Total self-indulgent smut..... enjoy! Heh.
He’s exhausted, lying here on the floor, the dropped needles of the Christmas tree irritating his skin and spiking through his clothes. She’s kissing his neck; soft gentle kisses, soothing him through the sobs still wracking his body and choking in his throat. Her hands smooth over the rough material of his uniform and she’s making quiet shushing noises. He makes an effort to drag more air into his lungs, taking deep, gasping breaths and trying to calm down. He didn’t want this; didn’t want her to see him broken, hurting...weak.
And he hates it when he makes her cry; his feisty, strong girl reduced to tears absolutely kills him.
She moves down to the floor beside him and he doesn’t resist when she touches his face and coaxes him into a position where she can kiss him. His lips melt into hers when they touch, and he hears a whimper from the back of her throat when he responds eagerly to her tongue slipping between his lips.
He can taste the salty tang of tears, hers and his, and he reaches up to her cheek and brushes the last few away. She’s unbuttoning his jacket; the damn thing is too heavy and making him too hot anyway, and he helps her tug it off, not caring one bit where it lands when it gets tossed away. He doesn’t hear the sound of anything breaking or being knocked over, so he forgets about it and concentrates on the sounds Maria is making. She gasps when his hand cups a breast and his thumb unerringly finds her nipple, brushing over the material covering it.
Their kiss is becoming more urgent, more desperate; it hasn’t been like this since those first few times, when they couldn’t get enough of each other.
“Tony,” she moans, “Maybe we should go upstairs?”
He shakes his head and his hand slides down her belly and to her pants. He can’t face trying to fix up the Christmas tree and trying to get upstairs, needing her help for the simplest things. He needs this right now. This he can do with or without his sight, and he has a feeling Edith won’t be back for a while.
He shifts their positions and jerks her pants down to her knees, and she wriggles them further down and parts her legs. Then his hand skims up her thigh. He remembers this perfectly; the way her skin feels under his hands, the way she always breaks out in goosebumps if he applies a very light pressure and almost tickles her, the heat and wetness when he touches her intimately. He hears the high pitched moan that issues from her mouth and it shoots right to his groin, sparking an intense desire that he hasn’t felt in far too long.
He has no trouble finding exactly the right spot, he knows this body almost as well as his own, has spent hours exploring it, cataloguing every inch, and for the first time in months, he actually feels like himself. In his mind’s eye he can see the swell of her perfect breasts, the precise shade of pink her skin flushes when she gets excited, her flat abdomen, and the curve of her hips. He moves and buries his face in her neck, inhaling the subtle scent of her perfume and her shampoo.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he whispers.
She’s panting, clawing at his neck as his fingers expertly drive her crazy, whispering his name over and over. It doesn’t usually happen this quickly for her and he wonders if it’s been just as long for her as it has for him. He doesn’t ask; now is really not the time, but the thought of her waiting for him thrills him, but breaks his heart at the same time.
He should’ve come home to her.
He feels her body shifting underneath him, her back trying to arch even though his weight is pinning her down. She’d confessed once, after a glass of wine too many, that despite her liberal, feminist attitude, she sometimes loved the feel of his body above hers, holding her in place.
The sound she makes when she climaxes underneath him is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. He loves it when she really lets go, when she doesn’t care who can hear her or what they might think if they do.
He doesn’t give her any more time to come down than it takes him to pull back and unfasten his pants. Then he’s inside her, surrounded by warmth and fluttering muscles, and she’s whispering in his ear, terms of endearment and encouragement. It’s too fast, too frantic, but he’s lost his self-control; on any other occasion he’d be embarrassed by a poor performance.
His orgasm is fierce and feels like it’s going to shatter him into pieces. He collapses onto her, his mind and body totally blown. It’s not until the hard floor starts to make his knees hurt that he realises this can’t be comfortable for her either and he rolls off her. He hears her fixing her clothes, but just lies on his back, enjoying the post-coital glow and craving a cigarette. She takes his hand and he hears laughter in her voice when she tells him to get up and pulls firmly.
He stumbles to his feet and she does laugh when his pants fall down around his ankles. He half wants to kick them off, but decides that’s probably a bad idea; hunting around for his jacket will be bad enough. She stoops down, pulls them up and redresses him. Part of him wants to object, but he keeps quiet.
She kisses him sweetly and he pulls her close, wrapping his arms tight around her waist, wondering how the hell he got it into his head that he could cope without this, without her. In the course of just a few hours, she’s created hope. He’s not even going to kid himself that this will be easy, but he thinks they might actually make it, that he might actually make it without losing his mind.
“We can do this Tony,” she says suddenly, as if she’d been reading his mind. The conviction in her voice is enough to convince him.