by Vivien Dean
She couldn't tell which hurt worse, Xavier himself, or hearing Martin talk about him with such unabashed adoration. Her heart went out to the boy. Maybe she was wrong, maybe the best thing that could happen would be for Amy and Xavier to find friendship and love. It might heal some of their wounds. Didn't they deserve that?
Didn't she deserve that, too?
In a way, she was jealous. She wanted that adoration. She wanted Martin to feel as intensely about her. And she wanted to return it. She did feel some things, but they were jumbled up with confusion and shame, a tight-knotted ball of thread that was much safer without her yanking on strings.
All the things that happened that day stripped her usual self-confidence in one fell swoop and she wanted his arms around her, and for him to tell her that everything would work out. That all of the kids would settle in, that Xavier would be accepting of Amy's feelings, and that this marriage—that became more than a business arrangement the time they were in the Licensing Office—would work.
She placed her hand on his thigh.
He looked down into her face and cupped her cheek, and she rested her face into it. Her heart started to thump like she'd run a marathon, but she didn't mind, he didn't push her away.
"Before..."
She closed her eyes. “Yes?"
"I was a bit harsh before."
He sat down on the edge of the chair and she moved over for him, gasping when he hauled her onto his lap and pulled her legs over his. He yanked the blanket over them both and snuggled her into the crook of his arm, her head resting on his shoulder. After a few moments of listening to the metronome of the clock and wondering if she should say something, he took a deep breath.
"This was my baby blanket."
Another pause.
"It's tartan wool."
"Family plaid. It's important to the family heritage. I guess my parents wanted to start me young.” His voice started off quiet, but became a little stronger as he realized she was listening. His thumb stroked the side of her thigh, the heat of his palm burning through the thin lawn.
She brought the blanket under her nose again and inhaled, this time remembering the scent and knowing it was his.
He wasn't the kind of person that you would ever imagine as a child. He was born an adult, with the sense of intense maturity that only came with age and the wisdom it brought. To think of him as a baby, with a family heirloom as a blanket, that he had a family, parents, a past. She never thought of him like that.
It was disconcerting that she wanted to know that part of him. And she had her own history to tell, which made her feel as if she had her own treasures to offer.
His thumb still stroked her thigh, slow and hot, and it made her very aware of his hard-soft planes that she rested against.
"My parents were from Scotland and my brothers and I immigrated with them. My father was a doctor also, and my mother a scientist."
He wrapped his other hand around her and pulled her close. “I'm the oldest of three, my younger brothers Ian and Brian live in New Gotham.
Her skin was scorched under his hand now, like there would be a red mark when he lifted it. But she didn't want him to move. Instead, she pushed into him and enjoyed his pause of breath.
"We were very close while growing up, but our studies took us all our separate ways. On Christmas they come back here for a fortnight and we catch up. Especially since Mother and Father died."
She slid her hand up his stomach to his chest, and his breath caught again.
"I went to Cornell University, and by the time I graduated, the Sand Wars were over and ... well, you know what happened after that."
"Yes.” She nuzzled her nose into the space between his neck and shoulder and relaxed into the comfort of him. Could she do this forever—this moment—right now? Where all of her problems were on the other side of the door? This could be good.
He blew her hair out of his face and she smiled into his skin. She could almost taste the salt and heat of him, and it made her want to lick him.
So she did. Just a little, right there in the dip of his collarbone.
His whole body stilled, and he stopped whatever it was he was going to say, and she could feel him spiral. That whatever control he had, the walls he put up, they all fell at her feet when her tongue touched is skin.
The thumb that lazily stroked the side of her thigh now moved with purpose—up, up, up until it bunched the fabric of her nightgown, and he slid his finger into the vee of her hip and thigh. Her body responded like a geyser, all boiling hot and wet so fast she rolled her eyes and closed them, praying he'd go those few inches more.
And he did, right there, perfect, stroking her with the same rhythm hard and slow, that he did her thigh.
He must have gotten an A in anatomy.
She wanted to shift over and straddle him, to rub herself against the ridge in his pants. That hard, lovely ridge that she saw, and squeezed and wanted to lick earlier. And maybe, if she angled herself just so, he would slip-slide right into her and bring it home.
"Were you this wet when you were jacking me off?"
"Yes,” she said into his neck.
"Did you want to have sex then?"
"Yesssss."
"You wanted me inside you."
"Mmmm.” Making her lips shape words was becoming too difficult. She let her knees flop open and gave his skin a nip.
Another sharp inhale, and he rocked up.
"I didn't think you wanted me, I thought you were just being kind."
She laughed, she couldn't help it. That such an educated man could have misunderstood her awkward attempt at seduction, or its implied meaning.
With one movement, he slid his fingers into her and she tried not to grind herself down onto his hand. It was torture, it only made her want all of him now, immediately, and she moaned.
"Such a tease,” she said, and then trailed her tongue up to the little pocket behind his earlobe.
He gave her two fingers and another inch.
She traced the whorl of his ear, and he did something fluttery with his fingers, and she could feel the squish deep inside.
By now, he was getting his own rhythm of rocking against her thigh and pushing his fingers in, and one more measure of this and she would bite him in frustration.
"Inside me. Please."
He slid his fingers out and the wet slurp sounded like music as he tapped her pebbled clit. “Here?"
She shook her head no.
His fingers, all four of them, went inside of her and swirled again. “Or here."
"There, damnit."
"Straddle me."
Those were the magic words she wanted to hear.
She angled herself over him, the blanket skimming over her bare ass and falling to the floor as he popped open the buttons to his trousers and shook them off in between the bridge of her thighs.
His cock gave a jerk against the inside of her thigh and left a slippery trail of her and him, and she took its head and guided it until it was poised—just waiting for one of them to make the move.
See what he got for teasing her. That would show him.
But he drew his thumbs alongside either side of her, pressing enough to almost go in, all the way to her clit and then back down, spreading her lips open so he could taunt her. He arched up and pushed in an inch, stretching her while he held her hips in place, not letting her move.
"Please,” she whined.
He gave her some more.
"Gah.” She closed her eyes and let him have all her weight, but he braced himself for it and chuckled. Chuckled, the bastard.
"Did you know you have a web of nerves that ring around your cunt to your ass? There's more sensation out there, than inside you."
"Like hell."
"Shall we do an experiment?"
"No. You can fuck me now."
"Fine then, your loss."
"Perfect. Now get moving."
"I can make you come right now, if you want?"
/> "No. I want to be stuffed so full of you that I feel like the fucking Thanksgiving turkey. Now if you please?"
With one endless long slide he filled her, and all she could think was finally.
Chapter Six
The leather under his ass was so hot it was like being burned from both sides. Only Kat was a wet hot, opposed to the dryness of the chair.
Honestly, he thought it was going to be all elbows and knees and stiff embarrassment. Semi-hard to hard, back to semi with her all anxious about him and herself. That was normally the way it went for first times, or at least for him. But for some reason, with Kat it was smoother. Maybe her jacking him off in the Marriage Office, with all its agony, counted as the first time. It seemed to work all the bugs out, and now there was an ease, an intimacy from being soldiers in the foxhole together.
She hadn't moved once he let her slide on him. She sat there, her head hanging back with her hair grazing his hands that still gripped her hips. Sweat beaded on his brow as he refused to let himself rock deeper into her. It was torture. Still, he'd had his turn, this time was hers, so he waited for her to even so much as twitch to give him the go ahead.
Her thighs started to tremble, and she sank down. He didn't bother to hold his groan back.
He'd had her hands, her slippery spit-wet hands jacking him off. And watching her do it was more erotic than anything he'd experienced so far, but the anticipation and reality of her taking him all in was better.
She clenched him so tightly it was euphoric, but he started to move anyway. Down into the chair and back up, not much, but enough to grind her clit a little. When she started to breathe in small tiny pants it made the nerves under his skin spark up and down his limbs, and settle low in his spine.
But this wasn't the way he wanted her. He'd like to spread her out on his bed. But it was one flight up, and he would have to disengage to get there. Maybe it would be better if he could get her on the floor. His knees weren't so great anymore, but ... she leaned into him and trailed her tongue up the side of his neck again and exhaled in his ear.
There was more to marriage than sex and he knew that, but he wanted them to have a new beginning. Or maybe not, because the one they had bonded them, but there was a certain part of her untouched, and he wanted to know it. Even though she jacked him off, because of where it was, they held themselves removed from aspects. There were walls. And he needed to know that she wouldn't keep herself distanced from him because of the peculiarities of their arrangement. They would never make it if she did. He had laid himself bare for her. She deserved no less. But she had reservations, he could tell, and he needed to find a way to reach her.
Thinking back on the day there had been one thing that they didn't do.
Kiss.
He met his lips with hers, just a feather touch, then caught her lower lip in his and tugged. She smiled and ran the tip of her tongue along the corner of his top lip and the sparks danced across his skin again. This time down to his spine. He basked in the acceptance of her when she slid her tongue along his, taunting him to play.
He chuckled. Not with his mouth, they were still attached, but deep in his chest. He ran his hands up the sides of her back, her skin cool and silken beneath is palms and caught the back of her neck, cradling her head. It all made him want to kiss her more.
And he did. Slow and hot, wet and tangled, until she was putty in his arms, the weight of her head being held by his hands. Somewhere in the kiss, it had stopped being a race to orgasm and had become a slow dance.
Hands skimmed, tongues tasted peaks and crevasses, limbs tangled and the effects had her panting in his ear gasping unintelligible words of passion.
Her nails dug into his hips, pulling him closer. There would be crescent welts there, and the thought of her marking him was nothing he'd experienced before. It made him want to throw his head back and roar.
She linked her arms around his neck and drove her tongue into his mouth while she impaled herself on him again.
When he let himself come, it was as if he'd had no bones left. He'd had to kneel down with his forehead resting on the floor, because his head was spinning too much to stand, or remain vertical for any period of time.
"You?” he said, between deep breaths.
"Mmm.” Her eyes didn't open.
He stayed there, staring at her, trying not to be impressed with them, and more so himself. He could get used to this. Who knew?
"I have to get upstairs.” Her voice sounded a little more composed than before.
"Upstairs?” His bed was upstairs. That's what she meant. She was tired, too.
"Yes, I have to get back to my room.” She started to gather her clothes, not meeting his eyes.
"Just push Canine off. I'll be there in a minute."
She slipped the nightgown over her head. “Canine sleeps on my bed?"
"Your bed now."
"He wasn't there before."
"He always sleeps next to me. He'll just have to learn to stay on the floor."
She stopped and gathered the blanket around her. “I planned on going back to my room. It's the first night for the children to be in your house. They know where I'm supposed to sleep, if I'm not there..."
"Yes, you're right.” He gave the blanket a tug. “But it's your house now, too. And I'll sleep with you."
She paused, then nodded and walked out, closing the door softly behind her.
It made him feel bad cornering her like that—not really, but her reaction was what he was after. Start as you plan to go on, and he'd be damned if she slept in her own bed. They were married. If the day hadn't gone as it had, well that would be different. He knew now that she wasn't averse to him, and if they were going to make a family out of this motley crew.
He put his clothes back on and slipped out and up the back stairs after her. The sun would be up in a few hours, but they'd get some sleep and hopefully be able to start propagating the seedlings to start the next level of experiments.
When he got to her room she was tucked into the bed already, looking like some spent princess from a fairy tale. But by the look of her, balled up in the far corner of the bed, he wondered how they would make it with all of the problems they had stacked against them. And the knowledge that he probably made it worse.
Maybe a honeymoon would be a good idea. Something where they could spend time away and see if there could be something salvaged from this disaster of a day.
Just like an old fashioned courting, except on his honeymoon. The irony didn't escape him.
* * * *
Maybe this time when she pretended to sleep she'd be a better actress. Or Canine wouldn't give her away. She hadn't heard the shuffle of the dog padding in behind him, so she might be safe.
Was there a stronger word than horrified? Because that would be an accurate description of how she felt about attacking Doc. Only she was aroused, too, so the guilt was doubled and confusing. It was that damned medal. The old religious guilt still worked. It must rub off through osmosis.
What kind of woman let a stranger fuck her like that? Worse, what kind of woman fucked a stranger with the passion she did?
Apparently her, that's what kind of woman. An insecure, wretched, tangle of a woman, whose life changed in one day. For the better.
And she was lying. She did know Doc. Not on more than a friendship basis before today, but she did know him. He should be canonized as a saint, and knowing that she married him—just like that. Jumping on top of him and screwing him brainless was a bonus. He probably thought he married the town tramp.
If he only knew.
She almost snorted and gave herself away.
Suffice to say, suitors were not lining up at her door. She came with numbers that no man wanted. Like the lucky number thirteen. That was the black spot of her resume. To her it was a good plumb line.
The mattress depressed with a sigh next to her and she squinted her eyes shut, thankful to be facing away from him.
He laid his hand
on her hip, and against her will her insides sighed with relief. And even better, she would have snuggled back into him if she could just let go of that niggling guilt. The warmth of another body was an incredible lure. Better to stay consistent and keep away from him, at least until her feelings were more sorted. Yep, safer to stick with the guilt.
"I'm sorry I didn't ... I thought ... I mean I hoped we could ... ah ... build a bridge, so to speak. It's my fault. I should have given you more time.” His voice sounded like one of her boys when they felt guilty.
They were about as safe as two people in straight jackets. Guilt was very effective. But it was also disabling, because they were two people in straight jackets alright, but being dangled over a tiger pit and with no way to save themselves. Still, she'd have to add that to her stock of motherly tools. She had a feeling she hadn't used that one to its potential.
She kept quiet now, not because she wanted to avoid him, but because she didn't know what to say.
Apart from railing at him for taking on all the responsibility for their relationship onto his shoulders, she had no idea how to respond.
He didn't look like he was Atlas, but he'd taken on the same portion and she wanted to hug him and tell him that she could help. That he didn't need to shoulder the burden alone. Plus, she was greedy. Her fuck ups were her own. There wasn't a lot that she could take pride in, but when she messed up? It was all hers, baby.
The poor guy had a misguided sense of responsibility and she needed to correct it.
She rolled over towards him, loving the way his hand slid over her hip as she did. “It's not your fault. I am not your responsibility. I'm a human, not an experiment that you can apply scientific theory to and come to a definitive conclusion."
"You're right. And I wasn't trying to. I wanted to give us a more solid base to our relationship."
"You are such a man.” She rolled her eyes. “Sex does not a relationship make."
"No, not all of it, but it plays a huge portion and I would not want the last memory in your mind to be of us at the Marriage Office. I wanted you to know I desired you, Katerina, the woman, because of you—not because a troll of a woman made me."