's going a little harder. His hands are coming back to her hips and he's holding on to her, putting his feet flat on the mattress now, bucking up into her in short, hard slams of his hips that knock short, hard grunts out of him. That make his hands grasp at her body. That make him clench and teeth and snarl when she winds her hips, or shifts her rhythm, or bears down on him, and --
and pretty soon it's not slow at all; he's railing her, a long ferocious train of thrusts, fast and hard, and her wet is slicking down his cock, pushed down with every long stroke, and he's taking one hand off her hip to grasp and tear at the bedcovers because if he doesn't he's afraid he'll grip her too hard. Oh my god, he's panting, over and over, shredded between groans, oh my fucking god, yeah, that's it, yes,
until his hands are back on her hips, gripping now, pulling her down, holding her. Stilling her. He leans up behind her. He holds her hips against his and he wraps his arms around her; bites her shoulder, gently; nuzzles her neck, kisses the back of her ear. Whispers, "Otočit přes, lásko?"
It's a question. Of course it is. There's a sense that it's all right if the answer is no. It's all right if she wants to turn around and face him. Or pull him over her. Or ride him just like this until they've both lost their minds in a mindaltering orgasm. His teeth catch briefly at her earlobe, and then he's kissing her shoulder again, gently, the way he used to when he wanted her to know he would be back. The way he still does when he wants her to know --
I'm right here.
"Získejte na všechny čtyři a nech mě kurva se vám líbí, že?"
[Danicka Musil] Though the room is cold -- cold enough that if they sleep here Danicka will not only crawl under the covers but curl against his side to siphon off his body heat -- they're both running with sweat, til it dapples them, til it makes them glisten in what little light there is. Some of her hair is sticking to her shoulderblades, those slightly darker blonde strands that are close to her scalp that move like filament when she gathers it up to tie it back sometimes, that brush through his fingers like silk threads when he runs his hands up the back of her neck while he kisses her.
They can't kiss right now, not like this, but they don't need to. They don't need, right now, that point of connection and contact that melts their very minds. It's likely neither of them could stand it if they could kiss, couldn't bear to push themselves over that edge again.
The way they're fucking, it's also likely they couldn't hold onto a kiss for long. Danicka is riding Lukas hard now, faster, and in answer he starts to fuck her right back, pounding himself into her over and over again even though he isn't sure he can control himself enough to touch her.
Truth be told, when Lukas starts to do that, when he starts to go at her like that, Danicka slows down. She isn't even fragile anymore. This body of hers is able, and has been able for a long time, to take more than she ever could before. To take as much, even, as some of his packmates in their human forms. She's stronger than she was the first time he made love to her, but it doesn't change the fact that if they go at each other like this, him riding up and her riding down, it's going to hurt her
and Lukas is very far gone now, was close to this edge even in the cab, and she knows it, and she relaxes somewhat. She lets him fuck her like this, gasping, and laughing under her beath. She almost topples forward, catching herself on his legs, looking over her shoulder at him with her hair half across her face, and she
slaps her hand against the side of his thigh. Hard to tell if she's urging him on, or if she's swatting at him like he thought she would when he was all over her in the hallway, and hard even to glimpse her eyes because,
quite frankly,
the way he's moving moves her, til she's laughing and moaning -- both soft -- and gasping -- a little louder.
Lukas puts his hands on her again, then, holds her still, sitting up. Danicka leans against him, her back arched and her eyes closing. She tips her head back as he's kissing her, bitting her, holding her, and moves on him once his hands leave her hips. She sighs, her breasts lifting every time she breathes, working her cunt on him in slow rolls now, hard grinding circles, til the words out of his mouth hitch off his tongue like they're stumbling the way he did at the top of the stairs.
"Mmm," is her only -- verbal -- response, a single noise of want, and -- apparently -- agreement,
because then she's turning her head to kiss him, opening her mouth to his and moaning into it, reaching down to pull his hands to her breasts, and though she sounds amenable to this change of position, she doesn't stop fucking him like that, though now it's a slow, dragging thing, hard and somehow all the more wild for her seeming restraint.
Agreement, though. Yes. Because when she stops kissing him she leans forward, til her palms hit the bedspread and her cunt slides off of him, which makes her gasp,
and then whimper.
She's on her knees now, and her elbows, looking back at him, waiting.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Their communication is as much in preverbal sounds as it is in words; as much in movement as it is in sound. She's laughing and gasping and moaning as he fucks her. He's holding onto her and slamming his body into hers, groaning beneath her. They're coming together; he's coming up to her, holding her, telling her without words to stop, stop, stop and let me find my sanity again.
She's moving again as soon as his hands let go her hips. As soon as he's wrapping his arms around her, loose and gentle and warm, she's moving again like she wants to drive him out of his mind.
And his head falls forward. He bites her shoulder, groans hard against her skin, and every time her hips swivel she can feel the muscles of his abdomen clench behind the small of her back; can feel his arms want to tighten to hold her still
though he doesn't.
She twists. He lifts his head. Their mouths meet the way they always do: ferociously, burningly, searing away logic and mind. He can't stop kissing her. Even when she turns and leans forward and begins to draw herself off his cock he's kissing her, nipping at the tender muscle anchoring shoulder joint to collarbone; sucking kisses down the arch of her shoulderblade.
That gasp is what brings him out of it. His head lifts. His eyes are and animal's, wild and senseless. He looks at her and she looks at him like she's waiting for him to mount her,
which she is,
and he draws his legs in and rolls his weight forward, over her, so suddenly that he seems to be springing on her.
Which he is.
He grabs her by the hips. He spreads her lips open and he nearly lunges for her, all but faceplants against her cunt, keeps his eyes open and on hers the best he can as he eats her out. No shame in this. No restraint. His mouth on her cunt is almost too much: too rough, too ravenous. He sucks at her, licks at her, presses his tongue to her clit and shakes his head like a dog with a bone; eats at her like he literally wants to eat her alive.
Only a handful of seconds, though. A span of starved, lunatic instants, and then he's rising up again, panting, his hands pressing down on her hips for leverage before he's climbing over her, setting his arms down on either side of hers, bracketing her beneath his larger body. His mouth finds hers again. He gives her taste back to her, kisses her more with tongue and tooth than with lip, runs his hand up her body to grasp briefly at her breast, to maul over her abdomen, to slip -- carefully now, heavy but gentle -- between her legs. Now it's his fingers sliding against her cunt, feeling her wetness. He thinks of her saying
Podívejte se, co jste udělal na mě, Lukáš,
and shudders all over, grinding his cock against the cleft of her ass. Rubbing himself against her as he rubs his fingers over her pussy. Fucking her like that for a moment, imperfectly, filthily, before his hand slips down her thigh to pull her legs a little wider apart. She can feel the head of his cock nudging against her cunt; can feel his fingers spreading her open for him, gently, as he's whispering so good, so fucking good like an incantation.
Those words dissolve into nothing, into a long low groan, as he slides into her again.
[Danicka Musil] It's been a long, long time since Lukas took her to a hotel room and stripped the bed down to a single sheet and a couple of pillows before all but throwing her onto it. They never climbed under the covers together that night, even when they rested in between those long stretches where they were wrecking each other. Even when he laid behind her and put his arm over her and asked her if she was cold, they didn't pretend for a moment that she was going to stay. That she was going to curl up with him afterward and sleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat, in the aura of his warmth.
Of course none of that matters now. If the bed is made or a mess. If they fuck on top of the bedspread or underneath the blankets. If they're even on the bed, at all. Or in the shower. Or on the couch. Or on her balcony. Or in his room, or her apartment, or their house, or the W Lakeshore, or this place, where they've never been before and likely will never come again, a little motel good for people on roadtrips more than people who couldn't wait to get each other's clothes off.
What matters is that every time they move together it causes Lukas to lose another fragment of his crumbling mind. What matters is that when he's kissing her even as she slides off his cock, Danicka has to fight not to let her eyes roll back, not to lose herself in shuddering sensation.
She is expecting him to cover her now, to bend over her like he has so many times before and plow her, drive himself into her again and fuck her until she's making as much noise as he was a moment ago, alerting everyone within three rooms of what he's doing to her. And he does fuck her. But his hands on her thighs and her cunt aren't what she expects, and she gives a shivering, ragged gasp as he starts eating at her again, licking her, moving his tongue on her in such a way that she screams when he shakes his head like that, grabbing at the bedclothes as her body trembles back against his face.
Those noises. He knows those noises. Will remember them from all the times he's brought her close, all the times she's had her head back and her hands grabbing at him, her body tightening up on the steep pitch to orgasm. That soft hammering of her voice crying out again and again and again and again into the air, louder and louder, unable to form words, sentences, ideas,
but that's where he leaves her, letting out a ragged and wracked sound when he pulls his mouth back and climbs over her, drags her back to him, opening her mouth with his tongue so she can lick herself off of it. Danicka moans when he kisses her, loud and overcome and wanting into his mouth. She rubs herself back against him as he does the same, sliding against her ass, touching her, touching her like that, his cock slippery from being inside her and his fingers slippery from how wet she's getting even now, by the second.
Gently, he spreads her open, moves her legs. Gently he nudges up against her pussy, works himself into her, but as soon as he's begun guiding himself inside once more, Danicka arches her back and presses back on him, taking him just like she did when she rode him, only
faster now, harder,
more demanding.
She doesn't stop. He had her so close. So fucking close, when he bent her over like that and started licking at her cunt like a wild thing. Now he's inside her again, and playing with her, and Danicka's fucking back against him with her lower lip held in her teeth, riding him even while he's folded over her. Their hair sticks to them with their mingling sweat. She tilts her head back, gasping for him, her eyes held closed and the words whimpering out of her:
"I'm gonna come. Don't stop, baby, I'm gonna come."
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] It's not the first time she's asked him, begged him not to stop. It won't be the last. But like every other time, it's unnecessary: there's no chance, none, that he would even dream of stopping.
Not with her like this. Not with himself spinning farther and farther from sanity and control, bent over her and covering her, his hand between her legs fondling her now, playing with her as she rides back against him -- so hard, so demanding, that he's gasping and panting into her ear.
Even as he's kissing her. Whatever of her he can reach -- her temple, her cheek, her mouth if she turns. Her jawline. Her neck. Sucking at her, biting at her, pressing his mouth to her, trying to take her in however he can; as though loving her were a whole-body exercise; as though if he did not love her with every part of himself he would simply fall the fuck apart.
She's going to come, she tells him. Warns him, or promises him. He groans against her neck and then he's fucking her back, plowing her now as she thought he might from the moment she bent over for him. His hand is cupped over her cunt now and it's not so much the dexterity of his fingers that sets pressure against her clit as it is simply the motion of their bodies, the slapping of their flesh together; the thrusting of his hard cock into her, over and over.
Quick, but light. He's holding back a bit; because he remembers how she relaxed when he was fucking up into her; because he doesn't want to hurt her now with her grinding herself back on him so fucking hard. He has enough presence of mind, just enough left, for that.
And for this:
"Come for me." Whispered, threaded with groans he can't hold back. "Come for me, baby. Dovolte mi pocit, že těsný malý kunda přijít na můj kohout."
[Danicka Musil] There are many couples -- and at times they have been this sort, too -- who would come back together after not making love for so long and try to do it 'right'. Whatever that means. Maybe in their den, in that bed which is one of the only new things in the house, one of the things Lukas spent a decent amount of money on so that he and his mate would be comfortable even if he knew they would only be sleeping there occasionally. Maybe after a quiet night together. No chance of distractions. Maybe some nice lingerie as though to say welcome back when he let her clothes fall to the floor.
Danicka didn't expect to see him at the club tonight. Not even for a moment did it occur to her that he would be there, which is funny, considering once they met each other she seemed to see him everywhere. She didn't dress for him tonight. She isn't even wearing the bracelet he bought her. The only jewelry she has on is still swinging from her earlobes as he pounds her from behind, glinting in the yellow light from the bedside lamp when it isn't caught by the shadows he throws over her. The underwear she chose, while enticing, is no more exciting or special than anything she might wear just to go to the aquarium in.
And Lukas is drunk. It hasn't been long enough for the body he was born in to have burnt off more than a fraction of what he took in tonight, even as fierce as his metabolism is. He's drunk and has been riding the edge of his own ability to control himself all night, from the melting beginning of their affections towards each other in the club booth to this, to Danicka bending over in front of him and gasping for him, waiting for him to give himself to her again.
Now that he is, she's too far gone to speak. Too far gone, too close, to do anything but reach back and put her hand on his head, tangle her fingers in his hair, holding him close, and her back is arched hard so that she can press harder onto his cock though he
holds back, which is more control than she can claim at the moment,
and in the end it isn't even that much restraint. They still go at each other with vigor, they're still making the bedsprings below the mattress beat out a rhythm not unlike the ones given by drumbeats and computerized sound systems at the nightclub, though the headboard isn't heavy enough to thump that hard on the wall.
He can feel it building in her, how her torso tightens and how her cunt clenches around him, how her hips bear down on him and how she fucking squirms as though she's working her orgasm out of his very body, taking it from his cock and his hand, pulling it into herself for her pleasure. He can feel it when she starts to buck against him, those repetitive vocalizations he knows so well arching up into one long, loud outcry as she
simply
loses herself.
This is when she's most like an animal with him. This is when he feels like he can see straight through her to her core, to the bottom, as though suddenly Danicka becomes clear as water or crystal and he can see the riverstones under the current or each and every facet of her catching some variance of the light. And this is when she's filthy, too, swearing at him in Czech and yes, in Russian and English, too, flipping between languages as her orgasm sends hard, lightninglike shudders up through her body that transfer back to his every time she counterthrusts back, her ass slapping quietly against the front of his thighs. This is when she's gone, when she's broken down, and though every wall has crumbled to dust and ash, she feels safe enough with him to just
let them fall.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] As much as Lukas tries to hold back, there's not much control in him, either, at the end. He can feel her orgasm building in her. Knows it's coming because he's seen it, felt it before, felt it in her just like this, pounding her from behind
or atop her, or beneath her, or with her on his mouth and on his fingers
felt it coiling in on itself only the shatter outward, ripple through every part of her body, send her crying out and grasping at his hair and bucking back against him while he -- well.
Pounds her right back.
Not so careful, now. Not so gentle. His hand cupping her cunt firmly, he pistons his hips against hers, matching her stroke for stroke, staying deep, grinding into her slow and hard even when she's falling apart, even when she's shuddering against his bracing arm, even when her fingers are pulling at the roots of his hair and her mouth is open and her eyes are closed and
he's kissing her neck when she comes, kissing the vibrations of her moans under his lips, kissing her and biting at the delicate skin there. Pushing himself into her once more, every inch, planting his cock in her and holding her there, just like that, while she comes apart at the seams and turns liquid and falls apart.
When the last of her orgasm lets her go, he bears her gently down to the mattress. He stays within her, not moving, iron-hard still, panting softly. And he nuzzles her. And he kisses her. And he's gentle with her, gentle and patient, while she starts to pull herself together again.
In the past, this is when he's asked her in a word or a syllable -- is she ready? Can she handle more? This is when he's asked her, put plainly, for permission to fuck her now, to snarl and grunt and pump at her until he comes in her pussy.
Not tonight. Not now. Not even because it's the first time in a month, almost, or because this needs to be special and memorable and unique, but simply because: he wants to.
He wants to stay with her like this, just a little longer. He wants to kiss her neck, nuzzles her face until he can kiss her mouth. He wants to draw himself out of her, slow and easy, every inch of him glistening with her wetness, hard and aching for want of her.
And he pushes himself up over her. And he sits back on his heels, straddling her lower legs. His hands are gentle as he turns her on her back, as though he expects her to be more fragile now, not brittle but simply disjointed, easily knocked asunder. He turns her on her back and he leans down to her and --
strange, but this is the first time he's put his mouth to her breast like this all night. For longer than he can remember. His hands wrap around her ribcage, her back. He sucks at her nipples for a while, with shocking patience that he didn't even know he had, before he looks up at her again.
"Zůstaňte tam," he murmurs. "Dovolte mi, abych jedl, že kočička opět."
[Danicka Musil] It seems like forever before Danicka is calm enough to breathe normally. She's shuddering on every gasping inhale, the way some women sound when they're frightened or when they're trying not to cry, but all it ends up meaning is that she's overcome. She's got her hands curled tight in the bedspread as Lukas drives himself into her and holds there, holds her, while she rides out every last surge of her orgasm. Sometimes when she comes he keeps fucking her, goes on slamming into her because he just. Can't. Stop.
Sometimes he does this. He goes still, or as still as he can, letting her have this, letting her unravel around him and just bathing in the feel of her crashing over the edge. When he does, it seems to make her scream. It seems to break her down a little, make her collapse when it's finally over. She goes down easily to the bedspread as Lukas lowers her, pressing against her perhaps more gently than he would have a year ago. She gets stronger by the day. He works harder, by the day, for her not to need to be so strong with him.
No matter how great his rage burns, even now.
Danicka cannot kiss him. She's in tatters, blown to bits, and her eyes flutter open and closed a few times as she starts to put herself back together again. She can feel his lips and his hands on her and she's dimly aware of the way he withdraws
-- she gasps, sharp and sudden, though he moves slowly, and gives a tremble --
and the way he slowly turns her over. Her heels are slipping off her feet now, and one falls to the floor by the bed with a soft thump. She rubs her feet together, and he can feel her legs between his own as she shifts like that. Danicka looks drowsy, lazy, replete. The way he's liked her so many times, thoroughly fucked, the way he thinks of it. Sweaty and undone, naked or in bits and pieces of her lingerie, looking at him just... like this. The way she looks at him now, trailing her fingertips up his forearms when she can get them to move, some ember still burning deep in her eyes that tells him how much she wants him.
How much she always wants him, even like this.
For a moment only, they look at each other, and then he descends to her breast, cupping it and suckling it into his mouth. His hands move on her, around her, hold her closer to him, and she exhales slowly, softly. Her pleasure flickers and rests again, as her nipples tighten into hard buds either in the cold air or to the attentions of his tongue and his teeth.
"Lukášek..." she whispers, in adoration. And tenderness. Her eyes close as he kisses both of her breasts, pleasures himself by worshipping some simple part of her body, and then he lifts his head and by instinct her eyes open again to him. Danicka's lips part at his words, and she gasps, shakily.
"Nemůžu," she whimpers, arching her back slightly, trembling a little from it. "Lukáš, nesnesu to."
And yet.
And yet she doesn't reach for his cock. She doesn't beg him to put himself inside of her again, doesn't moan for him to fuck her now, hard, until he comes. She whimpers, yes. She gasps at the thought of his mouth licking her so soon after orgasm, tasting her, eating out that pussy he was just fucking, and her hands tighten a little where they touch him, holding his shoulders or his arms as she shudders.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Make no mistake: Lukas is riding a razor's edge between control and losing all control. His desire is a fire under his skin, burning through his eyes. It leaves little room for gentleness, for gentler emotions.
But: she can't, she says. And even now, even like this, he pauses for a second. His eyes search hers, striving for as much clarity the fading haze of alcohol and the growing haze of lust will allow.
Then he smiles. Even that smile slices brief and sharp, edged like a weapon. His mouth is not a weapon, though, when it lowers to her skin. He kisses her belly, and it's nothing but adoration. He adores her body. He adores her smooth soft skin, and the shivering of her torso there; the shudder that runs all through her because she's thinking of him. Thinking of his mouth pressed between her legs. Thinking of him eating her out all over again so soon after he made her come on his cock; so soon after he pounded that pussy the way he did.
And smiling, he whispers to her:
"Budu vzít dobrou péči o vás."
He slides down the bed. He pushes her up the bed. The bedspread smooths against between them; rumples up at the head of the mattress and down at the foot. They've somehow turned around one-eighty. She's near the bottom edge, close enough that she could lift her hair and let it fall over. His feet press against the headboard, planted wide because his frame is too long to fit easily.
He takes his time. Somehow -- burning up for her, dying to push his mouth onto her or his cock into her -- he takes his time. His hands stroke her sides, stroke her hips, cup under her ass to lift her ever so slightly. To pivot her pelvis and place her just so, align her perfectly to his mouth. He doesn't waste time kissing her thighs. He nuzzles against her, his lips and his nose pushing through the soft curls of hair there; past the wet folds of her lips to find her clit,
which he kisses, so softly, like he were kissing her mouth to kiss her awake.
If she jolts, if she writhes, he wraps his arm around her hips. Holds her steady. If her flesh pulsates under his mouth, he makes a low sound like a murmur, or a laugh, or a growl -- and goes at her a little harder.
Now his other hand, shifting to splay over her lower belly; to reach down to spread her gently open. Now his tongue, circling, sweeping. Now his mouth, opening. Now he's sucking at her clit, slow and steady throbs of pressure; and now,
now,
he's not so patient after all. His eyes are closing and he's eating at her, licking up the slick he's fucked out of her; flicking her clit with his tongue; fucking her with his mouth as unabashedly and eagerly as he's ever fucked her.
[Danicka Musil] So close, that, to what she said to him in the car when he admitted that he couldn't take it anymore, that he was dying. When he, too, claimed he couldn't bear how badly he wanted her.
I'll take care of you.
Both times, the salacious promise has come in a whisper, a heady murmur against flesh. And Danicka, unrestrained by being in public, lets out a moan at the words. She can't bear it, and to some degree that's true; after everything he's done to her already some part of her is certain she won't survive this. She'll die from pleasure if he doesn't give her a break.
Deeper than that, though, is the more absolute truth: that she isn't done with him. That she doesn't want to stop, and doesn't want him to stop. That thinking about his mouth on her again has her pussy slicking wet once more, has her aching for his body. She wants his cock. That's under no debate. She wants him to mount her again and ride her until he comes, and she wants him to fill her until she's an utter mess.
But she also wants this. When he had her straddling his face she could have easily ridden him to orgasm, but he stopped and she gasped and needed him, then, inside her. When he bent her over she could have come in just a few more moments but he stopped, and she cried out, and then he was fucking her like the animal he is, like she was his mate in heat, like he was driven by even more than pure instinct to move the way he was moving, thrust into her as hard and forceful as he was.
Which he may yet do again.
Danicka touches his hair. She did this for a glancing second the first time, but she barely touched him that night as he learned how to lick her, how to pleasure her on his knees. Even then she wasn't sure
-- neither of them were --
that they could trust this. That they could let themselves go. That they could really unlock their inner gates and welcome the other in, trust the other not to laugh, or hurt them, or take anything away. So she didn't stroke his hair the way she does so often now, as though showing him this much tenderness is not utterly at odds with what he is. She touches his hair now, though. Danicka strokes it back and sighs as he opens her legs and tilts her body and shivers as he nuzzles her the first time.
Kisses her, as though it's the first time.
It isn't until he starts to really lick her that Danicka lets out a cry and wriggles under him, a bolt of energy lifting her ass from the covers for a moment. She clutches at his hair and then lets go suddenly, touching his shoulders again, which are stronger. That was the other reason she hesitated that night at the W to touch his hair: she was afraid she'd hurt him. Tug on his hair and make him angry. Yank at his scalp and make him never, ever want to do this for her again.
Ironically, the same way he would stop himself from pushing on her, or grabbing her hair to yank her head back, or thrusting himself into her mouth. The way they refused, from the start, to commit to treating the other like they didn't matter. Looking at Lukas for a moment like she did not care for him took all the willpower Danicka had, and a strident belief that he despised her and did not want her. Even then she couldn't stop herself from arguing with him outside. Getting worked up. Caring.
None of that matters, though. Not now, of all times. Not when Lukas is taking care of her, just like he promised, moan-murmuring to her pussy every time it throbs in response to his kisses. She's whimpering, over and over again now, making a mess of his face, just like before, writhing softly in his hands.
"Oh, my love," she breathes. "Ach, můj bože, víc. Znovu." He does, and she jerks, and cries out a little helplessly: "Lukáš, to znovu!"
It's unclear if she means the way he just licked her, the way he just curled his tongue around her clit and sucked. Or if she means:
fuck me again. love me like this again. make me come again.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Her hand in his hair -- he twists his head, not to pull away but to press into her palm. Sometimes he's like this, wordless and needful. Sometimes she puts her hand on his cock and he thrusts against her fingers like this. Sometimes he asks without asking, without words, for more.
For again.
So: she pushes her hand into his hair. Strokes it back from his brow, and he's sweating, and the locks are black and damp between her fingers, warmer close to his skull. He makes a sound against her as her fingers close, not in protest but in something like relief, or want, or pleasure.
As though that were one more circuit, closed. As though that were one step closer between the two of them.
A second of pause, no more; a gasping breath or two drawn. He kisses the inside of her thigh with a sudden turn of his head. Then he's turning back, and he's diving into her again, and he's opening her up with his fingers and fucking her with his tongue and
gripping her hips, holding her, pulling her against his mouth. There's something utterly ravenous about this, utterly mindless. He's eating at her the way he did when she was astride his face and he was stroking himself. He's eating at her the way he did when he turned her on all fours and she looked at him like she was waiting for him. He's eating at her like he wants to
(eat her alive.)
make her come all over again; make her come against his face; make her squirm and writhe and scream and lose all sense of herself.
No words, again. No time for that. Nothing but his mouth on her, the short, hungry sounds he's making; the tension of his shoulders under her quivering thighs; the grip of his hands and the fervency of his mouth. His eyes are closed, brow furrowed with concentration and intensity. Through her fingers tangled in his hair she can feel the motion of his head, the craning and flexing of his neck, the long rolls as he's licking her, lapping at her; the short sharp twists and shakes of his head as he's going at her like an animal.
Some noise she makes, and his eyes snap open again. So astoundingly blue, and the pupils so black. He looks at her, and he looks dazed again, eyes glassy not with inebriation but with lust; fixed on her and watching her, watching every iota of expression on her face, taking every cue from her,
learning her all over again the way he did that first night,
because the fundamental truth has not changed in all this time. He does this because he wants her to feel good. To feel this. He does this because he wants her to come.
He does this because he wants her.
And because he loves her.
[Danicka Musil] So that is how it is: Lukas between her legs again, licking her again, making her roll her hips to grind her pussy on his mouth again, and again.
Some men do this the way some women suck cock, as perfunctory, as marital duty, as escape, as a way to get their partner off so she'll let them fuck her, as a warped and truly unnecessary idea of sexual reciprocity, as anything but what this is between them. He wants to make Danicka feel good.
He is succeeding.
Her body - her slim, soft body - is arching the way it did when she fucked him, rode him not so long ago. She's writhing like she did when he turned her over and railed her from behind, cupping her cunt all the while. If she were even a little coherent, Danicka might express wonder that he hasn't come, that with everything they've done to each other he's held on to his sanity, that after all this time and all the pleasure his groans have told her he's feeling, Lukas has not pinned her to the bed with his cock and his hands and fucked her to the culmination of every molten surge of electricity that's gone through him.
But she's not coherent. At the moment, Danicka can't remember her name, much less what happened before this, before this aching moment spent striving for relief of a need she thought was utterly satisfied. He wasn't satisfied, it seems. Not when at the start of all this he seemed bound and determined to get her off on his mouth and only stopped because she turned around and bounced on his cock for awhile instead. Not when it's been so very, very long since he's tasted her cum as it leaves her cunt.
She makes some noise that makes him lift his eyes to watch her before putting his tongue right back on her. She doesn't quiet then but only gets louder, grabbing at his hair again like she can't help it. And she can't. She's coming again, sudden and drenching, hips lifting from the mattress, pussy stroking over his hot, wet mouth, which she would tell him she loves even when - especially when - it's filthy,
but she's moaning instead, plaintive and undulating and utterly,
completely,
overcome.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Chances are they'll both be filthy wrecks when this is over. Sticky with one another's cum. Slick with sweat. Hair damp, tousled and askew. Mouths reddened from kissing and, frankly,
from fucking. Just like this.
Lukas doesn't care. He doesn't care about being presentable, here. He doesn't care about his image, which is as carefully cultivated and controlled as anything else in his life. He doesn't care that his clothes are on the floor and he's bare on a motel bed. He doesn't care that --
no; that's not true. He loves that she's gripping his hair like this, writhing against him like this, grinding her cunt against his mouth like this as she falls the fuck apart.
His mouth is on her the entire time. He stays with her even as she arches and twists: wraps his arms around her hips and follows her, sucks at her, lets her ride his face until the last of her orgasm is shuddering down to nothing.
Then his arms are loosening around her. He's reaching to run his hand over her body, smoothing his palm over her belly; cupping her breast and the wild thump of her heart under it. Lukas takes his mouth from his mate's cunt and he laughs softly, low -- the tail end of it muffled again as he kisses her clit, softly now, sucking ever so gently.
He nuzzles against her. He sweeps her wetness from her cunt, slipping his tongue up along her slit. Then he's shifting, shrugging out from beneath her thighs, crawling up to come down over her, his arms looped under her shoulderblades, hands cupping the back of her head.
His cock lays heavy and hard against her cunt; along her lower abdomen. His hips flex against hers slow and deliberate, stroke after stroke, the insinuation of a fuck.
"Miluju, jak jste chuť," he whispers, and presses his mouth to hers. He kisses her: deep and long and dark.
When that parts there's a new burn in his eyes, focused and intent. "Chci přijít, uvnitř vás," he says. "Chci tě šukat plný přijít."
[Danicka Musil] Before they met that night in SmartBar, Lukas was... civilized is one word for it, however false that civility was from the time he was a very, very young child. He held himself aloof. He argued with his packmates, he wrote speeches for his Alpha -- in a matter of speaking -- he fucked random women when he needed release, and when he needed some kind of connection to another living creature, however meaningless and brief and, in most cases, utterly selfish. His entire focus was the War, less than why they were fighting it.
Danicka had a few things in common with him, back then. Using people when she wanted to get off, when she wanted to wreck someone else's bed before going back to sleep in her own. She comforted those people she could call her friends, rare and transient as they always were, and she played the part she was supposed to, and she held the whole world at arm's length to protect them. And, simply, to protect herself. She would have been content, in her own way, to live a life devoid of genuine bonds to people outside of her own family, much less bonds that did not hurt her in various ways.
And now there's this.
Now there are the times that after making love -- even if it's just a quickie, some rapid rise from arousal to orgasm, and even when it's the filthiest things slurring from their mouths while they move all over some bed or another or tie each other down -- they can just lie there together. Panting and messy or with a thin sheen of sweat and his cock still inside her, they often go to sleep together. Drowse together before getting up to shower and start the day. Cuddle and laugh a bit, before putting their clothes back on and going back to whatever it was they were doing before.
She likes looking forward to that. She likes him kissing her the way he does now, on her cunt after she comes, making her whimper and jerk because it's too much, it's unbearable, and she loves knowing that he's going to fuck her now, really fuck her, and she loves that she knows she's going to ache at the end of it all and loves that she doesn't care.
They're already a mess. His hand is wet with her slick and it grazes on her breast when he cradles his palm over it. She breathes heavily, her hair darkened by sweat, her earrings tangled in strands of it, her entire body quivering as she comes back down
again.
Danicka doesn't open her eyes even when she feels Lukas shift and crawl up her. Her legs don't wrap around him as he rises up over her; she can't move them right now, and they splay apart, welcoming and warm when he settles against her. She arches her back when he moves her into a bed of his arms, sighing as she relaxes into his palms. Then her eyes open, and he
he presses his cock against her, rocking his hips like that, as though to have his body tell her that yes,
he's going to fuck her now.
Danicka's eyelids fall again as the words follow the motion, the look in his eyes. She lifts her head to his and searches for his mouth. She can smell herself on him. She can taste it when she starts to lick lightly, softly at his lower lip, while he's telling her what he wants to do to her. "Mmm!" she moans, short with wordless agreement but not as lowpitched as before, when she was riding him and he came up behind her and told her to bend over.
They kiss like he's already inside of her. The words dissolve from her mind even as she's groaning in answer to them, because of what they do to her when she almost can't handle anything else. Danicka's hands run over his neck and his shoulders and his chest, touch his hair, stroke his nipples. She can't stop touching him now, can't stop kissing him as she finally draws her legs up around him, tilting her hips to meet him.
All the while she's kissing him. And all the while she's moaning the words that can't make it past their locked mouths, though all it really amounts to is
ano. ano. ano.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Her hands on his body remind him of the way she touched him on the dance floor. The way she shaped him then, molded him out of basslines and beats while their eyes locked and their mouths lingered close.
His packmate thought to say goodbye like a civilized creature. She saw them there, dancing together. She thought better of it. They didn't even notice her. It's arguable that since the moment Lukas took his mate's hand and led her down the stairs -- or no, before; since the moment he asked her to dance and heard her say one thing and saw what she was really saying in her eyes --
all the rest of the world may as well have fallen away.
There's nothing else. This room does not exist. Not the lights, not the cheap clean bedspreads, not that other bed because he didn't care how many beds they got or what kind; not the Holy Bible in the nightstand and not the TV on the dresser. Not the air around them, or the light, or anything but
the dark wet warmth of her mouth. The dark wet warmth of her pussy, rubbing against him as she lifts her thighs and folds her legs around him. Perfect fit: like they belong with, and to, one another.
He lets loose a low, rough sound in her mouth. His mouth breaks from hers for a moment. He looks down, and his arms crisscross beneath her; flex on her shoulders as he finds her opening and aligns himself.
A louder, rougher sound -- a shuddering groan -- when he fills her.
A stillness.
Then he's lifting his head again. Catching her mouth and kissing her, hard, hungry, as he grinds into her. And draws back. And slams into her again, heaviily; thrusting hard and deep from the start, like they've been going all night and are just now hitting their stride.
Which is not very far from the truth.
And: she's right. Yes: he's going to fuck her now. He's going to hold her into his arms just like this, his weight on his elbows and his arms holding her against his chest; his hips working between her thighs as he fucks her, pounds her, plows the fuck out of her on that motel bed.
The sounds he's making are barely coherent. His mouth on hers: barely coherent. Barely a kiss. More a meeting of lips and tongue, a panting, ragged thing as he drives himself into her. He fucks her like he was made to fuck her; like she was made to receive him like this, made for him, made to belong with him. He fucks her like there's nothing else but the heavy hard slide of his cock into her, vivid and smooth and powerful.
He rarely fucks quite her like this. This hard, this deep, slamming into her when she's under him with nowhere to move. He's wary of hurting her. He has hurt her before. Even now, even tonight, he's wary -- alert to the way her thighs grip him; alert to her hands on his back and her voice in his ear.
Wariness, alertness, isn't quite the same thing as gentleness, though. He's too far gone for gentleness. Holding her to his chest, clasping her in his arms, Lukas, put plainly, pounds his mate. He doesn't push up on his hands. He stays right where he is, pistoning into her, staying deep as he rails her, and when it's too much his mouth tears from hers with a ragged pant and fastens on her shoulder instead.
His desire builds so fast, so steeply, that he can barely keep ahold of himself. He holds her with his teeth like an animal, holds her with his arms like her mate. Fucks her with a groan riding the end of every thrust, escalating until he's moaning incoherently against her shoulder with every slide of his cock into her.
She knows him now. She knows the sounds he makes when he's on the edge; the way his body tenses over hers, and the way the thrusting of his hips gets a little more reckless, a little less precise. She knows the way he grabs at her back; the flexing in his back and his triceps; the pressure of his teeth.
She knows, even before he tells her, breathless --
"Já jdu přijet. Lásko, já jedu přijet."
[Danicka Musil] This isn't the first time Danicka has experienced almost total sensory overload. This isn't even the first time she's experienced it with Lukas. There's no drugs involved, nothing in her system telling her what color his groans are or convincing her that time has ceased to be and they have always been like this, just like this, melded together sweaty and hot and rolling on top of the bed.
But she is out of her mind well before he starts to fuck her again, and when Lukas shifts in her arms and between her legs and slides into her, one smooth, strong thrust of his hips, she arches her back and shudders, a little wildly, clutching at his shoulders suddenly. For all she knows, Lukas is still for that moment to give her a chance to find a touchstone, to anchor herself to reality, because right now she's not sure she can hold on if he doesn't give her a moment.
He has to know how sensitive she is. He has to know how tender he's made her from the dancefloor, the cab, the stairwell, the hallway. He has to know that after eating her pussy again and again and again she's pink and wet and trembling. He has to know that with all the tumbling and rolling and fucking they've done tonight she's a wreck, she's barely holding her limbs together. He has to know that he's made her come twice, and he has to know how wracked she can feel now that he's fucking her again,
and fucking her like this, with heavy, hard pounds of his body into hers.
Because he does not want to hurt her, because he knows how easy it would be for him to do so, Lukas tries to -- well, if not be careful -- be aware. He's listening to her and she's moaning, moaning in his ear, holding onto him for what seems like and may very well be her dear life. The way she cries out for him sounds like pleasure and she's not begging him to stop. She's not shrieking. She's gasping, and trying to not fall off the bed even when her hair does spill off the edge and her head tips back over it and then it's easier for his mouth to reach her breasts, her bared throat, which may very well be too much for him, too.
Because moments later, what could be minutes or seconds or the span of eons, he's locking his teeth into her and groaning on every sleek roll of motion from his shoulders to his hips to his cock inside of her, where she holds him and where it's
so fucking hot
and he's starting to lose himself. Lose control. He tells her, gaspingly, what she already knows.
Danicka takes his face in her hands and draws him up to her, kissing the half-moaned words out of his mouth, swallowing whatever noises, whatever cries he lets loose when some steeply tilting balance completely turns over inside of him and sends Lukas sliding headlong and entire into his own pleasure, into her, filling her, finally, making her his all over again.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] If he weren't so close, and if he hadn't been holding back for so very long, Lukas might've kissed her breasts when Danicka tipped her head back. He might've sucked at her nipples, let her tits bounce against his tongue.
But he is. So close. And he has been waiting so long. Not merely tonight, but all the weeks before that; all the time since that night they came out of Toy Story 3 and ran into a pack of hounds; a vhujunka disguised as a man.
No one could blame Danicka from keeping away from Lukas after that. No one would have blamed her for leaving altogether, for deciding that what she'd grown up knowing was right after all: that one of these days he's going to hurt her, he's going to kill her, not because he wants to but because he is what he is.
She didn't leave, though. She stayed. He could have said it then, too: I'm glad we didn't let go.
He doesn't let go, now. He holds onto her, his biceps iron-hard against her sides, his hands clutching at her back. He holds onto her with his teeth, pounds her with his cock; groans that he's close, that he's going to come, that he's coming --
and his mate takes his face in her hands. Pulls him up, pulls his mouth from her shoulder and
that's all it takes. His orgasm hits like a catastrophe, obliterating everything. He isn't aware of the sounds he's making, roared against her tongue and into her mouth. He isn't aware of the way he's fucking her in those last few strokes, slamming into her.
He's aware of this much, though: he can't hold all this. He has to let it out somewhere. Has to either bite her or grab hold of something, and her mouth is tender and her flesh is tender and so his hand leaves her body at the last instant; grabs a handful of the bedspread. His fingers dig in. He transfers all the tension he can there; transduces the rest into the drive of his body into hers,
and the shuddering rigidity that overtakes him at the first molten moment of orgasm,
and the involuntary, mindless nerve impulses that spike down his spine and leave him thrusting into her over and over as he rides his climax out into her body.
When it's over, the comforter gripped in his fist may as well be permanently wrinkled. He's still buried inside her, hot, pulsing now and then. His mouth is still on hers, and he's long since forgotten how to kiss her so he's just breathing now. His brow is wet. His back is wet, slippery atop flexing sheets of muscle.
Every breath is still a pant. When his mouth slips from hers at last -- when she lets his mouth slip from hers -- the gasps he pulls out of the air are huge and shuddering. He may as well have fallen apart. He may as well have spun himself into fragments, as sensitive as she was when he started fucking her like this; as fragile as shards of glass.
A low groan, and he lets himself relax against her. His weight on her is too much to bear for long, but he holds her like this anyway for a moment. Loosens his hand from the bedspread and wraps his arms around her again, holds her beneath him, rests against her
just for a moment.
[Danicka Musil] So it turns out they're not insatiable after all.
One might have thought them so, the way they've been tonight. One might have thought they wouldn't be able to make themselves stop. But now they're lying together turned around on the rumpled bed and twined around each other and for now, it seems, they're satisfied. Panting, trembling, but sated.
Something about the way he roared and moaned as hew came set her off again. Simple as that. While Lukas thrust madly into her, promising his orgasm to her in mindless groans, Danicka started riding him back. When she thought it was the last thing she could handle, her body suddenly lit back into awareness, arousal, need. And so she held him while she kissed him and kissed him while he came and lifted her hips and bucked and rubbed against him while they kissed, and came, and held on.
His orgasm hits him like a catastrophe, hers like a force of nature. It lifts her up to him in a wave, pressing her to him til it seems they have grown together like two oaks planted beside each other, trunks melded and branches tangled. There's no moment of rigidity for her this time, no aching point of involuntary, quivering stillness. Overwhelmed hypersensitivity becomes ferocious need becomes Danicka crying out under him all over again as pleasure rolls through her.
Oh, how she trembles. How she quivers, whimpering his name and whimpering to god as her pussy tightens on him, clenches around him, milking him for his cum with every surge of pleasure that moves through her.
She should leave him.
What she learned growing is true: Garou are lethal. They frenzy, and caught up in that there is no one safe from them but another Garou, and even that is not - as Lukas himself could and would readily attest - always certain. They are dangerous, mad creatures. They will, it seems inevitably, hurt all those close to them.
She should have left him a dozen times by now. Should have told him to leave her the hell alone that night in May last year, instead of going out to see him. She should have never even answered the phone, and if she did, should have told him: you walked away from me when I loved you. you don't get to have me. you don't get to need me anymore.
The reasons Danicka stays don't seem enough to offset what he is and what she knows, but they keep her:
she loves him. And he tries.
Need isn't part of that picture, though he spoke even at the start of necessity and even though sometimes she feels like she would fall apart if she did not have him. Very simply, and enough:
she loves him. And he tries.
Paltry, to any who could say obviously, he has to. But it matters to her, who knows that no law or stronger wolf demands he try to do anything but control her. She knows what he could be like, and she knows what he is, so the fact that he tries means everything to her.
He tries not to stifle or silence her. He tries to give her room and freedom to live and grow even when instinct and good sense tell him she'd be safer if he locked her away. He tries not to hurt her no matter what he's doing. He tries not to wound her even with attitudes, words, treatment. He tries, and sacrifices constantly in order to try and love her the way she should be loved. And he never asks himself if she deserves it. If she's worth it.
She would see it in his eyes, if he did.
She loves him, and knows beyond certainty how much he loves her, and so she stays.
Lukas is heavy atop her and her breasts heave with every panting breath she pulls in. Danicka is trembling as though cold or terrified when he knows she isn't either. But he has felt her shake like this before. After loving him. After realizing what he means to her, and what she is willing to do,
to give,
to be with him:
více.
všechno.
Her arms are wound close around him as he comes down. As they both do. She clings to him like a llife presever in a sea still surging from the passing storm. If she lets go she'll go into the cold, breathless dark.
Slowly, her breath comes back to her. It begins to ebb and flow gently once more.
"My love," she whispers, naming him, as though these are the first days and they are the first pair, female and male. "Můj lodní důstojník."
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] He remembers how she used to shake like this so often after they'd make love. They didn't call it that, though. They called it fucking, perhaps thought of it -- or tried to think of it -- as using one another for their own selfish purposes. A purging of desire. A necessary evil: something they would, if only they could, forsake.
He thought she must have some ulterior motive. Must be playing him for her own sick pleasure; a Shadow Lord kin playing her own games of power, bringing low a fullblooded Garou of the Tribe, turning him against his own.
She thought he hated her. She thought he would hurt her one day.
And then there was the way they made love. There was the way everything else burned to ash around them, all the pain and hurt and suspicion and instincts of defense; all the confusion and noise, until all that remained was a singular, unadulterated core:
what they meant to each other. What it's like, to love each other. Which was so unnameable, so untenable, that it made her shake. That it made him bite back the sounds he wanted to make, the things he wanted to say.
So it was, for so long. Less so now, though. He can't easily remember the last time he felt her tremble like this after they finished. He can't remember, but he can understand it, even if it's difficult for him to put words to it. It has something to do with how far they've taken each other tonight. How many times she's tumbled over the edge in the space of -- what? An hour?
The length of time it takes for particles to combine; for galaxies to form and spin apart. The length of time it takes for a single breath to be drawn. He has trouble grasping time right now, or any concept more abstract than the purely physical.
It has something to do with what happened three, four weeks ago, too. With what happened on the street. With the fact that she went home with him again that very night. With the fact that she's still here, when she should have left him a dozen times already,
but that's hard for him to think about.
He doesn't think about it. He doesn't think about very much at all. He holds her tighter, tries to cover her and keep her, tries to still her trembling with his warmth and his strength. Lukas clasps his mate against the wall of his body and holds on.
Danicka names him for what he is. He kisses her neck as though to accept, and to reciprocate.
A few more moments, then: their arms wrapped around each other, bodies aligned and close. The last time he fucked her to orgasm, he withdrew so soon she cried out. Before that, while she was shifting onto all fours, she slid herself off his cock and made him groan aloud.
This time they stay close. He stays deep inside her, and there's a profound, primitive sense of satisfaction in that, too. In simultaneously covering and penetrating her, there's some sense of the same primeval concepts she voices, and he echoes, as though they were the very first ones to have ever discovered or created them:
protection.
adoration.
mate.
His breathing is quiet now, deep, slowing. His heart, no longer a frantic hammering behind his breastbone. Some stability returns to his vital rhythms, and he shifts over her and against her; grinds himself gently into her; grinds the base of his cock against her clit as though even now, he couldn't resist --
well. Fucking her. Pleasuring her somehow.
His gasp is quiet in her ear when he moves inside her. His eyes are still shut, and his brow pulls for a second. When that ripple of pleasure fades, or at least becomes tolerable, he rolls to the side. He brings her with him, careful not to crush her limbs beneath him.
Some small distance between them, then: enough, when he opens his eyes, for him to see her. Close enough that their eyes are dark, shadowed by one another. He touches her face wordlessly, strokes her cheek and her mouth, her temple, her brow.
[Danicka Musil] To believe that Danicka misread him so completely after that first night, as she walked out of that first motel room -- which was not even as nice as this one, and this one is only 'decent' -- requires understanding that a single misunderstanding or misinterpretation can lead to months of confusion. Even years. It was not a lack of attentiveness on her part.
She watched him so closely, from the start. She read so deep below the surface. She thought he despised her and still she said I thought you were better when she was angry at him. She knew him from the start for what he is: ahroun. Shadow Lord. An alpha, though he wasn't the alpha of anything at the time. She knew what she was getting herself into when her desire for him wouldn't rest, and wouldn't go away, and drove her to one of the most reckless pursuits of her life.
Only not so reckless. Sometimes she was so careful. Sometimes she held back so much, letting the truth slip only when she either could not bear to hold it in any longer or when she thought she could risk it.
Risk, for example, calling their lovemaking for what it was when Lukas was still far, far from admitting to himself -- much less to her -- what was happening between them every time they came together. And she knew she had not pushed too far with those words because he did not deny it. And she knew he could not deny it because, already, she knew him to be that rarest of animals:
an honest man.
Danicka knew what he thought of her, even when she started to realize he didn't hate her, he didn't despise her and want her to suffer, not even close. She knew he believed for a long time that she was trying to destroy him and possibly his pack, or at very least that she could. That she might, to amuse herself or for whatever reason he thought she might have made up for herself. She knew he didn't trust her. She didn't think he ever would, and she -- at least at the start, and for a long time after -- care. She wanted him still. Anyway. No matter what.
Her desire itself was foolhardy. Mad. It went against everything she knew, everything she'd grown up with, every survival instinct she had. Her longing was reckless.
The way she went about pursuing it, however: careful. In more ways than she could or likely would readily explain to him, even the most bizarre acts were careful, for her. Revealing herself to him in a bloodied shower stall one night while she wore a dress that was ruined by it: half reckless, because wanting something like him to see through her enough to see that she was, at heart, a very odd little creature. And half careful, because she did it when he was mostly distracted, when there was a chance he might not see it and reject her for it, and when they were alone, so no one else would see it, either.
It would be a pale description to call it a dance. A game. Danicka was not hearing some song Lukas wasn't aware of, and she was never, ever, playing with him. Even before she knew what making love to him did to her, and would do to her, every time.
She isn't thinking right now. Nothing beyond the immediate. Nothing about the past or the future. Nothing but the way he finally holds himself up enough so that she can breathe even as he holds her tighter, as though she really were cold, though her skin is hot to the touch and she's veritably drenched in sweat. She whimpers when he moves in her, tries to open her mouth to plead with him to stop, stop, please stop, but the words don't form, and he survives his own wash of almost unbearable pleasure, he stills. Danicka's whimper gentles, and she breathes a little harder a few times, shuddering.
Danicka moves with him as he turns them on their sides, her head bowing and turning til she lays it on his chest and the rise of his chest. Her arms tuck in, close to her body and beneath his arms. No distance. He pulls his head back to look at her, but she curls against his chest still. One of her legs is tangled with his, though the other is hooked over his body. One of her feet tucks betwee his calves as though drawn there by nature now. She no longer waits for him to cover her. She no longer waits for him to offer the comfort she once would have rejected. She no longer takes care of herself, entirely, til invited to let him help. She seeks out his warmth easily, just as now she eats food off of his plate without it being nudged towards her first. What she has said to him so many times is true in reverse: she belongs here.
His hand grazes over her face, past her closed eyes and her parted lips, the curl of hair stuck to her temple with sweat. He took her so far tonight. She is in scattered pieces of herself still, and in the silence he gives her, and in the warm circle of safety and solitude he provides with his arms, she begins to gather those pieces to put them back together, unperturbed by the outside world and all of it's ancient, aching thoughts and all of her own darkened, sorrow-filled memories.
In time she knows her name again, and where she is. In time she remembers fragments of other nights in other motels, and the various ways he's held her after loving her, and the first time she felt comfortable letting him sleep at her back at all. In time, Danicka remembers the night on the street and the look in his eyes when he almost turned on her, to tear her flesh from her bones and shred her with his fangs.
She remembers a thought she had when she was much younger, snorting the first few lines of coke she ever had with people she barely knew and knowing it could very well kill her on the spot. She remembers thinking there were worse ways to die.
Danicka nuzzles her mate's chest and exhales. She's breathing normally again. She's stopped trembling, for a long time now. Or it feels like a long time. She relaxes by degrees until she seems almost boneless beside him, murmuring out of nowhere:
"Pojďme zůstaňme tady. Pojďme nehnul z místa."
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] What she says is a little silly, and it makes him laugh under his breath, low in his chest.
What she says also holds a core of deep truth that resonates with him. It's the same way he felt on their first summer's solstice together; the night she took him, and he took her, as mates long before it was made official and sacrosanct in the eyes of the Nation. That night, they took each other very, very far too. They stripped each other down past the flesh and the bones, past thoughts and abstractions to a primitive center of connection. And union.
He wanted to stay that night, too. That morning. He wanted to go into the woods with her and remain there. Walk away from everything else. The outside world. Its ancient, aching thoughts. Its darkness and its sorrow and its memory.
He understands. He understand what it is she means when she says she wants to stay here. He understands, or at least intuits, how it is she put herself back together again. Which parts she found first. Which parts she put together first. The stone egg she constructed for herself, and for him, out of what it is they have and share, before reexamining all the rest.
He understands, too, that that is the only true protection he can give her, and it's a shared protection; reciprocated. He understands that while he may be able to defend her at times from enemies that threaten her -- if he does not go too far, if he does not lose himself -- that sort of protection is unstable and dangerous; as much a curse as it is a blessing.
This, though: there's a purity in it. A sheltering. A home they construct for themselves, each out of the other. This is what she means when she asks for everything. When she says it doesn't matter where we are. When they think to themselves:
I could stay here forever.
So -- he laughs, but then he holds her a little closer, and he kisses her temple. It's not the sort of burning, gasping kiss he laid on her moments ago, making love to her. What underlies it is the same, though -- that same intimacy, that same connection, that same promise.
That he loves her. That for her, he would try.
"Pojďme zůstaňme tady," he echoes. And he wraps his arm more securely over her shoulder and across her back. He slides his thigh over her knee. Covers her like that, like they were preparing to go to sleep in some barren wilderness where the only warmth she would have is what he can impart to her.
"Zůstaňme vpravo tady."
[Danicka Musil] It is possible that without Lukas in her life, Danicka would have eventually decided to pick up a handgun and learn to use it, practice with it, and do some of the things she has done with the one he gave her. It is possible that if they had never meant anything to each other in adulthood she would have started to work on building up her physical strength, and lacing her spine with iron. It is possible she would have grown, day by day, month by month, into the woman she is, and continue growing into the woman she's becoming.
When you get right down to it, and look at life through a broader lense, twenty-six is still so very young, for her to feel so old already. There is no telling what she will become as the years roll on. It is unlike she will become hardened by this life. If she has not already become cold and withdrawn from people, it is hard to imagine her doing so later. Her future is unwritten, and she knows it,
and that, at least, she can say he alone brought her.
When everything in him wanted to seek out her brother and tearing him apart for laying hands on her after he had given her to Lukas -- as was his right, as was his instinct -- he took her to his hotel room instead. When he left her there alone, it was to find Vladislav and take from the Adren's hide his due for trespassing on the kinswoman who was now his in every way, name and deed and heart and law. For many reasons, he restrained himself, and he came back to her.
The very day and night that Lukas took Danicka for his own, he nearly lost her. She would have remained his mate, but the part of her he alone was allowed to touch would have been closed to him, possibly forever. He gave up the rights he had. He denied himself the satisfaction of bloodshed. He sacrificed what he did not have to, and then
she was really his, when he gave himself back to her.
Danicka would die for him. Kill for him. Has, in fact, taken past the edge of life into untenable darkness more than one creature that threatened him, or harmed him, or dared to put fucking silver against his flesh to hold him away from his nature. There's a vicious streak in her, savage and feral and unafraid, that is pure animal. And pure Shadow Lord. When Garou smell her breeding they smell her father's clan and its ages upon ages of fertility, warmth, and growing life from the ground under the watchful protection of the darker wolves of the nearby mountains.
But she looks like her mother's daughter. Lukas has explained this to at least one or two Garou when they scent her. She is the picture of Laura Dvorak, whose names themselves became poems and songs unto themselves. A hundred years from now people may not know that Night Warder and Breaks the Sky were the same wolf, will not realize that the Ahroun killed with silver lances lived in as recent an era as the nineties, nor that she was also an unquestioned Alpha of a longrunning, longlived pack.
Danicka is her father's daughter, made to work with her hands, give life with her body, touch the earth and know it, pray to Gaia and Grandfather Thunder during a storm or in times of bloodshed.
She is also her mother's child, shot through to the core with an indomitable strength Danicka herself does not even yet realize, or understand.
And this is the mate he chose, and the one who stays with him even though he may one day kill her. He did not, this time. It does not mean either of them fool themselves that it will never happen again. But next time she will run, because no strength or power or leadership or glory is worth what it would do to them if that were their end. This is worth shame. This is worth sacrifice. This is worth everything.
This:
Danicka is home. Not the den or an apartment or a bed or some imaginary house where she might one day raise one or two or three or five imaginary children to do their very very best to clean behind their ears and learn how to make pastry and not be too scared of their father, who loves them more than they will ever know. Not back in New York, not in her mother's house which became her brother's though he doesn't live there anymore. Not with her father, watching his mind waste away after a long, agonizing life.
She is home when he holds her like this. She is home when they sit together on a cushioned bench and he drunkenly noms on her shoulder, affectionate and unfettered. She is home when he sits at the opposite end of the couch, flipping through channels on her oversized television set while his free hand rests on top of her ankles, while she sits sideways and reads her book and warms the soles of her feet against the side of his leg, neither of them talking, just existing together.
Danicka does not say anything else. She sighs softly, contentedly, and it's a sound not any less silly or even childlike than what she asked for just a moment ago. She snuggles closer, and yes, eventually Lukas will slide out of her body and kiss her shoulder or her brow to let her know he's not going anywhere when she makes some small noise of protest, as though he would leave her now. They will sleep on top of the covers, too lazy and sore and worn out to do anything but wrap themselves up in the bedspread like a burrito.
They'll sleep like this, face to face, intertwined, with her head resting on his chest, her dreams walking to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
In the morning they will eat cold cereal or hot oatmeal and toast with cheap coffee and a couple of pieces of fruit from the free continental breakfast downstairs. They will be wearing last night's clubbing gear, rumpled and illsuited to morning. They aren't ready for morning anyway, but it's time to check out, and Danicka nudges him awake and takes him downstairs and peels an orange to share with him.
They catch a cab to the club, which looks... wrong, somehow, and awkward, in the daylight, and is reminiscent in a way of a hangover in architectural form. His car is unmolested, which is lucky. Danicka is loose and comfortable in the passenger seat as he drives her home, her heels kicked off onto the floorboards. She toys with his stubble at a stoplight til he snaps playfully at her fingers, which makes her laugh just as the light turns green.
When they get to Kingsbury Plaza, it seems the time he would normally drop her off. Leave. Go back to the Brotherhood or the Loft. But this time... he doesn't. He follows her inside and showers with her, holding her under the streaming water for a long time before they finally stir enough to get out and dry off. Lukas shaves in her mirror, which he loves to do if only because then he can put his things away in the medicine cabinet next to her things. Once upon a time she'd cleared a shelf out just for him but now their items are mingling, all mixed up together.
And that's nice, too.
He has clothes here, clean ones, but he doesn't put them on. The coffee has already worn off, and Danicka is finished drying her hair and he's wiping the last of the lather off his face, rinsing his razor, and she's taking him by the hand, taking him to her bed, which is made for once.
This time they sleep under the covers, the day turning to afternoon while they doze the hours away. When he leaves -- it's his turn to patrol now, or his packmate has called him for something -- the sky is turning dark and Danicka is murmuring softly, meaninglessly, to answer his whispered explanation, whatever it is. She turns towards his body when he kisses her shoulder, her arm, her cheek, her mouth, and only barely opens her sleepy eyes for a moment to smile at him.
"Oukej," she says, warm and mild.
Lukas dresses quietly to leave, but Danicka doesn't really go back to sleep. She lazes in bed, watching him, touching his lower back gently while he sits on the edge of the bed to put on his socks and shoes. She hums one of those old lullabyes he's heard her singing before, but it doesn't sound like a sad one this time.
He kisses her again, before he goes.
Miluji tě, they say to each other, though they both know.
celebration.
9 years ago