itwasjustified | [[ lexington, kentucky ]]

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.

He breathes out, pushing air through his teeth.

"You're a dangerous woman, Dani Reese."

He eases back again, sinking slowly onto the mattress; drawing her with him, he rolls so he's on top of her.

"You should've warned me," he says into her clavicle.

He shifts his weight over her and drags his mouth lower, stubble scraping her skin.

"You knew it all along," she protests, though her words lose some of their fire when he rolls them over, the last word ending in a quiet gasp at the sensation of his lips dragging over her skin.

She hitches her leg up against his hip, rocking upward in an obvious response.

(Out of the two of them, anyway, she's not completely sure who's the more dangerous.)

He hums, a low vibration against her breastbone, in what could be agreement.

Her bra joins his boots on the floor.

"Maybe I did," he says, and lowers his head to tease her with the tip of his tongue.

His lips close on her skin (theretherethere) and she arches, rising up while her hands fist and tangle in the bedsheets.

"Knew it," she breathily manages.

He knows he's bordering on unfair, taunting and testing her like this, but with these reactions, he can't not.

"Did you?"

He moves his mouth to her other breast; he carefully draws her nipple between his teeth, and a flick of his tongue immediately follows to soothe any would-be sting.

It's been an embarrassingly long time since anyone's touched her this way (since she's let anyone touch her this way) and she wasn't riding a pretty mean high at the time; now, everything almost feels new.

She hisses at the sting, then sighs when he follows it with whatever he does with his tongue, fingers sliding up into his hair and palm cupping the back of his head.

"Maybe."

"Take that as a yes."

He's mumbling into her skin, lips trailing to her ribs and stomach.

Once her pants are open and unzipped, he strokes her stomach. His fingers stop just shy of her underwear, and his mouth meets her navel.

She can't control the sigh that slips past, and a part of her isn't even embarrassed about it.

A lazy smile graces her lips, and she tilts her head to glance down her shoulder at him.

"Now you're just teasing."

He lifts his head the fraction he needs to meet her eyes. She probably can't see his smirk, but she might feel it before he nips at her hip.

One hand slides between her legs, cupping her through her pants, giving her pressure and friction with his palm and its heel, but no real relief.

She does - the slight shift of his lips against her skin is a clear indication that he's pretty damn amused right about now, and it's only somewhat frustrating in the sense that, at the moment, Dani Reese is more impatient than usual.

"I changed my mind," she replies, hips jutting up with a mind of their own.

"Now - now you're teasing."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, managing to sound entirely contrite-but-not.

His actions speak louder than those words; he eases her pants down her hips, his mouth following in their wake, until he's kissing the crease of her thigh while one thumb slips inside her underwear, seeking out her clit.

"You Southerners," she shoots back, the tease swiftly followed by a gasp when his mouth descends to the inside of her thigh. Her fingertips run through his hair, effectively tousling it in answer.

"Always so polite."

"Kentucky," he says, his drawl low and lazy as his lips move closer and closer to the fabric of her panties, "was neutral durin' the Civil War."

His thumb finds her clit beneath her underwear; he circles it lightly, placing an open-mouthed kiss on her stomach.

"Do you really think," she says, her head lazily lolling to one side, "that this is the right time for a history lesson?"

She draws her lower lip in with her teeth, hissing softly when his lips find a ticklish spot near her hipbone.

"Point taken."

Her underwear falls somewhere near the haphazard pile of discarded clothes on the floor, and Raylan dips his head once more.

Breathing her in, his focus funnels; he tongues her in featherlight flicks, first, and eases a finger inside her.

A stream of choice words threaten to erupt from her throat, but sinking her teeth into her lower lip curbs the temptation.

Her toes curl slightly, though, and what she lacks in curses she makes up for in soft, surprised sounds.

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