itwasjustified | [[ lexington, kentucky ]]

She shakes her head, a pleased shiver coursing through.

"You're safe. For now."

"So you'll tell me -- "

His lips brush her earlobe, the corner of her jaw.

"When it gets dangerous?"

Oh, he's good. Either that or she's experienced fairly lame attempts up to now.

"You'll know if you're toeing the line."

His mouth trails to the side of her neck, and he breathes in -- skin and shampoo, sun and something he can't quite identify, but it smells like Reese, and Reese smells good.

His lips hover over her pulse.

"'Cause you'll cold-clock me, right?"

She can feel everything - there used to be a time where she couldn't feel anything.

But now, there's nothing but anticipation coursing through her veins, and she smiles lazily against his cheek, fingertips trailing through the folds of his shirt.

"Damn straight."

Chuckling, he lifts the hat from her head. Once it's deposited on his abandoned chair, he cradles her face in both hands, fingers threading deeper into her hair.

"I'll try my best to avoid that, then."

Mouth a centimeter away, he teases her lower lip with his.

"There's waffles on the line, if I'm rememberin' right."

The fingers in her hair coax another sound of delight from her, but she doesn't move to close the distance between them any further.

There's a warm sweetness on her lips, tea tinged with U.S. marshal.

"Play your cards right, they might even be blueberry."

"Blueberry and Belgian?"

He allows himself another brief smile.

"At the same time?"

Massaging her scalp with his fingertips, he takes a slow step backward, steering them toward the bed.

"Don't push it."

She's smiling, though, sensing herself being nudged in that direction, and follows without hesitating, her mouth finding his again.

He chuckles, the sound more of a low rumble in his chest, getting lost in translation with the contact. This kiss is harder, hotter, and Raylan wraps an arm around her, pulling her close.

When he opens his eyes again, he's on his back, the ceiling obscured by a curtain of dark hair.

There's a small, lazy grin pulling at the corners of her mouth as she sits back on her heels, gazing down at him, her fingers loosely snaking around his wrists to draw his arms up over his head before sliding down, down the contours of his chest and sides.

"I hope you're not ticklish."

He doesn't squirm.

Much.

"Even if I was," he says, a bald bluff through and through, "I get the feelin' you wouldn't take it easy on me."

"Uh-huh."

She surges down, a slow teasing roll of hips and a series of kisses left along the subtle curve of his jaw.

Eyes closing, his head tilts, and it takes every iota of self-control he posses to keep still beneath her.

He can't not touch her; one hand snakes around her side, and the pads of his fingers map her spine through her shirt.

Her lips seek out his again for a slower kiss; the warmth of his skin is undeniable beneath the fabric of his shirt.

She subtly attempts to find more of it, fingertips working down the buttons.

He wants to feel her hands on him, not his button-down or the wife-beater beneath, but he doesn't want to rush Reese or himself.

As much as he'd like to make quick work of the layers separating them, he defers to the pace her mouth and fingers set.

One hand settles on her hip, and if the tip of his tongue flickers along the edge of her upper lip, he's not pressing an advantage, per se, but encouraging Reese.

She doesn't waste any time in seeking it out, and soon her hands are rewarded with the taut line of muscle underneath the thin barrier of cotton.

An audible, somewhat muffled sound rises up in her throat and she grinds against him again, pulling back with flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips to start working on her own collared shirt. There's a slight tremble in her fingers as they work open each button.

He swallows twice, Adam's apple bobbing.

Shifting just so beneath her, he kicks off his boots; they hit the carpet with dull, twin thuds.

He lifts his hands to hers, covering her fingers with his, and helps free the last of the stubborn buttons.

The falling of the boots barely registers - but barely - and a smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she realizes she'd half-expected the sound of spurs to accompany them.

She shrugs her shoulders back, the sleeves of the shirt sliding down in a whisper of fabric, slipping off and falling somewhere - likely to join those heavy boots on the floor. She bends low to him again, the fingers of one hand splayed over his chest (over his heartbeat).

He breathes out, and breathes in, pulling the smell of her shampoo deep into his lungs.

It's similar to something Winona used to use, but it's different enough to be pure Dani, so the memory slides to the back of his brain as easily as his palms travel up her sides.

His fingertips ride the ridges of her ribs, slow and certain; one hand returns to her nape, drawing her closer for a deep, unhurried kiss.

There's no rush here, even if the idea briefly tries to appeal to her alongside the urge to flee.

She fights it away and kisses him back, fingertips trailing down his chest and stomach, mapping out the curves and slopes of muscle beneath skin.

His stomach jumps under her hands. He is ticklish, but he can't laugh for the hitch in his breathing and the lines of fire she's painting on his torso.

He half-groans, instead, and sits upright with smooth but careful ease. Keeping her close on his lap, his mouth dips to her throat, and one thumb traces the swell of her breast.

"You tell me," he says, voice low and rough at its edges, catching on her satin-soft skin, "if this goes anywhere you don't want it to."

She arches into his hand, into the warmth of skin against skin, a pleased sound barely audible in the back of her throat.

Her arms wind around him, dark curls sliding forward over her shoulders and tickling against his cheek.

"You'll know," she promises, inhaling sharply, "if it does."

Eyes closing, he nods into the curve of her neck and shoulder.

His hand slips lower, cupping her breast; the pad of his thumb circles her nipple through the fabric of her bra.

His free hand slides down her spine, and his fingertips play along the small of her back, just above her waistband.

She shudders once, visibly, the tremor rising up her spine and finishing somewhere along the place where his fingertips graze her breast.

Her own roam low, bumping into the barrier of his belt, and her hands make quick work of it with a few accompanying clinking sounds.

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