itwasjustified | [[ lexington, kentucky ]]

She rises up just enough to kiss him, her hands working down below in a flurry of movement to render them both completely unclothed.

In other words: she needs more skin against her own, and she needs it now.

That gets a groan.

His head falls to the curve of her neck, and he exhales, harsh but not. Blood and skin and brain on fire, he nuzzles her neck, half-heartedly groping for his discarded pants with one hand so he can fish a condom from his wallet.

She breathes in, then out, in sharp, quick pants against his cheekbone.

Her teeth graze the shell of his ear and her hand skims down, down and then just a little farther still to feel the hard evidence for herself.

His fingers fist in worn denim.

"Jesus," he hisses, shifting his weight to his elbows while his hips tilt into the welcome touch.

A shaky breath, and his mouth finds her earlobe.

"Do you have any idea what you're capable of, detective?"

"I don't know," she replies, her hand working around him in slow, gentle strokes as she mouths at his earlobe.

"This might be the moment where I reach my true potential."

His answering groan hitches, and he thinks about baseball for a quarter of a second, struggling to ground himself.

"Do you really think this is the time for a self-help seminar?"

"Point taken."

Her hand releases him, her touch ascending to the contours of his abdomen.

"What is it the right time for?"

Another exhale, one that's equal parts relief and disappointment, and he rolls to one side.

Fumbling for his battered wallet, he retrieves the foil packet tucked inside.

"Honestly," he says, eyes dark but voice graveled and earnest, "anything you want."

She seizes the opportunity while he's on his side - and rolls over to straddle him, bracing herself on his chest.

Her dark hair spills over her shoulders as she gazes down at him.

"This."

His eyes meet hers, and he wonders if she knows how knock-down beautiful she is.

But any hope of voicing the question gets lost in translation; she's on top of him, skin sliding against skin, and her hands are like twin coals on his chest, bright and branding.

He nods faintly.

"We can do this."

Her eyes are dark and full of want, her body surging down into his with a deliberately teasing roll of her hips.

"Good."

The need in her is obvious in the rhythm she's struggling not to start before they're ready.

"Because I don't - I can't wait."

He opens the packet and rolls the condom on, only half-conscious of the actions; his focus is on Dani (Jesus, Dani).

"You sound like you're waitin' for me to complain," he says, mostly teasing — but there's a part of him that's worried she just might be.

She's barely aware of anything else - anything that's outside of him and the slide of their skin.

"Are you going to?"

Her lips graze his jaw when she smirks.

He swallows with obvious effort; his hands skim up her bare back, following the curve of her spine to her nape.

"I most certainly ain't."

There's a slight second of fumbling (it's been a while, for her, as much as she likes to deny, deny, deny) but then she's easing down onto him, and the joining literally rips a moan from her throat, her fingernails dragging across his chest.

"Good," she sighs.

His fingers thread deep into her hair; he grits his teeth so hard he swears he hears enamel crack.

(Or he would swear to it, if he could concentrate on anything but her.)

He doesn't have a lot of leverage, but he lifts his hips, attempting to give as good as he's getting.

Assuming this position means she gets to set the pace - which she really doesn't take issue with.

It's more muscle memory than anything; once she adjusts, it's easy to remember how to do this, to draw out even the tiniest feeling with a grind, or a swirl.

His hands slide to her hips, more of an anchor than a guide.

When she moves just so, his grip tightens briefly as his eyes roll shut, and he can't hold back a groan.

One hand splays low (lower) on her stomach; his thumb slips between her legs to brush her clit.

She's in no hurry to rush this - or anything else, though originally she'd even balked at the idea of taking a real vacation.

This, however, is worth slowing down, worth moving deliberately over him to watch the expressions shift and change on his features, to feel his heartbeat quicken under her palm.

Her lips hover over his, touching but not quite kissing, and she gasps at his touch, helpless even above him.

He's alive beneath her, rocking in tandem, heart hammering a staccato beat under her hand, his breathing ragged.

His free hand never stops moving, touching and stroking her skin and hair, her breasts and ribs, the small of her back.

He manages her name, voice tight and raspy, lips grazing hers.

Her cry is strangled and lost in the gasps she takes for air, reduced to rocking erratically over him as they both hover at the precipice.

His hands feel as though they're leaving fire in her wake; she looks down and half-expects to see his prints burned into her skin, and still, somehow, she can't get enough.

She descends to him, sliding up and down his body, her breath hot and harsh against his jaw.

He doesn't have half a hope to maintain any veneer of control, not now.

With a groan, one hand tangles in her hair, keeping her close, while his thumb circles her clit.

"Dani," he says through clenched teeth, the syllables thick with desperation. "Jesus Christ — "

He's barely balanced on a razor's edge, trying his damnedest to send her over before he loses himself.

She doesn't utter anything resembling a name; she's well past the point of being able to think it, much less say it.

Her thighs tighten around his hips in a sweaty-sticky vice, and she digs in and stops, just for a second, before the world explodes into tiny sunbursts in her vision and she's reduced to nothing but uncontrolled tremors.

Something between a grunt and a hiss leaves his mouth; he comes hard, hips jerking beneath her.

His thumb keeps circling, drawing out her orgasm, and he turns his head just enough to meet her lips with his.

She can't speak, can't move, can't do anything aside from breathe and try to let her heart slow down to a more normal pace.

Reese rests her head against his shoulder, fingers tracing the half-moon marks on his skin left by her earlier, watching them fade.

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