if you want me, take me.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Sometimes there's so little space, so little time that all the humor they can give up is breathy and vague. Other times -- Lukas on the den computer, Danicka on her laptop, Lukas convincing Danicka to cast Slow Fall on him only to have it run out twenty seconds later to send him plummeting to his doom -- other times, they laugh for minutes on end, until their sides ache

the way it used to make her ache to see him laughing with his pack, knowing he willfully excluded her from that. The way it used to make him ache to see her cover her mouth against a sudden laugh, instinctively afraid of repercussion.

This isn't the time for that sort of hilarity, though. He laughs, but it's short as a breath, and then she's kissing him again and he's mmghing against her mouth. She pulls his hands to her ass as though to show him here, like this and he's quick to push his hands under the waist of her jeans. Or slacks. When he gets up, he carries her with him, her legs folding around him like instinct.

To be honest, Lukas would never have suggested fucking here, in this room. Not where the Tribe gathered. Not where annoying kin and creepy Garou interacted. Not here but in the bedroom, pristine, private -- he was always like that, and always tended toward that sort of thing. It doesn't surprise him at all, though, that Danicka -- deviant, sometimes subversive Danicka who snaps at fat cows in elevators to mind their own business, who would ask him to wear a tie to a white wedding only if she intended to fuck him on the balcony during the ceremony -- doesn't give a damn.

And he finds that he suddenly doesn't give a damn either. He's still kissing her -- hungrier by the moment, his hands squeezing and massaging her ass under her denims, under her panties, his mouth on her mouth, on her throat, on her shoulder as he sets her against a wall

and finally pulls his hands out of her pants to push her sweater, and her camisole, up and off.

"I sort of want to fuck you with my clothes on," he pants -- some distance necessarily put between because he needed to pull her tops off over her head; his eyes glinting across that distance. "I want you to make me a disheveled mess."

[Danicka Musil] Those jeans of hers are tight, barely more than leggings, barely even denim. His hands push into the waistband but don't get very far; he can feel the topmost lace edge of her panties but nothing more, til if he keeps pushing his hands in he'll rip something. She knows very well he wouldn't have considered fucking in here, turning her over on the couch and pressing his chest to her back, feeling her winding under him as she held on to the back cushions. She knows why, too. She knows this is where he met, businesslike, with the tirbe. She knows this is where he told Simon to kill Neda, and argued with Carter.

More than all that, though, she knows how stark the divisions are in his mind when it comes to places. He came to this room initially not even sure if she'd be coming tonight. This was not den, this was not place to bring mate, safe, warm, good place for mate. She knows him. She understands, better than he can possibly give her credit for, how his mind works when thought is instinctive more than conscious.

She's glad, though, that he doesn't care so much about those divisions, the mindset he had when he came into this room, to resist her and carry her to the bedroom anyway, lay her down in the sumptuous softness of the king-sized bed and insist on fucking her there because he can't think of fucking her anywhere else.

Danicka grins, but it doesn't last. She tips her head towards him as he rises, as her legs wrap around him, holding onto him with her arms around his neck and shoulders. She kisses him, moves her head to the side to expose her neck to his mouth, grinds against him as he puts her to the wall. Gently, where on some other night, in some other mood, he might slam her against it enough to shudder the paintings hanging on the wall. She lifts her arms and he takes off her sweater and her camisole and it's still winter as far as Chicago is concerned, she's wearing a mauve bra in transparent chantilly lace, the cups and straps all of an unbroken piece.

She laughs at what he says. "I know, baby," she says, as though she did. Which is entirely possible. Her hands go into his hair. Her nipples, hardened, stroke his shirt through the lace she wears over them. "I know how you like it," she mutters, and kisses him again, reaching between their bodies to unfasten her leggings. He might have to put her down to get them off, help her peel them and tug them off her legs. She wouldn't be surprised if he can't wait, though. If he pushes them down just far enough to bare her and turns her around, fucks her from behind.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] It's still winter in Chicago. It'll still be winter for a good while yet. So when Lukas pulls Danicka's sweater off, and her camisole -- all in one piece, inside-out now and nested -- he wraps his warm hands behind her, puts them between her back and the wall.

Cups her to him, lowering his mouth to her the way she knew he would. He kisses her breasts, sucks at her through the cups of her bra -- and when that's not enough, tugs and bite and noses them aside to get at her flesh. She wouldn't be surprised if he couldn't wait. She wouldn't be surprised if he just set her down and turned her around and fucked her, and

she can't be blamed for thinking that. Not with the way he's sucking on her nipples now, muffling low, hungry sounds against her like if he had his way he'd just do this all day, every day, and fuck the world outside.

Lukas doesn't, though. He doesn't plunk his mate down, whip her around, bend her against the wall and whip her pants down. He -- well. Does something that only their familiarity with each other, their trust, their playfulness that they never used to show before, allows. When he gets his mouth off her tits he leans up to kiss her again, hard and quick, laughs against her mouth. Then Lukas simply lifts her up, throws her over his shoulder, sack-of-potato-like; pulls her pants down like that. Down, down, all the way down, and if they rip they rip; if they pull her shoes off with them, then that's fine too. When she's all but bared, all bare but for the chantilly lace lingerie she's wearing -- this, to a tribal meet and greet -- he groans, runs his hands all over her legs, her back, her ass. The twist of his head is quick, almost ferocious. He bites a kiss against her hip, her thigh, swats her bottom as she lies over his shoulder.

"You're so fucking hot," he mutters. "I love this hot little body of yours. I can't wait to get my cock inside your hot little cunt."

And he lets her slide down again, drops her back into his arms in a fast, smooth slip, sets her back against the wall. There's a smile breaking across his face as he finds her eyes again; it doesn't fade as she settles against him again, as he grinds against her through his slacks. It doesn't fade, but his eyes darken, intensify. His hands are still on her hips. He leans into her, bearing her against the wall, kissing her. Slower now; deep; the back of his hand brushing against her panties, against her pussy, as he unzips his fly, undoes his belt.

[Danicka Musil] The taste of Danicka through chantilly lace is, somehow, different than the taste of Danicka's nipple bouncing faintly in his mouth every time his tongue laps at it. Lukas can feel it hardening, a little more every time he licks her, til it's a tight little nub of flesh that tastes as light and sweet and faintly salty as the rest of her. It's been awhile since they've had a morning to wake, lazing in bed, Lukas sucking at her breasts as the morning sun fills her room with hazy white-gold light.

It's been awhile since they've fucked, period -- Lukas with tribal issues as always, but Danicka's been busier than ever. Her even getting here tonight was lucky; next week is finals, and Lukas has been with her since she first started to attend college. He knows the drill. It isn't even worth looking for her at the den when he wants to come to her at night, because she'll be at her apartment. She'll be in bed, already deep asleep unless he manages to get there before ten or eleven at night. Danicka works hard every quarter; Danicka approaches finals week, however, the way that Lukas approaches any battle he has time to plan for.

Granted, there might be that night of such stress that she wants him to get on top of her and just fuck her, hard and athletic and rough, as though the intensity of it helps relieve her stress. And when finals week is over, Danicka wanting to see him, wanting to have a night when she can just be with him, go out to dinner if possible, stay in and watch a movie, anything to luxuriate in the amount of time when she isn't plotting the destruction of the Continuous Time-Linear Systems exam. Make love when she's not tired, when she's not thinking of needing to get enough sleep before her eight a.m. exam, when she's not doing all the things she does that lead to what is, so far, a near-perfect GPA.

That's next week, though. And tonight she wore transparent lace lingerie to a tribal meeting in a dark but not black color that cuts across her fair skin and there's barely any cups to speak of, just triangles of fabric over her small, soft breasts and then they're not there either, just her tit in his mouth and Danicka moaning, squirming between his body and the wall until he whips her over his shoulder and yanks her leggings down. It's ridiculous, and makes her laugh breathlessly as she's bent over him. He has to find the zippers on her ankle boots -- thank god they weren't buckles -- in order to get those off. Has to hold her on him, against his chest and shoulder, while she wiggles a little, while he yanks at her tighttight jeans without bothering to unfasten them

except she yelps at that, says Baby! in a half-chastising tone, to which

he snarls and yanks open button and zipper and pulls those jeans down, and it's fine and they're unripped til it gets to her ankles, and there's a reason there were zippers up the sides of the legs, too. That's when they rip, and that's when Danicka laughs again, lines of lace cutting across the cheeks, not far from his face. The laugh shudders apart in her chest as he runs his hands over her, strokes her calves and thighs and ass but doesn't touch her pussy. She holds onto his back, fingers tugging at his pullover, his uniform.

When he lets her down again, she drops into his arms once more and then gets pushed to the wall again, lust-glazed eyes finding his. Her hands rode up his back and moved over his shoulders, touch his chest now. "Baby," she mutters, leaning forward to press against him, pull him against her, rub herself against the ridges of his abdomen through his clothes. Her single bared nipple catches on the soft fabric, and she gasps, riding up against him a little harder, a little faster. "Oh, fuck, baby," she says, a little lower, panting as he starts to undo his pants. "Are you going to give it to me now?" she wants to know, kissing him in firm presses of their mouths in between her soft, slurred words. "Are you going to put that big, brutal cock inside your dirty girl and give it to me?"

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] It's quite possible that the first time finals rolled around, Lukas -- with no real firsthand experience of college finals, and no real secondhand experience either considering he was already at Stark Falls when Anezka went off to Yale, and then all the way off to LA -- was rather concerned. Suddenly his mate wasn't coming out of her study. Suddenly she wasn't eating much, was sleeping regular as clockwork, was ignoring her tv and her blurays and her internet and, well, everything else except for her books.

Somewhere around that time -- or maybe it was second quarter -- he suggested that maybe she not take on such a heavy courseload. Her answer ensured that he'll never suggest submission to a Shadow Lord again.

And -- since then he's gotten used to this phenomenon. He doesn't know her academic calendar, but he doesn't need to. He knows when finals are because she retreats into her study/laboratory, comes out only to eat and sleep and feed the cat. He knows, also, because when he pays attention he sees the others like her, the students with their calculators and glasses and laptops and earbud headphones furiously cramming in libraries and cafes citywide.

Sometimes Lukas feels a pang of wistfulness. Or maybe envy. That could have been him, if.

Mostly, though, it's a sort of faint amusement. And when he goes home to her, he doesn't bother to look for her at the den. He doesn't expect much in the way of conversation or, for that matter, conjugal relations. Sometimes he gets there early enough to make them both some tea; will lie on the floor of her study and read a book, listening to her turn pages and type and scribble and occasionally make little growls of frustration, little hm!s of epiphany. Most times when he goes home to her, he lets himself into her apartment, undresses in the dark, crawls in behind her and wraps himself around her. And sometime in the morning when he wakes she'll already be gone, back in her study or at school, spilling out the fruits of her labors into some brilliant solution or essay or something, striking one more thing off the list.


But that's next week. And they're not there yet, and she's here -- late to the meeting, but right on time to make the most of this suite because she's right, it's been a long time since they've fucked in a hotel room or fucked, period, and -- she's laughing as he throws her over his shoulder to try to yank her jeans off. Only they won't come off and there are so many goddamn zippers and buttons and --

" -- what the fuck kind of jeans are these anyway?" he mutters when he's managed to get them down to her ankles but for fuck's sake they're stuck again, how does that even happen? -- and then they rip. "Sorry," low, and he doesn't sound sorry at all, he's running his hands all over her and her fingers are pulling at his thin finewoven sweater, the uniform he wears when he's pretending to be civilized.

Down she comes again. They're both gasping now, panting as he wrestles with his own clothes. She's egging him on -- there's no other word for it -- driving him crazy when she knows he's going to do exactly what she says, when she knows he'll do it just as soon as he gets

these fucking pants

open.

And then they are. It's possible a button skips off somewhere; he doesn't know. His belt buckle clinks against his thigh. He frees his cock from his boxer briefs and he wants to look down to see what he's doing but she won't stop kissing him, those firm, insistent little plants of her mouth against his, her eyes open, her voice so sultry-soft, a tease that she damn well knows his mind can barely handle right now.

"Yeah," is all he manages, that and a groan when he pulls aside her panties and presses himself against her. "Yeah, that's what I'm going to do. Up a little, baby, get on this cock."

[Danicka Musil] The first time Danicka faced finals week, Lukas damn sure knew about it, and he was damn sure concerned. None of her classes were very hard, but his lover's academic stress kept him from his renovations of the den he'd just hunted down and bought. She worried about failing right as she'd begun. She worried about oversleeping. She'd wake up in the middle of the night.

He, rather wisely, waited til it was over and her tests were done before he told her the address of their new home, and brought her out one chilly Saturday to see it.

Winter quarter was much calmer. By her first spring quarter, Danicka wasn't quite so panicked. Sophomore year, however, has proved that much more challenging, and... and so it goes, really. With four finals weeks behind her and her fifth coming up, Lukas knows that Danicka needs time and space and quiet to study and write and recover from studying and writing. He knows his mate isn't sick, that she isn't falling apart, that she isn't going crazy and there's nothing he has to save her from.

He wraps himself around her at night, kisses the back of her neck. Stays nearby, just ...to be nearby. She doesn't say it much, but she's grateful. She's grateful for the life she has, and how much of it has nothing to do with the Nation at all, what kind of identity she's found and created beyond what she was raised to believe she would ever be permitted.

She always knew she was capable.


What she said earlier is the truth -- Danicka knows just how he likes it. She hasn't adjusted her bra because she's seen how little effort he puts into taking her lingerie off when he wants to fuck her. She's seen the way he looks at her after he's had her once already and her bra and panties are yanked aside, when she's a mess, and his eyes glint with mixtures of satisfaction and ego and, most of all, fervently renewed hunger.

It's not the first time he's had to rip ultra-skinny jeans off of her. The W Times Square comes to mind. She fully intended to fuck him tonight, and laughs while he's trying to just get her clothes off. She would have snuck him into the bathroom or taken him down to his car -- the back seat's bigger -- to fuck him if the tribe's members had decided to stay and get drunk and pass out here. Danicka is nothing, sometimes, if not determined to get what she wants.

Her hands go up under his shirt while he's fighting with his slacks. She watches him, kissing him slower, deeper, pulling his soul into her mouth as she caresses his chest, mmms into his mouth at the feel of his body. "You're so hard," she whispers, and she's not talking, this time, about his cock. "So fucking hot."

Kissing him again, she licks him, tastes his tongue. When she feels his fingers slide against her skin, hooking beneath the lace to tug it aside, she gasps, stealing his breath. When she feels his cock stroke over her pussy, that warm erection finally held against her rather than hidden behind clothes, she moans. Danicka's back arches, her hips riding up, lifting herself up just like he told her to, just like she's some obedient little kinswoman who does as she's told.

Only: "Take off your shirt," she mutters, her fingertips stroking his nipples, her pussy momentarily, just barely, out of his reach. "Take off your shirt and I'll be a good girl and fuck you."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] A gasp explodes out of Lukas. "Oh you fucking bitch," he breathes, nevermind that five minutes ago he was aching, aching because some irrational animal part of him thought maybe she really thought he thought she was a slut, and he doesn't, he doesn't, he never did --

nevermind all that, all that's on his mind right now is that the wet hotness of her is so very close, all it'd take is her wrapping her legs a little tighter around him and sliding down on him, taking him in, but no, she's telling him

to take off his shirt.

So he curses, and he's not really cursing her; there's as much anticipation and enjoyment and excitement in his eyes now as ever. He takes his hands off her, trusting the wall and the clasp of her thighs to hold her up while he reaches back, grabs the back of his sweater and yanks it up over his head. His undershirt comes with it and, like hers, ends up inside-out and nested on the ground, dropped. The thick plates of muscle on his chest, his shoulders, bunch and rotate as his arms come back down. He puts his hands on her waist and kisses her so hard he presses her back against the wall, one palm sliding up to tug the other cup of her bra aside, too.

And. Yes. He loves fucking her like his sometimes. He loves it sometimes when it's hurried, and raw, just him crowding her up against the wall and yanking her clothes aside and burying his cock inside her. Like a half-civilized thing. Like a wild, wanton thing, drapes open, lights on, room still smelling dimly of half a dozen tribesmen who all think he's so respectable, so reserved, so honorable, so rhya.

"Are you gonna let me fuck you now?" he pants -- when he can bring himself to stop kissing her. His lips feel raw from the ferocity of those kisses. His hand is heavy on her breast, squeezing gently, tugging at her nipple, flicking that erect little bead of flesh between his fingers, rolling it against the flat palm of his hand. "Are you gonna let me fill you up with cock, baby?"

[Danicka Musil] All he wants is to be inside her, now. From sitting on the couch talking about kinfolk and tribesmen and their ever-evolving relationship to this, Danicka asking him to fuck her up against the wall, Lukas wanting to keep her lingerie and his clothes on so they can be messy, Danicka teasing him, Lukas losing his goddamned mind.

He tugs off his shirt and she laughs quietly, squirming against the wall almost like she wants to fall, like she wants to make it harder for him to focus on getting his sweater off, make him grab at her to keep her up, take that much longer to fuck her. Or maybe she just can't stop herself, is running her hands wantonly over him while he's half-undressing just because she wants to look at him. Wants to be able to lick him, and bite him, and touch him without all that mean fabric in the way,

Danicka moans when he pushes her back against the wall with that kiss, lifting her arms up above her head and arching, then wrapping her arms around him to hold onto him, to kiss him that much more deeply. He plays with her breasts, his hands as eager as the rest of him, as unabashed, as shameless as she is to want this, want it like this, want it this badly.

Her head is tipped back as he talks to her, fondles her tits like he has a right to her body, jolts of pleasure going through her, straight to her clit. She shudders and drops her chin again, opens her eyes to watch him, her breathing elevated. "I don't know," she purrs, stroking herself against his abdomen, leaving traceries of wetness past the lace, onto his flesh. "Maybe."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] The way her arms lift against the wall as though gravity had inverted, as though she were falling, sends a bolt of lust through Lukas. It reminds him of the night in his room, on his bed, when he drew her hands behind her back and made her so hot she trembled.

He kisses her with the fire of that memory now, burning it into her. He fondles her tits and she defers the decision, gives him a purring little maybe, makes him snarl at her like an animal as he lifts her breasts to his mouth and sucks on her nipples,

sucks on her as his hands run up her arms to push her hands back up against the wall.

Oh, they're a shameless pair right now -- the male pinning the female to the wall, a sort of half-playful dominance that carries a real edge of want. There's some coy little game at hand here, something she never used to do with him out of fear -- though not of him. Out of fear that he wouldn't understand. Out of fear that he would think she was just playing with him, just toying with his heart, which for all its courage and loyalty and generosity was still such a fragile, untried thing.

They're past that. She draws out the chase. She won't let him inside her body, so he pins her to the wall, his hands on hers, her body stretched out, his abdomen flexing and grinding against her hot cunt.

"You should let me fuck you," he murmurs when her breast slides out of his mouth. Her nipple is hot and wet, slick from his mouth. His eyes watch hers, pupils blown, blue intense. He flicks her nipple with the tip of his tongue. Circles it. Draws it back into his mouth, slowly, slow.

"You should let me," it's muffled by her breast, these words, muffled because he has her nipple so delicately between his teeth, which flash and gleam as he mutters to her, "slide this big cock into you and give that tight little pussy a good hard railing."

Another pause. His eyes close. For the space of a few seconds, he sucks at her like there's nothing else for him. Then open again:

"I'll let you watch me jerk off for you like a good boy," he says, so low, barely heard, "if you let me rail this tight cunt like a good girl."

[Danicka Musil] The truth is, these games she plays, staying just close enough to lure him along, were something she never did because, yes

she was afraid of him, once. Sure, the fear of how he might think of her, how he might feel was part of it, but early on, the thought of letting him hold her down was petrifying, turning lust into a sudden chill, a bolt of terror. She didn't know him. She wanted him, and she wanted him beyond reason, but if he'd tried in those first months to grab her wrists and pin her to the bed while he fucked her, Danicka might have gone limp and still, trying to be as submissive as possible just so he wouldn't hurt her.

Danicka didn't know him, then. And there was a time when he was afraid that if he did more than gasp as he made love to her, if he let her see how much he wanted her, how close it was to need, then she would shatter him. He didn't know her, then. Not at all. Not like he does now.

The whole time he's playing with her, suckling at her, Danicka's making those soft panting noises still. She shivers as he draws her arms up again, pins her to the wall. It makes her eyes open, dark and green and gleaming. He tells her she should let him fuck her, and she gives a soft, truncated laugh. It dies as he flicks her nipple, sucks on her again, makes her groan. Talks to her like he does, devotes himself to her breast as though in worship, promises her that if she lets him nail her to the wall then she can watch him stroke himself off

and he knows how much she likes that. How impossible it is for her to keep her hands off of herself -- off of him, eventually -- when she watches him play with his cock for her.

Danicka moans at the idea of it, arching a little harder against the wall, her wrists writhing under his hands. She finds his eyes, her breasts moving as she pants for air. "Baby," she gasps to him, "how much more do I have to tease you before you take what you want?"

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] A panting laugh escapes him then. He gives her nipple one last hard suck and then lifts his face to hers, kissing her mouth, tasting her kiss.

His hands drop to her hips, then. He holds her, steadies her, takes his cock in hand and pulls her panties aside. His head bows for a moment: dark hair tousled from their teasing play, from her fingers moving through -- longish, starting to wave and curl; needs a haircut soon. She can see the musculature in his upper chest, his shoulders, flex and tense from sensation as much as her weight. He slides the head of his cock against her cunt; they slide together smooth as silk. She's so fucking wet, and he groans this in a rush, this discovery that he shares with her like she doesn't know it.

oh god you're so fucking wet. oh god that tight little cunt's so wet.

He lifts his head again when his cock is against her cunt. He kisses her mouth, eats the gasp or the whimper or the moan out of her mouth, gives her his groaning instead, as he slides into her. Take what you want, she said, like an invitation or maybe a challenge: that's what he does. There's nothing slow about the way he enters her, nothing hesitant. Smooth and fast, penetrating deep, holding her by the hips, steadying her, stilling her.

"Fuck, that sweet pussy," he gasps against her mouth. And then he hooks his forearms under her knees the way he does sometimes when he has her against a wall, when he's just going to fuck her; presses his chest to hers, his shoulders to hers, kisses her over and over as he starts pounding her against the wall.

Muttering against her mouth as he hammers into her, brings himself into her with all the momentum of his lower back, his hips, his thighs. Muttering about how tight she is, how wet, yeah that's good, clench on it just like that, feel that cock; god he can feel her wetness sliding over him, such a fucking mess,

you're so fucking beautiful,

put your hands on my back, put your hands on my ass, ride this cock, give it to me.

[Danicka Musil] If you want me, take me, is essentially what she says. When what she means, too, is that she wants him to stop waiting for her, stop waiting for her to let him do this, and fuck her. That she wants it the way he does, too, hard and hurried and hot against the wall. He lets go of her arms, and she instantly wraps them back around him, holds onto him and kisses him as he gives her his cock, stealing the words about how wet she is right out of his mouth.

"Oh, that fucking cock," she mutters, gasping against his cheek as he rubs it on her, as she thinks about how maybe later he'll take her into the bedroom and stroke it for her

or standing the glass-walled shower and let her watch him. Make her wait for it.

Danicka groans, nails digging into his back as he finally pushes into her, steady and swift and filling her up, stretching her out in a way he hasn't in days and won't again for some time just because she'll be too busy and too worn out and too stressed to be able to enjoy him. It's entirely possible that the way she starts to fuck him now, riding up on him even before he tells her to, is because she knows finals week is around the corner, because she wants this last hard fuck to stay with her, to give her something to survive the coming work.

Or maybe it's just this: the sight of Lukas's half-naked body, dark by nature and rock-hard by the nurturing of war, makes her wet. The searing heat of his skin, the way he leaves her breasts wet and her nipples hard because he can't get enough of her body, makes her want to fuck. And fuck like this, Lukas immediately starting to pound her, pumping away at her cunt with soft grunts, pressing her into the wall and going at her with those fast, firm thrusts of his hips. This is what she wanted, what she teased him into, and she makes a sound of almost pained relief when he gives it to her. Finally.

And all the while he's muttering to her, telling her -- showing her -- how much he enjoys her, how hot and wet and sweet and good that pussy is on him,

oh, fuck, do that again, baby

yeah!

which is almost a roar, fucking her harder, faster now as she squirms down on him, clenches on him as her hips circle his, sending signals up to his brain that he's going to die, he's going to lose his mind, and it's worth it. So worth it, if this is how he dies.

Danicka seems to agree. He hits her just right, makes her wail, and it only makes Lukas fuck at her harder, lifting his head to watch her, telling her she likes it, doesn't she, that's just what she likes, that's why she's so wet, isn't it

and it is.


God only knows how long it is. Thirty minutes, three minutes. But they're sweating, and Danicka's lingerie is tugged aside and yanked down and he's watching her tits just to see them bounce in response to his thrusts, and there are red stripes down his back from where her hands have grabbed at him, where her nails have caught him, where the hot streaks of light pain have made him swear and slam her against the wall, baring his teeth in pleasure.

There's no warning when she comes, nothing but her legs suddenly tighter around him, her hand on the back of his head grabbing him, kissing him hard, her body all but lifting from the wall to get herself on him more. He leans back, holds her on his body, on his chest, goes ahead and keeps on fucking her right through that wild, hot orgasm of hers, wetness running down his cock as she tears her mouth off of his and puts it on his shoulder instead, stifling her moans in those hard muscles she loves with unabashed enjoyment.

Danicka is still in the midst of it, writhing on him and whimpering, asking him

"Are you gonna come in me, baby?" she wants to know, finding his eyes with her own pleasure-glazed ones, her body quivering as she rides out her orgasm on him. "Are you gonna fill me up now and make me a dirty, messy --"

she never finishes that, moaning as some switch gets flicked again in her and another wave washes through her, making her moan, making her kiss him instead of talking, sweat literally running down her body now.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] There are women who would be frightened if their lover -- not even a werewolf, not even an Ahroun, but just a lover -- came at them like this. Held them against the wall like this, caught and writhing and opened for the fucking. Fucked them like this, slamming into them, face to face, snarling at them to take it, take it like a good girl, take that big cock you love so much.

And there are men who would be put off by this level of uninhibited sexuality. The way their lover wails. The way she writhes. The way she reaches back and claims at the wall, fingernails slipping on the smooth finish before coming down to rake up their back.

But they're not anyone else. They're not -- bluntly put -- mundane. Normal. Boring. Afraid. They met in a goddamn club where she was busy corrupting Miss Gabriella Bellamonte, or was until he sat down with them and

god, that pull was so strong even then, so strong that he hated her for it. Or tried to.

They got to know each other in a sort of war, fighting against each other ever as they pulled closer. The first time they fucked, it was raw and naked and stark and bare, and he almost lost it. Several times when they fucked, he's tied her down, or she's shackled him down. More often than he can count, she's scratched welts into his back. Once or twice, she's sliced his back open with her stiletto heels

and he still gets hard thinking about the way she stood over him in the Manhattan W, grinding her cunt against his willing mouth.

So, no. It doesn't frighten them to fuck like this. Hard, athletic, a little rough. Chasing down pleasure like prey in the snow. Teasing each other until they explode into this sort of snarling, filthymouthed passion. Going at each other until she marks his back, and he slams her against the wall, and she comes around him with no warning, no forethought, and he

fucks her right through it the way she knew he would, hammering her, pounding that tight, clenching, shuddering cunt of hers until she's wailing against his shoulder, gasping against his neck.

Writhing. Whimpering. He's laughing then, softly, and god --

he loves her so much; she can hear it.

"I'm gonna come in you." It sounds like a promise: the way other men say I'll love you forever, tripe like that. They don't always mean it. Lukas has never said it, but he doesn't need to; she knows it's true. This life. The next. The homelands; the spirit cubs -- all of that. Dim phantoms in the corners of his mind right now. What matters is:

"I'm going to fill that sweet little cunt up." He's muttering this, she can feel the smile against her mouth, he's kissing her between the words, quick and light, deep and hard now and then, muttering his words right over hers -- a senseless, erotic discord. "I'm going to fuck you full of cum. I'm going to fuck it into you, baby, make you a sticky, filthy, good little -- "

that's when she kisses him. That's when he groans into her mouth, and when his hands grab at her ass; when he slams her to the wall and pins her there with his hot body, the hard, heavy weight of his body. Fuck, he grunts against her mouth, or maybe that's what he says, hard to tell when it's muffled like that, oh fuck, yes, fuck, oh god --

slamming her on every other word, pounding her into the wall, bucking his hips into her and grinding into her like he wants to make her come again,

or maybe just wants to let her feel it, feel it with him, be there with him when he comes into her, hammers it into her, crushes her to the wall and fucks every last brainnumbing sear of pleasure into her.

Afterward he's just leaning into her, holding her against his body. His mouth leaves hers, drops to her shoulder. His eyes are closed now. He pants for breath, gasps it out of the air. His cock jumps in her and he moans. He whispers something. It's not until he repeats it that she can hear him:

"...so incredible."

His hand shift her on him. He groans again, a stripped-bare sound - ah! - bites a kiss against her shoulder.

Barely ten seconds of recovery before he lifts his head and nips at her ear. Whispers, "I want to stroke my cock for you. I want to come for you again while you watch me. And then I want you to lick me clean and get my cock all hot and hard again so you can ride me until my mind melts."

She can feel him grinning again, smiling against her neck.

"Okay, baby?"

[Danicka Musil] There are women who would be frightened. Danicka isn't. She's chained him down once and he's tied her down twice and they fuck like this at the wall and he bends her over the bed like he did on their honeymoon, bites down into her shoulder while he goes at her like, frankly, a goddamn animal scenting his mate in heat. She likes it. She licks him, comes on him and has scarcely survived one orgasm when another is riding through her and she's moaning helplessly into him, bouncing herself on his cock until he slams her to the wall and fucks her until he comes, too.

Comes hard, feeling her lost in pleasure all around him as he loses himself, too, overwhelmed. Her mind goes molten gold, goes white-hot and explosive, and she marks him in her passion. He's gonna love her forever. And she's going to be there in the homelands with him, and in the next life maybe he'll find her again, if there's some way he could mark her that would last beyond death.

Danicka screams for him as he pounds her, nails her in that last battery of hard thrusts. Sweat's rolling off of them, he's pulsing in her and she's grinding gently on him, dragging those last aching moans and chords of pleasure out of his body for herself. Gasping, finally, going limp in his arms because she can't move of her own accord anymore. Danicka's flopped onto his shoulder, her breasts moving on his chest as she breathes, or tries to breathe. Her eyes are closed. She can't handle visual input anymore.

Ten seconds, and he wants to jerk off for her, he wants her to lick him, he wants her to ride him, he wants

Danicka laughs at him, gasping. "Oh god. Baby, you can't do this to me. I can't think. I'm not even on this planet right now." Panting, she holds onto him, just... holds him. "Give me a minute," she murmurs, resting her head on his shoulder as though she would sleep there. "Just stay inside me for a little while. Stay here."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] And to that, Lukas laughs. It's in his chest, vibrating against hers. It's in his throat, heard beside where her head rests on his broad shoulder. It's in the air beside her ear, breathed out into that warmed space, this borrowed space, this rented room.

There's still food on the table. There's still a city outside, laid out like diamonds. He remembers making love to her in her living room. The rain. The colors of the city bouncing off her body; those pert little breasts, that sleek torso. He remember making love to her and what she said afterward:

I'm falling in love with you

and the way it tore at him and exulted in him at once. She loves me, she loves me.

I can't bear to lose her.

He doesn't let her go. He can't bear to lose her. He holds her where she is, wrapped around him, holding onto him -- and bluntly put, planted on his cock. He's still inside her. He loves that. He loves these moments after, almost more than he loves the mindblowing pleasure of the act of love itself. He loves being inside her after they've come, after she's blown to pieces and he's shattered to dust, after they're calm, and capable of understand, processing, realizing

just how close they feel when they're like this.

Her body pulses around his. His body twitches in response, a language of their own, wholly beyond what they can put together in words, in letters, in phonemes.

"Okay," he whispers. He's not pressing her against the wall so hard now, but he is leaning against her; he is holding her. He's kissing her neck, her shoulder, soft, tender. "Okay. I'll stay right here."

[Danicka] They have all the food they could want, should they wake up in the middle of the rest of this night and feel hungry. They have a warm room and a soft bed and a luxurious bathroom. They have, in essence, everything they might need. Lukas relaxes with her, holding her, because his mate is warm. His mate is safe. His mate is resting against him in his arms, her heart beating against his chest, and her head on his shoulder feels like trust. Feels, too, like adoration.

For awhile they just stay there, Lukas able to hold her up and Danicka able to hold onto him. She likes that he's strong enough for this, to hold her on his body for so long even when most men would collapse from the exertion and enjoyment of lovemaking. She loves that even where he not strong enough, if all he wanted to do was lie down and pass out, he would hold her if she asked him to. She loves him enough that if his legs so much as quivered, she would want him to lower her to the ground, wrap himself around her

and they could just sleep like that, if they wanted.


It takes time for their bodies to resolve, for them to start remembering what it was like to not be joined. Danicka stirs a bit, breathing, and Lukas lifts his head, noticing. She kisses him softly, on his jawline and his mouth, her eyes drifting closed. "Let's go shower," she whispers, which may very well mean that she just wants to wash up and crawl under the covers and sleep, except she flexes her cunt around him, squeezes him and gasps softly into his mouth. "I want to watch you."

He hardens again, begins to, at the very words, and pushes her head back to the wall with a kiss so ferocious in its new awakening that she laughs, and moans, and wraps her arms around his neck.


That they make love again -- and again -- before the night is over doesn't need to be addressed. The way she moans when he starts to touch himself under the streaming hot water, the way he laughs, dark and hungry, as he uses his other hand for a moment to pin her wrists behind her back, hold her there as he strokes himself off, rubs himself against her soft, flat belly. The way that, later, she kneels on the cushioned bath mat and licks him slowly, luxuriously, mind-bendingly while he looks down on her, or looks at the arrangement of their two bodies in the mirror. The way that when he can't bear it anymore he lifts her up and takes her to the bedroom and barely sits on the edge of the mattress before she's shoving him down, opening her legs over his lap, saying

[i]this is what you wanted, isn't it, baby? don't you want this hot, slick pussy on you -[/i]

as she comes down on him. The way they make love, wet-haired and damp-skinned, building up a whole new clean sort of sweat on top of the luxe bedcovers. None of that, really, bears mentioning except in passing, because as vital as it is to them, what really matters is this:


Dawn finds them hours later. Her eyes flicker open briefly when light comes in through the cracks between the curtains, but she closes them again and turns her face against his bicep. They managed to make it under the covers. His arms are around her, one pillowing her head and likely falling asleep through the hours he's unconscious. His hand covers her breast, as though to cradle her very heartbeat. And she has her arm outstretched, fingers entwined with his. She has her hand over his hand on her chest, the covers up to her shoulders, her hair spilling out on the pillow they are close enough to share.

What really matters is that, in the end, they are close enough to share all of it. The food and the vodka, their families, the hotel room, the words about kinfolk and tribesmen and sex, the days when she has finals, the grief that will come to him in days that have not yet loomed on the horizon. The joy that will follow. They are, however many gaps and chasms they have to cross, close enough to be together.