Full Moon #3
He goes still for one terrible second, and I think I've miscalculated, that he's going to pull away, that I've read everything wrong.
Then his hand comes up slow, like he's giving me every chance to change my mind, and he cups the back of my head, and he kisses me back.
It's not a big kiss. It's careful, searching, and it tastes like snow and coffee and the long dark of the night, and when he pulls back his eyes are darker and his breathing has changed.
"Megan." His voice is rough. "You've been through hell tonight. Your adrenaline's been up for hours. I'm not going to let you..."
"Let me what?" I'm the one who's breathless now. "Dean. I have been running on adrenaline since we landed, and adrenaline has never once made me want to climb a man like a fire escape. Adrenaline makes me want to reorganize luggage carts and argue with airline employees. This is not that."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that." I put my hand on his chest, over his heart, and I can feel it, the fast steady beat of it.
"I've had adrenaline before. It doesn't feel like this.
This is you. This is me. Also, in case you missed it, I'm the one who kissed you.
If this is a mistake, it's my mistake. I'm an adult.
I make my own questionable decisions. I once signed a lease on an apartment with a hole in the ceiling because the landlord had a very friendly dog. My judgment is historically excellent."
He looks at me for a long moment. I can see him fighting it, the years of control, the careful distance, the belief that closeness is a risk he has no right to take with anyone else's life. I can see him losing the fight.
"If this is a mistake," he says, "you'll be the one who pays for it. Not me."
"Then we'll be careful."
"That's not..." He stops. His hand comes up and he traces the line of my jaw with his thumb, and I feel it all the way down my spine. "You don't understand what you're asking for."
"Then show me."
He kisses me again, and this time it's not careful.
This time it's hungry, and I feel the shift in him, the restraint cracking, and it isn't terrifying, it's the most alive I've felt since the plane touched down.
His hand is in my hair, his other hand at my waist, and he pulls me against him, and I feel how much he wants me, hard against my hip, and I make a sound I don't recognize.
"You have no idea," he says against my mouth, "how long I've been trying not to want you."
"Since when?"
"Since you told me you'd hate to see me relax."
I laugh, and he swallows it. His hands find the hem of my sweater and slide underneath, and the heat of his palms against my bare skin is a shock.
I arch into him. He makes a low sound, and I feel it in his chest, and I pull his shirt up and off, careful of his shoulder, and I see all of him, the broad planes of his chest, the scar through his eyebrow, the wound on his shoulder already closing, already pink at the edges.
"Dean Keller, shirtless, in a motel room, at the end of the world." I touch the edge of the wound, feather-light. "This is either the best or the worst decision I've made all weekend. The jury is still out."
"Let me know when you reach a verdict."
"Don't hold your breath. I'm still processing the wolf thing." His hands are at the button of my jeans. "Tell me if you want to stop."
"I don't want to stop. I want to be extremely clear about that."
He undoes my jeans and I kick them off, and then he's lifting me, carrying me the few steps to the bed, laying me down on the quilt older than I am.
It smells like dust and a floral detergent that went out of style before I was born.
He comes down over me and the weight of him is everything.
His mouth finds my throat, my collarbone, the hollow of my chest, and I feel him everywhere, the scratch of his stubble, the heat of his breath, the careful restraint in every move, like I'm something precious and he's trying not to break me.
"I've got you," he says, and I don't know if he means now or always, and I don't ask.
He works my bra off and his mouth finds my nipple, and I arch up into him, and the sound I make is embarrassing and honest and I don't care.
His hand slides down my stomach, past my hip, and his fingers find me through my underwear, and I'm already soaked, and he makes a sound against my skin when he feels it, a low rumble I feel in my chest.
"God," he says. "Megan. You're so wet. Is all of this for me?"
"Keep going and find out. I'm a woman of science. I believe in gathering data."
He laughs, a quiet huff against my skin, and I file it away like currency.
He works my underwear off and kisses a slow line down my stomach, teeth grazing my hipbone, and I feel his breath between my legs a second before his mouth lands.
I gasp and my fingers find his hair. He looks up at me once, grey-green gone dark, and then he puts his mouth on me like he's been starving for it.
The man who has spent fifteen years keeping people at arm's length is currently between my thighs like he's applying for a long-term lease, and my brain has decided to narrate it like a property transaction, because this is who I am now.
His tongue finds my clit and I stop narrating entirely.
He works me slow and thorough, taking me apart by inches, and when I start pushing against his mouth he doesn't speed up, he just holds me there, watching me come undone on his tongue.
"That's it," he says against me, and the vibration of it nearly finishes me. "Let go. I've got you."
I do. I come with my fingers twisted in his hair and his name coming out of me like a prayer, and he keeps going until I'm shaking and pushing at his shoulders, and only then does he kiss his way back up my body.
His mouth is slick with me, and he lets me taste it off him, and I don't have words for it, so I push him onto his back instead.
He lets me. He watches me with something like wonder while I get to see all of him, the long lean muscle, the scars, the way he moves like he's used to being the biggest thing in a room.
His cock is hard, thick, and I want it, and I'm not shy about wanting it.
I wrap my hand around him and he makes a sound through his teeth, his hips twitching into my grip.
I stroke him slow, watching his face, and his head falls back and he swears, low and wrecked.
"Careful," he says, and his voice has gone ragged. "It's been a long time."
"How long?"
"Two years. Maybe more." He laughs, a raw sound. "I don't exactly bring people home."
"Two years. Dean, that's a monastic vow. I'm about to break a drought and I don't even get a plaque." I lean down and run my mouth along the length of him, and he shudders. "Good. Then I get to have you all to myself."
I take him in my mouth and the sound he makes is not careful at all.
It's wrecked, and his hand lands in my hair, not pushing, just holding, like he needs something to anchor himself to.
I work him slow the way he worked me, learning what makes him shudder, what makes him say my name like it's the only word he has left, and by the time I pull off he's trembling and his eyes are darker than I've ever seen them.
"Condom," I manage. "Do you have..."
He reaches for the nightstand and pulls a foil packet from the drawer. "You travel prepared," I say, taking it from him.
"I was hoping." There's something honest in his voice. "I was hoping I'd get to use it."
"Were you now. And here I thought you were just a very optimistic man with excellent baggage.
" I tear the packet open with my teeth and roll the condom down his length myself, slow, watching his face, and he watches me back like I'm something he can't quite believe.
Then I'm on my back and he's over me, settling between my legs, and I can feel him, the weight of him, the heat of him, pressing against me, and the world narrows to this room, this bed, this man.
"This okay?" he asks.
"Dean. I've been trying to get you to relax since Idaho. Yes. It's okay. It's better than okay. It's the first thing that's made sense all night."
He pushes inside me and I gasp. He's bigger than I expected and I feel myself stretch around him, and he goes still, giving me time, watching my face, and I nod, and he moves.
It's slow at first. Deep and slow, and I can feel every inch of him, and I wrap my legs around him and pull him closer, and he makes a sound that's almost a groan.
"You feel," he starts, and can't finish, and I understand, because there aren't words.
His rhythm builds. His hands find mine and press them into the mattress, and he moves inside me like he's been waiting for this, like he's been waiting for years.
"Dean." I don't recognize my own voice. "Don't hold back."
He looks at me, and something in his eyes shifts. The grey-green darkens, and for a heartbeat I see it, a flicker of gold catching the moonlight, and his whole body goes taut above me. For half a heartbeat it scares me, the gold. Then I remember who it belongs to, and I pull him closer.
"Megan." The word comes out low, almost a growl. "If I don't hold back, I won't be careful with you."
"I don't want careful. I want you. All of you. The whole terrifying package."
He makes a sound that isn't quite human, and then the restraint I've been watching all night snaps.