Author's webpage: http://members.nerve.com/colleen_kane/
Author's disclaimer: rule number one: never ever sue poor people
Author's notes: ~Post-COTW // PWP presuming an existing F/Kship
~Warnings! mild sap & unrepentant abuse of the present tense
~with insincere apologies to Charles Bukowski (stolen title)
~and heartfelt thanks to John Lennon (spiritual guidance)
~kisses to Christopher Robin for fast, thorough & succulent beta (remaining errors are my bad)
His chest is heaving, he's gasping, eyes screwed tightly shut. I try to move away, to give him a little space and time in which to, ah, recover, but he tightens his hand in my hair.
"No, Ben, just... stay."
The words are ragged and utterly breathless, he sounds as if he's just run ten kilometers through knee-high snow. I like that. I like that it is ME, my body, my hands, that does this to him.
So I pillow my head on his chest, listen to the hammering of his heart gradually slow, while I soften inside him and feel myself fall ever deeper.
I never knew myself to be so needy. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, starving for his touch, and the mere foot that separates us is too much. When I am not with him, I can't breathe, it's like there's no air. Of course, when I *am* with him, it's an entirely different sort of breathlessness.
It is a terribly overused clich, but yes, sometimes I do feel as though I am addicted to him. As if, were he ever to leave me (God forbid), my body would continue to crave him, my mind and spirit would wither for the lack of him.
Ray makes a contented noise, arches against me, smoothing caresses down my back.
"Love you," he murmurs.
"Love you," I mouth against his skin. It's our 'thing', that's the way we say it, our personal romantic custom.
I slide off and out of him then, this time he doesn't try to stop me, and I stretch out on my side to look at him. Earlier I lit a candle on the bedside table; it has burned down considerably, but still casts flickering shadows on Ray's skin. He looks like a debauched angel, sprawled on his back with his legs casually spread, smeared in sweat and come.
"Mmm," he sighs. "How much do you love me, Ben?"
I grin, prop myself up on one elbow. "That depends." I know this game well.
"Get me a washcloth and a Coke?"
My grin widens. "I think perhaps I love you that much."
"Greatness." He returns my smile with a distinctly erotic twist. "Hurry back."
I comply happily. When I return, he lets me clean him, and I lick him some more for good measure; then he sits up and drinks his Coke. He's always thirsty after sex. I admit I find it rather cute.
And sweet God, he is such a passionate and attentive lover; of course I don't mind fetching his post-coital beverage. I'd walk barefoot around Hudson Bay if he asked me to, in return for a single kiss.
I feel his eyes on me and I look up at him. He has put the soda can down and regards me with hot eyes, tongue sweeping back and forth over his lower lip.
"God," he breathes when my gaze meets his. "Put out that candle and get over here."
"As you wish."
Ben leans over the flame and puffs. In the sudden shadows I see the smoke spiraling delicately upward, smell the burnt-sweet scent of cooling wax. Now the room is filled with only a soft glow from the streetlights, but that's okay. Ben is gorgeous in any light, even in no light at all. In the dark, I let my hands see for me. How perfect every inch of him is.
Twenty minutes ago I came so hard I practically bled and I am 40 goddamn years old, I should NOT be getting hard again already. But the sight of Ben, bathed in that dancing golden candlelight, sitting on the end of our bed...
I wanted to grab him by the hair, drag him up to my mouth, rub myself all over him. Settled for asking instead, and we've *got* it, all right, I don't even have to say it out, he KNOWS. Blows out the candle, pauses a moment to be all perfect and beautiful, and then he's knocking all the air out of me. I am drowning in hot sweet MountieMouth and I would not have it any other way.
After two and a half years we still fuck like crazed weasels. It's nuts. The honeymoon is still in full swing here; we still make love at least every other day. The longest we've ever gone without in our time together was last spring when we went up to Inuvik for his sister's wedding. Sharing a two-room cabin with Maggie's in-laws for five days... Ben called it an exercise in restraint. I called it a week of jacking in the can.
I mean, some days, all I have to do is catch a glimpse of the back of his neck from a certain angle, and I want to fuck him up against the wall. And if we're home at the time, I do.
Oh, man, this kiss. We're smushed together from tongue to toe, his hands are everywhere, on my chest, my ass, my face, my cock. Guy's got some kind of internal furnace, his skin is so hot against mine. His mouth drops to my neck, licking, sucking, and I don't even try to keep my groan inside. The neighbors really must hate us. Nah, hell with 'em, all that matters is US, me and him, skin on skin, doin' it right. And aw, fuck, it is sooo right.
Ben's only like half hard, but he doesn't seem to mind, he's focused, determinedly multitasking with tongue on nipple, hand on cock, fingers in ass. I'm still plenty slick from before, it's a smooth glide in counterpoint to a jab against the sweet spot, back and forth, back and forth. I'm starting to pant again, moaning like a porno chick, and shitohchrist, I can't --
I grab his wrists. "Stop, wait, stop."
"Mmm?" he asks, lifting his head, but his hands don't stop.
My cock twitches in his grasp. "Ben... you..." Why am I suddenly incapable of forming a sentence? Oh, yeah, might be the fact that I'm getting fingerfucked senseless.
"Me what?" he prompts, looking more than a little pink.
"Want you," I sigh.
"You've got me." Punctuates that statement with a flick of the wrist that makes me lift clear off the bed.
"Uh-uh," I say when I come back down. I run my hand over the curve of his ass, sliding gently between the cheeks. He makes a noise deep in his throat, pushes back against my hand.
"Want you," I repeat.
He rests his forehead against my chest and nods once, emphatically. "All yours."
There is no getting used to the idea that he desires me as much as I do him. Frankly, I have never understood it. I am not even close, and yet, when he says,
in that ragged desperate voice, I feel as though a single touch will send me into fiery blinding orgasm.
We roll together and Ray takes the initiative, kissing me fiercely. The motion of his tongue is both an echo of my earlier movements in his body, and a preview of what he'll be doing in mine shortly.
Mm, very shortly. One of Ray's hands leaves my skin, returns slick with lubrication. I find myself wriggling eagerly, thrusting down onto his hand.
"Ben, you need..."
Ray growls, a raw, animal noise, and recaptures my mouth in a brutal kiss. I lift my knees; he shifts, pushes and grunts.
"Fuck," he gasps.
I buck up. "Please do."
He makes that noise again, that hungry tiger sound, and thrusts, hard hard harder. I love it like this. Even after all this time with Ray, I can barely say the word, but I know when and where it applies. Here, now: I love a good rough fuck.
Ray starts to slow down, move deeper, squeezing my now-full erection with every fierce motion. My body feels like it is nearing flashpoint, like instead of coming I'll simply burst into flame. Ray bites my shoulder, thrusts one last time, oh yes, right THERE --
and we are back where we began, coming, gasping, mouths frantically meeting in mime of our coupling. After a moment, Ray kisses me again, softly, and starts to move.
I close my arms around his back, shaking my head tiredly.
He smiles, nods, and rests his head on my shoulder.
In a minute or two, I'll go get him a Coke.
25 Nov. 00