Love's Sweetest Rewards

It's quiet now.

And still.

So still, I can feel the beads of sweat as they roll one by one off of him and drop onto me.

He's so still, you'd almost think he was dead.

I remember the first time he did that to me. I was scared shitless. I lay there on top of him, staring, watching for the rise of his chest, flutter of an eyelid...*something*. And I was thinking, shit. I'd just had the most mid-blowing sex of my life with the man I'd wanted for years, and goddammit, I'd killed him.

And then he took a breath, and the blood drained back into my body.

I wanted to kill him for scaring me like that, but instead, I fucked him again.

And I got used to it.

And now I lie here beneath him, just as still.

Frozen, in fact. Trying to decide if the words I heard him screaming just before he went comatose on me were what they sounded like. I don't know, he screams so many things, and not all of them are intelligible. In my own delirium, I could have so easily misinterpreted what he said.

I don't know what to do. I want to respond, but what if I'm wrong? What if that isn't what he said at all? I'd look like a damn fool. Not that it should make such a big difference. I'm actually very used to looking like an idiot. Would probably start to think something was terribly wrong if one day everyone started to take me seriously.

But something tells me this'd actually hurt. Bad.

If he laughed at me, or worse, if he said nothing at all and just slipped quietly away while I slept, never to be seen again, I couldn't take it. I'm so used to him just dropping unannounced into my bed in the middle of the night...expect the unexpected, I've learned that with him. He can sneak in here, crawl into bed waking me from a sound sleep, and we'll just start fucking as though we'd spent two hours on foreplay. God, I love that.

*That.* I said I love *that*. I'd miss it so much if it were gone. Okay, so ignore it, whatever he said. It was nothing anyway...

His eyes are open now. Beautiful, hypnotic pools of green. They look a little funny...confused, almost. Like he's wondering about something.

Maybe he is.

He looks up at me and I smile, sending out all the receptive vibes I can...you know, just in case. He stares quietly.

Come on, Alex. Tell me what's on your mind. Say it...

He turns his head to the right so I'm now looking at the side of his head. Maybe he just needs a little prodding. Say something.

"You okay?"

Oh yeah, that's good. *That'll* get him chatting.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Mmm hmm."

Now we're cooking with gas.

So, now what? Let him just go to sleep and forget that there's definitely something odd going on here? Maybe if I just asked innocently...

"Alex?"

"Hmm?"

"What were you saying?"

"....Saying?"

"Yeah. A little while ago...when you were coming."

Shit. He heard it. I wasn't even sure I'd said it, but now...

"Uh. I don't know...why?"

"You were...you were just saying things, and I couldn't understand some of it."

"Oh...who the hell knows?"

No response.

Good. That's it, Fox. Just let it drop.

He wouldn't believe me if I repeated it, anyway. I mean, sure we're sleeping together and it's the best fucking sex either of us have ever had, but that doesn't mean he's going to believe anything that comes out of my mouth. Shit, I'm not so sure *I'd* believe me.

He's closing his eyes.

I can almost hear his brain working...shifting gears, trying to figure me out.

I've spent years and years perfecting that 'unreadability', if that's a word. That blank stare, that toneless voice, and no one has been able to crack it. Except him. The man isn't psychic, he can't read my exact thoughts, but he comes pretty damn close. Too close, sometimes. Fucking spooky is what it is. Shit, he's more dangerous than *I* am.

He knows something's up, now. Though he'd never believe the *truth*.

The truth.

That's a funny, funny word for me to be associating with myself. I don't even know if I'm capable of telling the truth to *myself*.

So, give it a shot. Go on, no one can hear you but you. I'm looking at him right now. I don't know if he can feel my eyes on him.

God, he's so fucking gorgeous.

*That's* the truth.

Christ, his mouth. Sexiest lips I've ever seen. And when he wraps them around my cock, I forget my own name.

No lie there.

His eyes. They change color not only with his clothes, but with his emotions. When he's happy, they're a sparkling green. When he's fired up about something, the green is streaked with gold and blue. When he's scared or unhappy, they turn some deep, almost brownish shade. On those nights when I can't stay, they're that color. He tries so hard not to let me see, but I do. And I ache. Not just for him, but for me too. I can't stand anymore to wake up without him next to me.

Fucking truth.

Shit, I *did* say it. And I meant it.

Didn't I?

Say it again. To yourself. He doesn't have to hear... ....I love you, Fox.

God, my heart is pounding all of a sudden.

Damn, his eyes are opening. Can he feel that? Sure, why not? I'm lying on top of him.

Quick. Off.

"Alex, are you sure you're okay?"

Too late.

"I told you, I'm fine. Why do you keep asking me?"

"I can feel your heart pounding, and you've gone pale."

Great. Next, he's going to tell me my palms are sweaty...and they are. Quick, distract him.

"You're not exactly an easy lay, babe. You wear me out."

He's giving me that 'I'm flattered but you're trying to bullshit me' look.

I move off of him and turn onto my side.

Okay, plan B.

"I can stay the night..."

He's doing everything he can think of to throw me off track.

"Yeah?"

"Yep."

He said it. He said it in the heat of the moment, and now he's trying like hell to bury it. He didn't mean it, so be smart and let it lay. He drapes an arm over my chest and tucks his head under my chin, and my hand automatically comes up to rest on it...

His hand is stroking my hair. Feels so good. I love how affectionate he is. Never would have imagined that about him...that he'd be the type who liked to cuddle and kiss, and touch...outside of sex, I mean. He's always touching me. Sort of unnerved me at first, but now I like it. I miss it when we're not together. No one ever touches me unless they're violently motivated.

Like he used to be.

That's how this all started. We were going through one of our typical *things*, and while he had me pinned to the floor in the filthy back room of the bar he'd trailed me into, something happened. He stopped between threats to take a breath, and I took my life in my hands and yanked him down to me. Before he could regain his balance, I laid a hard, fast kiss on him. It stunned him for a minute, and I took that time to kiss my ass goodbye. But instead of pulling out his gun and blowing my face off, he kissed *me*. And this one was longer and gentler, and it completely fucked me up. When he pulled away and brushed two fingers over my mouth and asked me to come home with him, I nearly came in my jeans. I don't even remember the drive here, all I remember is falling into the apartment and him backing me into his bedroom while he sucked on my mouth.

Foreplay was impossible. There was no way in hell either of us was going to wait even five more minutes. We ripped each other's clothes off and got down to it.

That night I learned what fucking was. In my arrogance, I thought that I was going to teach *him* a thing or two, but I found out that everyone I'd ever done before was junior league. The man. Fucked. Me. I don't know how else to say it. I would have been shocked if I hadn't been so busy screaming. I came like I had never come before, and I remember hearing him too, but then everything went sort of reddish, then black.

Next thing I knew, I was looking up at him...three of him. I blinked a couple of times, and my vision cleared. I looked up again and saw relief in his eyes, but at the same time he looked pissed. He mumbled something about me scaring the shit out of him, then dropped his head onto my shoulder. We lay quietly for a while, then started kissing. The kissing led to groping, and before I knew it, he was fucking me again.

That was about seven months ago.

And here I am.

Still excited at the thought of seeing him. Still incredibly turned on by the sound of his voice. Still wanting to be with him every second that I'm not.

Oh, God.

Ohhh, my God...

It's three thirty-eight, and I've been watching him sleep for almost three hours, now. He'll be getting up in about two hours to run.

Doesn't matter how little sleep he's had, he's still up at five-thirty, every blessed morning.

He says, though, that he sleeps better and longer with me here. I don't know if that's the truth or just a way to get me to stay more often. Either way, I take it as a compliment.