christian louboutins, chantilly lace.

Danicka

They are not exposed at all, Danicka would argue. They're on the highest level; there are no buildings around to peek into their terrace. But telling him that while he's rolling her over on her lounger and licking her breast doesn't come to mind, and telling him that when she knows he's an animal and feels exposed doesn't occur to her either, because she is perfectly find to have her breasts suckled and licked while she lazes in the sun for as long as Lukas wants to touch her.

For all the heat building between them, Danicka is acting damnably unaware of it. Even when he suckles her, cupping her breast to his mouth. She barely lets him see her breathing change. She shrugs into that robe and tosses her hair out of its collar and her torso shows a navel-deep V of bare skin and the robe parts for her legs with every step, but she doesn't seem to notice him staring at her, watching her, his eyes following the inside of her thigh while he orders dinner.

Following her fingers and wrists and tongue while she eats. And Danicka seems to ignore him, and that growing heat, and those stares, but her nipples are hard through the silk. She does not let him know that she is imagining his erection in those light linen pants, imagining what she is going to do with him.

A part of her does not want to put on lingerie. A part of her wants to shed her robe and have him out here on one of the loungers, or maybe keep the robe on and ride him. But he says yes, and he presses his hips a little closer to her, wanting her to feel him, feel what she's been doing to him all afternoon, and she kisses his bare chest, then his bare nipple, closing her mouth around it, sucking on him softly. He kisses her ear, his breath heated, like his words.

"Where do you want to wait for me?" she asks him, when she finishes that suck with a flick of her tongue. And he chooses: the terrace or the bed, the couch, the dinner table if he pleases. And goes there to wait for her, while she excuses herself.

She sheds the robe as she's walking away from him. Just drops it behind her, going inside.

--

He knows, when she comes toward him again. As soon as he sees her, that long, thick hair in loose waves at her shoulders and the light turning off behind her. He knows when he sees her because he has seen her wearing exactly this one time -- and only one time -- before. It was spring, then, turning quickly toward summer, and he got her text while he was hanging out with the Unbroken Circle.

They were still the Unbroken Circle, then. Sampson and Mrena were both alive, and the former was mocking him about something, making him smirk and laugh and deny whatever it was Sampson was saying. She texted him and he said fifteen minutes and then he was there at the W to see her. It had been thirteen days since the last time they'd fucked. And this was well after the promise they'd made: not another two weeks.

Back when two weeks seemed like an interminable time to go without having each other.

He gave her this for her birthday, barely making it without missing it, having to employ a messenger to get her the package on time. There was a joke included in a note about World of Warcraft. He'll remember that, too, when he sees her walking out to him, dressed in purple and black Chantilly lace. Her stockings are fishnets, hooked to the garter belt. The Louboutins are purple, too, laced in ribbons up her calves, and he has seen those before.

That night she told him she loved him. Not that she was in love with him. That she loved him. And he left her because she made him weak. He left her because he didn't think either of them were capable of loving without doubt. He left her because she pushed him away and she pushed him away because she didn't want to talk about almost dying and he didn't understand and she couldn't explain,

and when she realized she couldn't bear to lose him, it was too late. And he was leaving.

So she took all this off, and made him carry it out. She didn't want it anymore.

They didn't even have sex that night. Not the way they like best, at least.

--

She walks toward him, those heels clicking softly on the worn-tiled floor. She lets him see the lace barely covering her nipples, the lingerie she had to look for to find again, years later, a larger cup size, those shoes again.

Wherever he is, she does not crawl over him, but stands before him like that,

just as she did when he came to the W almost five years ago.

Lukas

He knows.

Of course he knows. Of course he recognizes that lingerie; the purple and the black, the satin silk, the Chantilly lace, the stockings, the garter belt. The Christian Louboutins in matching purple, ribbons up her calves.

Of course he remembers.

The look on Lukas's face is strange; an emotion that can't decide whether it wants to be arousal or ache or -- gratitude. Strangely enough, gratitude. That she remembers. That she recreates the moment, in a way, and in that same strange, unspoken way, promises to heal it.

His breath leaves him in a quiet rush. She can see his chest move with it. And then he crosses the room to her, that remaining distance closed without pause or misgiving. He wraps his arms around her and he lifts her swift and silent in the candlelit darkness, his remarkable eyes following her face. They are both so very nearly bare, and there is so much skin to feel against skin. His hands spread over her ass, and over her back, and then

with a soft sound he presses his face to her breast; sighs against her skin.

"Moje láska," he murmurs.

Danicka

This was the first set of lingerie Lukas ever bought for her. It was rather inappropriate, having only been seeing her -- fucking her -- for about three months if we're being generous. Come to think of it -- and Danicka does, right now -- it may be the only lingerie he's ever bought for her. She's bought plenty just for him. Her closet was already so expansive when it comes to these wisps of fabric and lace and satin and silk and sometimes leather, yes, sometimes cotton, a myriad of choices. But for Christmases, birthdays, now anniversaries, she's given him many slender boxes filled with promises.

Including the week of their honeymoon in the W, when every few hours or so promised some new delight. She even -- after slipping from her wedding dress to reveal nothing but a few scraps of black satin, one tied to her hips and one encircling her thigh -- had the white corset, white stockings, white everything of a Real Bride one night, just so he could pull it off of her. Danicka likes buying lingerie. Danicka likes the way he looks, the way his breath catches, the way his eyes inflame, when she adorns herself like this.

He gave this to her, years ago. And now she is giving it back.

That, more than any vow they've ever shared, is the most important, most vital promise she's ever made him. She wants all of him. Everything.

But she'll give it back.

--

Danicka comes out of the anteroom, wearing that in the dim light, the remaining candlelight. She tips her head to the side, one hand on the doorframe, while Lukas sees her, having not moved from where he came to stand in the living room. His shirt is still outside on those softened, worn tiles of the terrace. Her robe is still on the floor. She has a sharp memory of him stepping into her, lifting her, telling her not to make him go slowly, it had been two weeks. She remembers him bending her over, stripping her down, licking her until she came, and she remembers the way he unraveled when she knelt before him and took him over the edge in a way she never had before.

None of this is new to them. Everything is always new for them. She smiles a little, seeing the gratitude in his eyes, which is something she would not have done a few years back. She smiles, softly, tenderly, letting him see the fondness and the ache in her eyes, letting him see how dear he is to her, which he always has been, but now that tenderness lacks the fear of loss that haunted her for so long.

He is not going to leave her. He is not going to grow fed up or overwhelmed; he is not going to be unable to handle this. Her love, their mateship, marriage, children, a home, family, any of it. He is so much stronger; so is she. They made each other so much stronger.

--

Lukas walks to her, and she steps to him, and he lifts her, and she wraps her legs around his bare waist, her inner thighs warm through the silky fishnets, warm where those stockings terminate and all he feels is her skin. Her cunt presses to his abdomen through that thin triangle of purple satin and lace, and she turns her face to him, kissing his temple and stroking his hair with one hand as he presses his face to her, calls her by one of many names.

"Moje Lukáš," she answers him, whispering against the curve of his ear. She kisses him again there, and then under his ear, and then his neck, scraping her teeth lightly over his skin. "Moje."

Lukas

There's something so natural and thoughtless about the way they come together. The way her legs wrap around him; the way his arms lift her. They call each other by their names. One of their many names. They call each other

mine

which also is true. Which is, perhaps, the only thing that matters at the end of each and every day.

A gentle shudder runs down his back when her teeth scrape his skin. He kisses her fiercely in turn: the arch of her jawbone, the edge of her mouth. And then her mouth, drowningly, his face turned up to hers and his eyes shut. Her fingertips disappear into his hair as they disappear for a while into each other.

When he draws back, Lukas casts a glance around the room. The dining table with the plates and bowls and silverware of their dinner. The small writing desk with its electrical ports, its phone. The couches, arranged in a small sitting area -- and the passageway to the bedroom.

That's where he takes her. Perhaps because he does remember that terrible night nearly five years ago, when they never really made it to bed.

He doesn't wait this time. They leave the living room. They go down that short shadowed hallway, and into the bedroom where they've thus far spent little time. The shutters are open. The sea breeze is warm and humid, gliding over their bare skin like a bolt of silk. He sets her on the bed and he straightens and he undoes his pants, drops them straight to the floor. He hasn't bothered to put underwear back on after his swim in the afternoon. Bare, he stands before her,

though not for long because then he reaches for her again, he kisses her, he sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed, his mouth making its hungry, leisurely way down her body. Lace tickles his lips. His fingertips coax the straps of her bra from her shoulders; the cups from her breasts. His hands spread over her back to keep her close, keep her breasts right there for him to lick, to taste, to groan against.

Danicka

That night she ended up crying on the bed they were going to share, curled up in a half-naked ball, sobbing because he was killing her. He takes her to the bed now and she shudders in his arms, kissing his mouth. When he sets her on the edge she leans back, pulling him over her, reaching for the fastenings of his loose, light linen pants even as he is. They help each other, and Danicka arches toward him so she can kiss him, keep kissing him, undressing him with her legs still hooked around his thighs, though loosely now.

The linen falls quietly away from his body, bare now, and she gasps when her hand brushes over his cock. Instantly she's wrapping that hand around him, stroking him, just as he is leaning over her, crawling over her, tugging her lingerie away from her body and moving his body out of her hand's reach. He keeps the lingerie on, though, sucking on her bare skin now instead of through the satin like he sometimes does.

She lets the heels of those spiky, gorgeous Louboutins trace a gentle-dangerous line down his shoulder and back where her legs rest over his shoulders.

"Chystáš se m rádi?" she whispers to him, watching him.

Danicka

[Czech: "Are you going to love me now?"]

Lukas

Between the two of them, it's undeniable that Danicka is a bit kinkier. But there's a certain streak in Lukas, too, that is just as undeniably aroused by toys. Chains. Handcuffs, cock rings,

viciously pointed heels tracing down his back.

His breath shivers out of him. His eyes flick up to her, huge-pupilled and clear in the dark. "Brzy," he whispers. His lips move against her nipple. He closes those eyes and he sucks at her again, firmly, insistently, once.

Then his hands cover her tits. Slide to her shoulders. He urges her down onto her back, and his mouth wanders down to her navel, down to the tiny little rosettes detailing the garter belt and past it. Her panties are little more than a scrap of lace; his breath goes right through it. His touch goes right through it too, transduced with almost perfect fidelity as he lays her out on the bed,

her legs over his shoulders,

his lips closing gently, drenchingly on her clit. He kisses her as deeply as he's ever kissed her, one hand wandering up her body to hold her breast. Her heartbeat against his wrist. Her pulse against his pulse. He muffles a low sound against her cunt; he doesn't move her lingerie aside. Just like that, through that almost-negligible screen of lace, he starts in on her. Starts to lick her, lap at her, slow warm sweeps of the flat of his tongue, the pads of his fingers spreading her delicately open.

Danicka

It is dark in here. No candles. No lights. Just slivers of the moon's light, the stars they see so much more of here. The windows are still open to the balcony, the breeze coming through warm and smelling of the sea and the lush foliage of the island. Mostly all he can smell is her skin.

Soon, he says. She shivers, exhaling, tipping her head back on the bedspread and pushing her fingers into his hair. She has never told him that she likes it when he teases her. When he keeps her right there on the knife's edge. But then: she likes it when he just gives it to her, right when and where she wants it, rough and firm and uncomplicated. See: Danicka never tells him she likes one thing more than the other in part because she likes so many things. She likes it when he gives her what she wants. When she wants it.

Right now all she wants is him. Licking her pussy like that, through the lingerie the way he likes to do it, making her pant for air. She scritches his scalp.

Tells him: "I brought your cock-ring," she breathes, arching slightly when he presses his tongue to her clit. "I brought some of my toys. And manacles for --" her voice catches, her body writhing a little when he tickles her slit to either side of the thong, "-- for both of us, if you... " and a sigh: "want to play this week."

Lukas

The stars here are different from the ones at home. The time is different. The season is different. They could be on another world; it would not matter at all. They've been in other lifetimes. Their love, in its many shapes and forms, has always remained a constant.

Lukas raises his head and laughs softly when she tells him what else she's packed in those suitcases that he wasn't allowed to peek in. "Of course you did," he says, laughter in his voice. Adoration in his voice. And his finger under that tiny panel of lace over her cunt, which tapers to the thong -- tugging it aside, just far enough that he can

kiss her again,

lick her again, skin to bare skin.

"Of course I do," he whispers. Pushes his face against her cunt: sudden, this, and almost ferocious, licking her, his tongue inside her, his tongue sweeping a long, gradual, lightening trail up to circle her clit. And a pause: rubbing his face against her thigh, eyes closed, breathing her in.

"Do you want me to go get it now?" he murmurs. His eyes open. He goes back for more. He eats at her with all the focus and drive and intensity he throws himself into every endeavor of his life with, his hands coveting the arch of her spine, the flexion in her abdomen, the way her breasts fill his palms now. "Or should I just fuck you the good old-fashioned way?"

Danicka

Of course she brought toys. Of course he wants to play. She whimpers, as his tongue slides over her slit again now, not through lace or satin but just her, just his wet mouth and her wet cunt. And he does not stop with that lick; he circles her clit, the way he knows she likes it. He pauses and she shudders, growling back in her throat, moving her hips down to grind against his face. He's mid-sentence. Does she want him to --

well. She clearly wants him to do this. To not stop. To keep doing what he's doing, and he starts in on her again, caressing her tits and devouring her pussy. She whines, rubbing herself on his lips and tongue, heel digging into him like he's an animal that she's urging on, faster, yes.

"I want you to fuck me," she mutters. "I want you to bend me over against the wall and fuck me. I want you to lay out on the floor and let me ride you til I've got carpet burns on my knees."

Lukas

The tip of her heel pressing into his skin makes him snarl. Makes him twist his head and nip at the inside of her ankle. Makes him give her clit one last flick of his tongue,

precise, devastating,

before he grabs the edge of the bed and hauls himself up. Against the wall, she'd suggested. On the floor. He comes down over her, palms to the mattress, and he kisses her with his mouth tasting of her, his hungry mouth eating at hers, until sheer need for air draws them apart. He pants a moment into the air between.

Then, "Turn over." It's a low mutter of his own, wanting and dark. He starts climbing onto the bed. His hand runs down her back, grips follows her hip. "Grab the headboard."

Danicka

Lukas is rising up, and Danicka pushes up on her elbows, lifting her head, looking at him. Her eyes are a deep, savage green, glinting carnivorously. He comes down over her and she pants softly into his mouth, eating at that kiss, licking her taste from his tongue. He tells her to turn over, and she

snarls back at him. He's climbing over her, touching her, telling her to grab --

"I said the wall," Danicka tells him, and plants the sole and heel of one foot against his thigh, dangerously. Hungrily.

And then, in a soft whisper, she also tells him:

Zelená.

Lukas

[empafee! green as in BED IS OKAY TOO or green as in GET ME TO THE WALL BUT I'M NOT REALLY ANGRY.]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 7, 8) ( success x 2 )

Danicka

[Green because they're entering playtime-kinda territory. And she doesn't want to fuck the good old-fashioned way. She kinda doesn't even want to fuck in the bed! But she's giving him permission to be rough/dominant with her, too.]

Lukas

Something sparks in his eyes when she keeps him at bay with those weapons strapped to her feet. It's an edge of the sheer unthinking animal in him; that fire they always flirt with when they play. For a few seconds he's still, his chest rising and falling as he looks at her.

He has an image of undoing those ribbons all up along her leg. He has an image of tugging them apart with his teeth, ripping that shoe off like something to be savaged. Tossing it away.

It passes. When he moves, he moves all at once. Grasps her by the waist and lifts her bodily from the bed, comes off it in two sweeping motions, crosses the bedroom. Her back hits the wall between two opened shutters. Outside, the endless boom of the ocean hitting the cliffs. The remarkable blue-dark hue of the starlit sky, those shifted constellations.

His mouth at her throat. Nipping at skin, sucking at flesh. His mouth on hers, kissing her; his hands between her thighs, pushing them open, fighting her if need be, his teeth grasping her shoulder as he growls at her. His skin is bare and his cock is hard and the muscles in his back, in his flank, in his abdomen are coiling, flexing; he's thrusting against her stomach, rubbing between her thighs, fucking against whatever part of her he can reach.

Danicka

Laying on her back, up on her elbows, Danicka looks like she's going to eat him alive. Or let him eat her, let him devour her, consume her. Like she's waiting for him to do so. Her foot is planted on his leg, scathingly close to harming him. He pauses, and she whispers that word that has him staring at her, and she thinks of how they must look: his naked body against the edge of the bed, a sculptor's dream of skin over muscle and bone, his skin slightly sheened with sweat from the heat between them. And her, the wetness of her arousal and his mouth barely visible on the dark fabric of her lingerie, her calf wrapped in purple ribbon, her heel digging into the meat of his thigh.

Someone should photograph them when they're like this. Someone should, somehow, capture them in portrait. If he were wearing a tie, she would he holding him by it like a leash.

She likes him better naked.

--

Lukas hauls her up and she gasps, grabbing his shoulders, digging in her nails, pressing herself against him. One of her breasts is bared, still wet from his mouth, and she lets him feel that, too, while he carries her to the wall and pushes her, roughly, against it. She pants, staring at him, legs open around him, wrapping over his waist, ankles crossing at his flank. She's low enough that he starts rubbing off against her already, stroking that cock of his against her, against the satin, against the lace.

"Do you want to leave them on me, baby?" she whispers, grinding back against him.

Lukas

So often she takes him past this edge. So often he lets her now, unafraid of what lies beyond it. Unafraid to let go a little, or a lot: to not try so hard to control, control, always be in control. To be the animal she's always known him to be.

Maybe there's a tie in their luggage.

Maybe she'll get a collar and leash for her birthday. For him.

--

His eyes flash that lightning again when she asks him that. Let's not pretend otherwise: when she goads him like that. His teeth flicker behind that silent snarl. He bites a kiss on her, she grinds that cunt on him, he answers without words, reaching down, pulling that scrap of fabric aside, holding her up with his arms tensed and his head bowed, watching, watching, rapt and entranced and so fiercely intent.

He's wanted this all day. For hours, watching her lounge naked in the sun. Watching her slink around with her robe coming off her shoulder. Knowing she was bare underneath, knowing the color of her and the texture of her, knowing her warmth, knowing that she was hot between her legs, know he could make her wet, could make her writhe, could make her come so hard if he knelt between her thighs at the edge of that turquoise-blue pool and licked her, sucked her, pleased her for hours.

He bites her shoulder when he enters her. He's so hard, and he's been waiting so long. He's making animal noises against her shoulder and against her neck, his hands pressing her thighs open to take him, take him, take him deeper. For a moment he pants across her skin, waiting for her to settle. Waiting for her to relax, and stretch, and accept.

Then an answer finally:

"Yes,"

self-evident by this point; every scrap of lingerie still on her body, those heels still strapped to her calves; still scraping his skin when he lets her close her legs around him. Wrap them around him and ride him while his hands hoist her a little higher, a little more firmly against the wall

while he starts to, quite frankly, fuck her senseless.

Danicka

He's not afraid of her anymore, of giving himself over to her, of letting go when he's with her. Of trusting her. He's not afraid because of that promise, original between them, perhaps more important than any other they've ever offered: whatever he gives her, she will give back. It is not hers to keep, but theirs to share. And, unlike some promises between them, this one goes both ways, because it can.

She moans, kissing him suddenly, finding him meeting her right there in the air, his teeth nipping into her lip. She pants a breath out, nails raking slightly on his back while he moves her panties aside. They are ravenous right now; they have been thinking of this subtly and overtly all day. Subtly, when he licked his lips, staring at her, thinking of her legs in the pool and her back on the warm white tile, coming against his lips. Overtly, when she stroked his wet hair while he licked her breast over and over and over.

Let's be honest: she's thought of a leash before. Of how hot he looks in formalwear, in ties, in cufflinks. Of how much she likes it when he takes those things off in front of her. She's thought of these things, but she would never buy a leash for him. She would never buy him manacles, just as he would never buy her bondage gear meant for her body. They give themselves to each other; they do not demand. It would mean less, to both of them, if they did.

--

He's so hard. He's been waiting so long. She's so wet, so hot, clutching at him as he pushes into her, thrusts smoothly and deeply into her, starts nailing her the way she likes against that wall.

And oh: note this.

Here, they can be loud.

Danicka is. She lets out a moan, sliding her thighs up his sides, rocking and bouncing a little on him, while he tells her well after the fact that yes, he wants her to keep wearing all this, he wants her in heels and garter belt and stockings and panties and bra, even as he pulls fabric aside here and there so he can fuck her, lick her, watch her taking him. "God, you're such a dirty bastard," she mutters, winding her hips down on him, just before he

starts

to fuck her senseless.

Lukas

"Yes, I am," he agrees,

growling, laughing, peeling down the cups of her bra a little more so he can cup her breasts in his hands. Bounce her tits in his hands, smoothing those battle-rough palms over her, leaning forward and kissing the moans off her mouth,

grinding between her thighs, fucking her against the wall, nailing her with such unbridled enthusiasm. He likes her in her lingerie. He likes fucking her with that sexual warpaint on, with that garter-belt rubbing between his lower abdomen and hers, with those garter-straps chafing on his sides, with those panties pulled aside for him like she's giving him a peek,

just a taste,

just a glimpse of she might let him have. His hands are all over her, his mouth is all over her, he groans against her skin, filthy little invectives and oh gods while he -- put a little crudely -- paws at her, gnaws at her, tries his very best to savor her with every last sense, every last inch of his skin.

Until the tempo ratchets up. Until they're both sweating in the gentle warm breeze, and fucking that much more avidly, avariciously against the wall. Until he lifts her off the wall in one fell swoop, bringing her weight to bear, driving her firmly down on him. They both groan. He bites her neck. He swings her away from the wall and he bounces her on his cock. He is loud. He is very loud, groaning, grunting, moaning as he fucks his mate,

bangs his wife,

on their anniversary trip. And they say romance is dead.

Danicka

Now this is unusual. This is new.

All of it is new, really. The two of them have never been given to sudden jaunts to far-flung locales, and truth be told, they never will be. They've never vacationed together. A weekend or a couple of days here and there in New York City is literally the most they've ever done, the farthest they've ever gone. It's their first time away from home -- farther from home than a thirty-minute drive, that is -- since they became parents. It's the most ostentatious display of wealth Danicka has ever made, and she chose this for their third anniversary. They've never walked the beach together -- still haven't, actually, and they both want to some day, some evening as well. They've never swam and sunbathed nude, though Lukas technically has yet to join Danicka in this. All of this is new.

Her lingerie, he's seen before. But that was a lifetime ago, and this set is not quite the same; it is unburnt by fire or heartbreak. So that, too, is new.

And Lukas lifting her from the wall and just fucking her like this is new, and Danicka lets out a cry that is ragged and sharp and goes through her like a bolt. She clutches at his shoulders, hitting him once, her head back and her throat bared, holding onto him, working herself on him, gasping baby not so hard and then grinding on him, leaning over his shoulder and just grinding her pussy on his cock, growling in the back of her throat. New as it is, uncharted as this particular strand of territory is for them, she takes to it like water, biting the base of his neck, moaning into his skin.

Surely some of their neighbors in nearby villas hear them; they are not trying to be quiet. Danicka is crying out the filthiest things, in at least two languages, sometimes three, often fuck me! and invective-laced praise for what he's doing, how he's doing it, what he is, that sweet fucking cock, how he's going to make her come, until she's all but screaming it, panting out little shrieks of moje laska, moje Lukas,

my mate,

my boy,

my,

mine,

mine.

And that is what she is half-saying, over and over, in their native tongue, until she sounds like she is claiming her orgasm as much as she is claiming her male, riding him in the air and not stopping, never stopping, even when she can't bear it, even when her face is rapture and agony from pleasure, even when he turns them, puts her on the bed, starts fucking her anew, just as hard, because the sound of that particular scream is an ecstatic one and she makes it over and over,

nails raking over his flank and his back, using this instead of words to spur him on, because he is past words then, he is an animal then, and his mate is wet and warm and sweet under him when he comes in her, fills her, loses himself in her.

--

Oh, it takes time for either of them to breathe normally. Time for Danicka to moan when he moves, even a little. It takes a little more time but they are not using words now. Just his teeth sinking into the edge of her panties, dragging them down her legs, off her ankles past those insane heels. They take off her bra, too, and when he's leaning back she is leaning over him, licking him, sliding to kneel on the floor between his legs. His broad hand collects and pushes back her hair, holds it away from her face. She looks at him while she sucks him, silent but for these hungry, aching groans. When he tries to stop her she protests:

you have to let me, the words a humid curl of air. it's my present. you have to come for me. and there is something about that, something --

so he lets her. And she moans at the permissiveness, engulfs him with her mouth, strokes him with her hand while she does this, pleasuring him until he gives her what she wants, until she gives him what he needs, until he's coming for her, just for her, the way she likes him to.

--

She doesn't want to take off the fishnets, or the garter belt, or the heels, even for him to wash her. Oh, she'll lay back on that cushioned bench and she'll spread her legs and she'll let him wash her pussy with that delicate-soft cloth, whimpering and biting her lip. She'll let him mutter to her that he's trying to make her clean but she just keeps getting so wet, so dirty, how is he supposed to make her pussy clean when she won't stop getting so wet --

and she'll let him clean her with his tongue,

and beg him to fuck her again, even when the fluttering of that tongue has her coming, melting to his taste, fuck her right then when she's still quivering, when the last of her orgasm is there to welcome his cock in her again, pull at him, hold him.

--

Some time later, Danicka lounges, lazy and replete, on the couch, half-wearing a robe that Lukas wrapped around her as the night grew a little colder and she gave a tiny shiver. She watches him through heavily-lidded eyes while he slowly, methodically unties and unwinds the ribbons from her calves, slips her shoes from her feet, unhooks her lingerie from her stockings, unhooks her garter belt to slip it off, peels her fishnets from her knees and legs with slowly following kisses.

She wraps her bare arms and legs around him, kissing his mouth like they have not been making some rather jaw-dropping love all night, like they are falling in love, like she is falling in love with him, like she cannot imagine doing anything else for the rest of her life but kissing him like this, his hand coming up to cover her arm, her elbow.

He carries her to bed, and they both know they are going to sleep. Forever. Laze in bed til noon or past noon. Eat fruit and whatever else room service brings them while Danicka calls her babies again to say hello as they wake from their morning nap. Perhaps they decide well into the afternoon to go to the beach. Perhaps they run in the surf and throw themselves into warm, turquoise-blue water. Perhaps this is when the camera comes out, with Lukas in his shorts and Danicka in her bikini and passerby being begged to take photos of them together and when there are no passerby, extended-arm selfies of Danicka kissing his face at the last second, when all she was supposed to do was smile.

Perhaps he takes her dancing after dinner.

Perhaps she convinces him, on the third day, to lay out naked in the sun with her, but only after the volcano and this or that or whatever else was on his list of things he wanted to do. But perhaps she doesn't manage this until the last day. And that is all right.

Lukas

It's been so long since they've just had each other to themselves. So long since their bedtime was determined simply by whim, rather than by whether she had to get up for class, or he had to go meet his pack at so-and-so, or the babies had to be changed and fed and burped and bathed.

It's been so long since they've just slept like this. Forever. Fall into bed long after midnight; wrap up in each other's arms with the distant boom of the ocean all around. Sleep and sleep and sleep and sleep, until the moon is down, until the sun is up, until the sun swings past noon.

They are softboned from sleep when they finally wake. They shower together, warm and drowsy, helping each other with their backs; wrapping each other up in their arms all over again so she can nap on his chest, and he can nap leaning against the shower tile.

Breakfast on the terrace, then. Brunch. Lunch. Lukas wearing a towel. Danicka wearing ... perhaps very little at all. Room service brings them fruits and sandwiches. They call their pups afterward, and then they talk about going to the beach, and then

somehow, something about the way he looks at her or the way her shoulder brushed his chest or the way her breasts look bare and golden like that has him catching her about the waist,

has her arms looping around his neck,

has them using the dining table for an entirely unintended purpose.

--

So no. They don't make it out to the beach 'til late in the afternoon. But this is Saint Lucia, this is paradise on earth, and there's no reason to hurry.

There are plenty of people on the beach. Couples hand in hand. Families with small children playing in the surf. They take pictures. They build sand mountains, because they have no buckets for sand castles. They walk down the strand a ways, leaving the others behind. They splash in the surf and swim a little and walk at the very edge of the sea, the tide sucking sand from beneath their toes with every step, throwing it back with the next.

They watch the sunset. They stroll up the shore and they find a little restaurant overlooking the ocean, all grass-hut roofs and open walls. They eat fresh-caught fish and lamb from the farms farther inland; drink sweet drinks with creative names. The crowd grows as the night deepens, the music turns live. He takes her dancing after dinner, only really it's dinner turns into dancing, and sometime much, much,

much later they're hungry again, eating hot appetizers with the four or five new friends Danicka has made. Two of them don't even speak English.

--

The love they make that night is gentler than the night before. Slow and patient, fluidic. His hands laced through hers and her body rolling beneath his. Their lips close together, her soft cries lost in his mouth.

--

The next morning he's up earlier, they call the kids right after breakfast, they wander around town and find a rental car agency and they drive out into the island. Along the seashore, and then up into the mountains; through that volcano, out the other side.

A picnic in the rainforest. The fruits they bought the first day; leftovers from room service on the second day. The smell of mist and green things all around them, like spring,

like jaro,

which always did remind him of her.

It's growing dark by the time they get home. So no; he does not lay out naked with her. They don't go out for dinner. They stay in their suite, which has become a little like their home, their things everywhere, their smell everywhere. They order off the room service menu, and they lay by their pool, and they swim in that pool, and they look at the stars.

They make love under those stars. Because it's dark, because they have no glass in the windows anyway so if the neighbors were going to hear they would have heard. Because they want to. Because Lukas wants to, pulling himself drenched out of that pool, coming over to Danicka, climbing into her lounger without much more than a smile to explain himself,

undoing her bikini top, pulling down her bikini bottoms, shedding his swim trunks, rolling her on top.

Starlight glimmers faintly off her breasts when she arches. Gleams where his mouth leaves her wet. After she comes he gathers her in his arms and holds her to his chest and fucks his own orgasm into her, groaning low in his chest, biting back the shouts and the roars. Turning them into soft grunts, caught breaths, ever so barely audible by the curve of her ear.

--

So after that there seems to be no reason at all to wear clothes around the suite. And so on the last day Danicka gets her wish, and Lukas tans those last remaining inches of his skin, and when they call their pups they're careful to aim the camera above the shoulders and when they head out to wander the town one more time that afternoon Danicka has to remind him to put on some pants.

So he puts on shorts. And so does she. And they go strolling, aimless, carefree, happy: no plan in mind, no plan for a plan either.

Which is more than all right. It's perfect.