[Criminal Minds] Out of Paradise (Rossi/Prentiss, NC-17)
Title: Out of Paradise
Author: smittywing/Smitty
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi
Rating: NC-17/FRAO/NSFW/Etc.
Wordcount: 3,500 words
Spoilers/Warning: None. Sex?
Summary: One of the things David Rossi had hated most about marriage were "projects".
Note: For the Spring Smutathon on cmrossiprentiss. Many thanks to wojelah, mingsmommy, and smacky30 for all the encouragement and help, and bonus points to wojelah for digging up the quote for the title and final line.
Perhaps there is only one cardinal sin: impatience. Because of impatience we were driven out of Paradise, because of impatience we cannot return.
- W.H. Auden
Out of Paradise
One of the things David Rossi had hated most about marriage were "projects". His wife - whichever one it was at the time - would become dissatisfied with some aspect of the house - the kitchen, the bathroom, the draperies, the fucking feng shui - and Dave's precious Sunday afternoon football time was spent picking out cabinets or furniture or a shade of paint to increase luck and happiness.
After fifteen months of dating Emily Prentiss, Dave felt he had the best deal around. Emily didn't have projects. In fifteen months, she hadn't changed a single thing in Dave's house and from what he could tell, nothing in her own apartment either. His Sunday afternoon football time was spent actually watching football, usually with Emily on the couch next to him and pizza on the coffee table. The only thing she wanted to do with his beat-up old leather couch was sprawl on it and read one of her books. If Dave wanted to sit there, too, he usually only had to let her use his leg as a pillow, and considering the number of times that position had lead to a slow, wet blowjob, he wasn't about to complain.
The point is, he's understandably caught off-guard when Emily looks out the window one day and says, out of the blue, "You know what your yard needs? Some flowers beds around the house."
"Over my dead body," Dave says without looking up from his book, because that's how every "project" discussion starts. He waits for Emily to reply with, That can be arranged, or some manner of pleading, but gets a completely different response.
"Okay," Emily says, holding up both palms. "No flowers. Jesus, Rossi." She sounds so put off and hurt that Dave immediately feels bad. He puts down the book and takes off his reading glasses.
"I'm sorry," he says, rubbing the crease the glasses leaves across his nose. "I'm just not much of a landscaper. But I'll say something to the gardener when he comes next month."
"Well, you don't have to do anything," Emily says, still sounding hesitant. "I was just thinking it would be nice to be able to do some planting. I mean, spring's right around the corner and I don't exactly have a yard."
"Emily," Dave says, now more confused than ever, "you kill plants."
"Inside plants," Emily says, sounding mortally offended. "That require water and plant stuff and...companionship."
"What's the difference?" Dave asks.
"Rain," she says firmly. "Outside plants are out in nature. They grow better out there. Look," she says shaking her head. "I didn't mean to impose. I didn't realize it would bother you. Forget I said anything."
Dave shakes his head, too, chagrined. Making Emily uncomfortable in his house is the last thing he'd wants to do. She's far more conscious of boundaries than almost anyone he's ever been with and if she moves the gingerbread-scented body wash out of the bathroom again, he might die of humiliation, asking her to bring it back.
He sighs. "Emily," he says. "You can do whatever you want to my yard. Just leave me the hell out of it, okay?"
"You don't have to get anywhere near it," she agrees.
Dave wakes up Saturday morning to find Emily gone from her side of the bed and a note telling him she'd gone to the nursery. He blinks at the paper in alarm for a few seconds before remembering her plans for the day and that she is going to a plant nursery. Apparently she's really serious about the whole flower bed thing. Plans for morning sex shot, Dave hauls himself out of bed and decides that he might as well get in some exercise before Emily drags her project into his Saturday.
Emily's back when Dave returns from his run. She's standing in the back yard wearing denim shorts, a peach-colored v-neck t-shirt, canvas sneakers without socks, and the most ridiculous hat Dave has ever seen on a person.
"Hey," he says, letting himself out the back door. "You've been busy."
Emily looks around at the flats of flowers at her feet. "I was worried I'd gotten too many," she says, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. "But now I'm not sure there's enough."
Dave jogs down the steps of the deck and surveys her choices. They're pretty little flowers with round petals in shades of white, purple, and bright pink. She has six flats and he's starting to feel a little bad for not helping her haul them around from the car. "What are they?" he asks.
"Impatiens," she replies.
"I was just asking," he deadpans.
"That's what they're called," she says wryly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Reid says I can probably manage not to kill them."
"Thank God for small favors," Dave says.
"Oh, go inside and write or something," Emily tells him, exasperatedly.
Dave smiles and tugs on her ponytail as he goes. He showers and shaves and reads the newspaper. It feels a little strange to be doing it solitary. Not that Emily shadows his every move, but he's used to having her around - or not - and not doing something entirely without him, just out of reach.
Around 11am, his curiosity gets the better of him and he decides to go see how she's doing. The sun is bright through the windows, heating the glass and chasing winter's chill from the house, so Dave fills a glass with cold water and walks around the deck until he finds her on her hands and knees, patting dirt around a small cluster of those impatiens things.
"Hey!" she calls, hearing him approach. "How do they look?"
The impatiens, Dave supposes, look fine, tiny flowers bunching cheerfully along the brick wall. But he only has eyes for the swell of Emily's ass in her denim cut-offs, and the dip of her back, pink - she's starting to burn - where her shirt has slipped up. It's only about four inches of skin, above the waistband of her shorts and below the hem of her shirt, but Dave wants to put his hand on it, his mouth on it, kneel down behind her and pull her up against him, her ass against his dick. Dave's dick is definitely in the driver's seat for this fantasy. He imagines her head falling back against his shoulder as he reaches around to palm her breasts.
"Stunning," he answers, leaning over and touching the cold glass he's holding to that line of exposed skin.
Emily jumps. The noise she makes is not quite a squeal, but gratifying just the same. And it makes her stupid hat fall to the ground. Dave laughs at her expression and admires as she sat back on her heels, reaching back to clasp her hands across the offended area. At this point, he know he'd find anything she did sexy, but the way she was reaching back does thrust her breasts forward nicely and Dave has a front-row view right down the front of her shirt. "I brought you something to drink," he says, holding out the glass and trying not to be too obvious about determining which bra she's wearing. "You've been working hard out here." He waits, still offering the glass. She glares at him and uses a rag to scrub her hands. Finally, she takes the glass warily, as if he may have boobytrapped it to jump out and be cold on some other unsuspecting patch of vulnerable skin.
He has no such tricks up his sleeve, though, and after a couple of sips, Emily closes her eyes and tilts her head back, her throat pulsing as she swallows. Needless to say, Dave is appreciative of that, too. "Thanks," she says, opening her eyes and setting the empty glass on the grass. She wipes the moisture off her hands and then rubs them on her shorts. "I really needed that."
"I thought you might," Dave says, without taking his eyes off her. She tilts her head to catch his eye.
"Did you need something from me?" she asks. Emily's looking up at him with that smile she only wears when she's wearing nothing else, and then her hands are on his belt, sliding the end of the leather through the D-ring and tugging the spike out of the hole.
"Emily!" Dave says, catching her wrists in his hands.
Emily shifts on her knees and Dave's cock let him know just how much he liked that.
"C'mon, Rossi," Emily says softly, testing his grip by moving her hands to unbutton his jeans. He lets her, still cupping his hands around her wrists. She tilts her head as she draws his fly down and says, "When was the last time one of your neighbors actually poked their head over that fence?"
Dave tries to think as she slips her fingers into his jeans, into his boxers, and brushes against the heated, sensitive skin of his cock. She works him easily out of his shorts - she's so good with his cock, knows just how to touch and taste and hold him.
"God, Emily," he says, having forgotten the question. She's going to blow him, right there in the backyard. He's been adventurous in his time, done a few risky - risque - things in his day. But just being with Emily is an amazing high, risky and thrilling, and he doesn't generally need much more thrill than Emily herself.
But he doesn't have any will to resist. She gusts a breath over the length of him and he can't bring himself to protest. Goosebumps rise on his arms and the back of his neck. The air is still a little cool despite the hot sun, and Dave feels it as Emily touches the head of his cock with her tongue and draws him into her mouth.
Emily blows him slowly, luxuriously, almost casually, her tongue working the head and keeping the suction loose. When she gets serious, when she wants him to come, she'll take him deeper, make sure every inch of him is wrapped up in her hand or her mouth, and she'll suck him like a summer popsicle, hard and wet and hungry. But for now he feels more like a lollipop, to belabor the metaphor, dragged in and out, teased, the tip of her tongue tracing lightly over his most sensitive contours.
He loves this, sex for fun, for the joy of feeling good. Emily likes giving him head and knowing that she's having fun, is feeling heady and powerful and pleased with herself, that makes it even better.
She doesn't like him holding her head so he sketches over her features with his thumb, smoothing the lines at the corners of her eyes and tracing her eyebrow before sliding down to stroke her cheek. She immediately lets his cock slip to that side of her mouth so he can feel the head of his own cock against the inside of her cheek.
"Fuck me," Dave murmurs, stroking his other hand down her neck. He can't reach her breasts, which is a shame because they look very good to him.
Emily arches her eyebrow and does something with her tongue that makes Dave's balls tighten up without even being touched. She lets him shift back to center in her mouth again and draws off slowly, with tiny little sweeps of her tongue. She holds him in both hands, the warmth of her fingers and palms making up for the lack of her mouth. "Is that a request?" she asks and then draws the head of his cock back into her mouth. She only lingers long enough to trace his circumference with her tongue and then pulls off and adds, "Or maybe an invitation? Or is that an order, Agent Rossi?"
He knows if he spills in her mouth, gives it up right here, he can still take her upstairs and make her come by any number of methods.
But her skin is glazed with sweat and sun and the memory-fantasy-anticipation of peeling away her shorts and t-shirt and bra and pushing into her, sticky and hot, is irresistible.
"You better bet your ass," he growls, because if he's not just a little bit of an asshole, there's no telling what kind of desperate sentiment might work its way out.
He expects her to hop to her feet, grab his hand, and drag him into the house. Maybe they'll make it to the bedroom or maybe they'll have to detour to a couch, or do it leaning up against a wall. Maybe he'll just bend her over the nearest horizontal surface and he tries to think what's near the back door.
He spends too much time thinking and the button and zipper on her shorts are undone before he realizes she's stripping down right there.
"Emily!" he protests, because all right, a blow job, she's still dressed, he's mostly so. But fucking in the middle of the lawn in the middle of the day? "No way."
"Why not?" she asks. She's braced on her knees, legs apart, and her shorts are just far enough open and down that he can see her underwear is yellow and has some little design on it - maybe flowers.
"Because you'll be naked," he says, knowing he sounds possessive, and also silly, since he's standing there with his dick out, sucked wet and so hard.
"Not all the way," she says. She pushes the shorts down to her knees and sits back. "We can do it like this." She sinks her hands into the grass - it's going to need regular mowing again soon but it's green and lush and her hands push through it easily, blades springing back easily in their wake. "What's the point of having grass this perfect if you don't enjoy it?"
"Fuck, Emily," he says, and then he's behind her, covering her, wrapping himself around her, and pressing up against her back. His knees are going to make him pay tomorrow, maybe even as early as tonight, but right now it's perfect, amazing. She bends into him, folding to her elbows and then he's blocking any exposed bits from the neighbors. Her panties are wet against his dick and he can smell her, musky and rich in the light, sweet scent of the flowers. He guides himself into her, pushing the pretty yellow bikinis aside.
He instinctively seeks her center, where she's hottest, wettest, richest. It's almost better than her mouth and he moves, just to feel the slide of her on his cock. They'd only left condoms behind a few months ago and after a year of feeling her through a rubber, the soft suck of her cunt on the skin of his cock still made him double-blink. Enjoy it, he reminds himself. As much as he wants to rush - they were out-fucking-side and although his yard, and the adjacent yards, were so large and so rarely used that there was almost no chance of getting caught, he still feels like he's 15 and has to finish jerking off to the Playboy he'd gotten from Jimmy's brother before anyone gets home - this was a lazy Saturday morning and Dave wants to concentrate on enjoying every inch of Emily, not rushing through her. So he slows down, fucking into her at a more measured pace, making sure he notices every twitch of her muscles, every contraction, every shiver. Her hair falls straight down on either side of her face, and he reaches out and brushes it all over to the side, over one shoulder, so he can see her.
Emily turns her head and catches his fingers with her lips as he tucks her hair behind her ear. He leans over, lining his chest over her back and puts his hand down in the grass next to hers. He kisses her, even though it's awkward since he's still fucking into her. She laughs into his mouth and he slides his other hand up under her shirt.
Her bra isn't lined and her nipple is hard under his fingers as he spreads his hand over her breast. It's soft and full and ripe and he drags the cup of her bra down so he can flatten his palm against it. Emily gasps and hitches back against him and he thinks that this is the first time he's had the upper hand all morning.
He plunges into her and rubs circles against her breast, and grips the grass in his other hand, tiny soft blades stabbing into his palm, and it's all a haze of warm air and sunshine and the scent of flowers and grass and arousal in the air.
Emily's never been quiet in bed and Dave has never wished for that to change, but when she makes a sharp little cry, he knows she's getting close and he really doesn't need his neighbors calling the police on them. "Shh, Emily," he whispers firmly in her ear. "You can't - You have to - The neighbors - " She glances over her shoulder at him, biting her lip, hair falling in her face. "Shh," he says again. "You have to be quiet Emily."
"So do you," she returns in a voice only a shade louder than a whisper, even though they'd been speaking in regular tones before. She takes a deep, shaky breath, and he can't take his eyes off her face even as her cunt tightens around him.
"You have to be quiet Em," he pleads as she ducks her head and shudders from her shoulders to her hips. Dave can feel it in her pussy, the reverberations pulsing around his cock as he pushed in and out of her. She doesn't move for a moment, then she clenches hard around him and lets her breath out in a long, nearly-silent sigh. She jerks her hips forward with a tiny gasp that has him begging, "Shhh," prematurely. And then she relaxes around him and lifts her head glancing back over her shoulder.
"Your turn," she rasps and her eyes are hot. Dave's wound tight, tense with the shock of watching her orgasm so quietly. It's like being with someone else and still with Emily - new and amazing, intriguing, and still safe and comfortable.
Dave buries his face in Emily's hair and groans with the intensity of the orgasm that shudders through his body. His mouth is dry and Emily's hair smells like peach shampoo and sunshine and impatiens. He brushes his cheek over her hair, over her cotton t-shirt, and he's still a little lightheaded when he eases out of her and kisses the small of her back.
He rolls off her and sprawls on his back in the grass. The sun warms his face and a faint breeze reminds him that he's still exposed. He tucks himself carefully back into his boxers and jeans and zips himself up. He glances over at Emily, who is lifting her hips and pulling her shorts back up. She's beautifully mussed and if he had the least bit of energy, he'd muss her some more, just for fun. "You should go in and get cleaned up," he says. His stomach makes itself known and he glances at the watch on his wrist. "It's almost noon," he says. "You want to go get lunch?"
"I can't go anywhere yet," Emily says, making some adjustment that pops her bra back in place. She sits up, running one hand through her hair, where some grass has taken up residence. He can still see her nipples through her shirt. "I've still got two flats of these things to plant. I can't just leave them out here."
The words come out of his mouth almost before he knows he's saying them. "I'll help," he says. "It'll take half the time."
Emily arches an eyebrow. "I thought you weren't going anywhere near them," she says.
Dave shrugs helplessly, because projects with his wives were trials, but now all he wants is for Emily to be done and to spend time with him and he's willing, even eager, to plant stupid little flowers for that privilege. "Maybe I just want you to get done faster," he says. "So I can spend time with you."
"You know," Emily says, smiling and reaching over to brush grass off his shoulder. "W.H. Auden said, Perhaps there is only one cardinal sin: Impatience.
The End
Author: smittywing/Smitty
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/David Rossi
Rating: NC-17/FRAO/NSFW/Etc.
Wordcount: 3,500 words
Spoilers/Warning: None. Sex?
Summary: One of the things David Rossi had hated most about marriage were "projects".
Note: For the Spring Smutathon on cmrossiprentiss. Many thanks to wojelah, mingsmommy, and smacky30 for all the encouragement and help, and bonus points to wojelah for digging up the quote for the title and final line.
Perhaps there is only one cardinal sin: impatience. Because of impatience we were driven out of Paradise, because of impatience we cannot return.
- W.H. Auden
Out of Paradise
One of the things David Rossi had hated most about marriage were "projects". His wife - whichever one it was at the time - would become dissatisfied with some aspect of the house - the kitchen, the bathroom, the draperies, the fucking feng shui - and Dave's precious Sunday afternoon football time was spent picking out cabinets or furniture or a shade of paint to increase luck and happiness.
After fifteen months of dating Emily Prentiss, Dave felt he had the best deal around. Emily didn't have projects. In fifteen months, she hadn't changed a single thing in Dave's house and from what he could tell, nothing in her own apartment either. His Sunday afternoon football time was spent actually watching football, usually with Emily on the couch next to him and pizza on the coffee table. The only thing she wanted to do with his beat-up old leather couch was sprawl on it and read one of her books. If Dave wanted to sit there, too, he usually only had to let her use his leg as a pillow, and considering the number of times that position had lead to a slow, wet blowjob, he wasn't about to complain.
The point is, he's understandably caught off-guard when Emily looks out the window one day and says, out of the blue, "You know what your yard needs? Some flowers beds around the house."
"Over my dead body," Dave says without looking up from his book, because that's how every "project" discussion starts. He waits for Emily to reply with, That can be arranged, or some manner of pleading, but gets a completely different response.
"Okay," Emily says, holding up both palms. "No flowers. Jesus, Rossi." She sounds so put off and hurt that Dave immediately feels bad. He puts down the book and takes off his reading glasses.
"I'm sorry," he says, rubbing the crease the glasses leaves across his nose. "I'm just not much of a landscaper. But I'll say something to the gardener when he comes next month."
"Well, you don't have to do anything," Emily says, still sounding hesitant. "I was just thinking it would be nice to be able to do some planting. I mean, spring's right around the corner and I don't exactly have a yard."
"Emily," Dave says, now more confused than ever, "you kill plants."
"Inside plants," Emily says, sounding mortally offended. "That require water and plant stuff and...companionship."
"What's the difference?" Dave asks.
"Rain," she says firmly. "Outside plants are out in nature. They grow better out there. Look," she says shaking her head. "I didn't mean to impose. I didn't realize it would bother you. Forget I said anything."
Dave shakes his head, too, chagrined. Making Emily uncomfortable in his house is the last thing he'd wants to do. She's far more conscious of boundaries than almost anyone he's ever been with and if she moves the gingerbread-scented body wash out of the bathroom again, he might die of humiliation, asking her to bring it back.
He sighs. "Emily," he says. "You can do whatever you want to my yard. Just leave me the hell out of it, okay?"
"You don't have to get anywhere near it," she agrees.
Dave wakes up Saturday morning to find Emily gone from her side of the bed and a note telling him she'd gone to the nursery. He blinks at the paper in alarm for a few seconds before remembering her plans for the day and that she is going to a plant nursery. Apparently she's really serious about the whole flower bed thing. Plans for morning sex shot, Dave hauls himself out of bed and decides that he might as well get in some exercise before Emily drags her project into his Saturday.
Emily's back when Dave returns from his run. She's standing in the back yard wearing denim shorts, a peach-colored v-neck t-shirt, canvas sneakers without socks, and the most ridiculous hat Dave has ever seen on a person.
"Hey," he says, letting himself out the back door. "You've been busy."
Emily looks around at the flats of flowers at her feet. "I was worried I'd gotten too many," she says, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. "But now I'm not sure there's enough."
Dave jogs down the steps of the deck and surveys her choices. They're pretty little flowers with round petals in shades of white, purple, and bright pink. She has six flats and he's starting to feel a little bad for not helping her haul them around from the car. "What are they?" he asks.
"Impatiens," she replies.
"I was just asking," he deadpans.
"That's what they're called," she says wryly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Reid says I can probably manage not to kill them."
"Thank God for small favors," Dave says.
"Oh, go inside and write or something," Emily tells him, exasperatedly.
Dave smiles and tugs on her ponytail as he goes. He showers and shaves and reads the newspaper. It feels a little strange to be doing it solitary. Not that Emily shadows his every move, but he's used to having her around - or not - and not doing something entirely without him, just out of reach.
Around 11am, his curiosity gets the better of him and he decides to go see how she's doing. The sun is bright through the windows, heating the glass and chasing winter's chill from the house, so Dave fills a glass with cold water and walks around the deck until he finds her on her hands and knees, patting dirt around a small cluster of those impatiens things.
"Hey!" she calls, hearing him approach. "How do they look?"
The impatiens, Dave supposes, look fine, tiny flowers bunching cheerfully along the brick wall. But he only has eyes for the swell of Emily's ass in her denim cut-offs, and the dip of her back, pink - she's starting to burn - where her shirt has slipped up. It's only about four inches of skin, above the waistband of her shorts and below the hem of her shirt, but Dave wants to put his hand on it, his mouth on it, kneel down behind her and pull her up against him, her ass against his dick. Dave's dick is definitely in the driver's seat for this fantasy. He imagines her head falling back against his shoulder as he reaches around to palm her breasts.
"Stunning," he answers, leaning over and touching the cold glass he's holding to that line of exposed skin.
Emily jumps. The noise she makes is not quite a squeal, but gratifying just the same. And it makes her stupid hat fall to the ground. Dave laughs at her expression and admires as she sat back on her heels, reaching back to clasp her hands across the offended area. At this point, he know he'd find anything she did sexy, but the way she was reaching back does thrust her breasts forward nicely and Dave has a front-row view right down the front of her shirt. "I brought you something to drink," he says, holding out the glass and trying not to be too obvious about determining which bra she's wearing. "You've been working hard out here." He waits, still offering the glass. She glares at him and uses a rag to scrub her hands. Finally, she takes the glass warily, as if he may have boobytrapped it to jump out and be cold on some other unsuspecting patch of vulnerable skin.
He has no such tricks up his sleeve, though, and after a couple of sips, Emily closes her eyes and tilts her head back, her throat pulsing as she swallows. Needless to say, Dave is appreciative of that, too. "Thanks," she says, opening her eyes and setting the empty glass on the grass. She wipes the moisture off her hands and then rubs them on her shorts. "I really needed that."
"I thought you might," Dave says, without taking his eyes off her. She tilts her head to catch his eye.
"Did you need something from me?" she asks. Emily's looking up at him with that smile she only wears when she's wearing nothing else, and then her hands are on his belt, sliding the end of the leather through the D-ring and tugging the spike out of the hole.
"Emily!" Dave says, catching her wrists in his hands.
Emily shifts on her knees and Dave's cock let him know just how much he liked that.
"C'mon, Rossi," Emily says softly, testing his grip by moving her hands to unbutton his jeans. He lets her, still cupping his hands around her wrists. She tilts her head as she draws his fly down and says, "When was the last time one of your neighbors actually poked their head over that fence?"
Dave tries to think as she slips her fingers into his jeans, into his boxers, and brushes against the heated, sensitive skin of his cock. She works him easily out of his shorts - she's so good with his cock, knows just how to touch and taste and hold him.
"God, Emily," he says, having forgotten the question. She's going to blow him, right there in the backyard. He's been adventurous in his time, done a few risky - risque - things in his day. But just being with Emily is an amazing high, risky and thrilling, and he doesn't generally need much more thrill than Emily herself.
But he doesn't have any will to resist. She gusts a breath over the length of him and he can't bring himself to protest. Goosebumps rise on his arms and the back of his neck. The air is still a little cool despite the hot sun, and Dave feels it as Emily touches the head of his cock with her tongue and draws him into her mouth.
Emily blows him slowly, luxuriously, almost casually, her tongue working the head and keeping the suction loose. When she gets serious, when she wants him to come, she'll take him deeper, make sure every inch of him is wrapped up in her hand or her mouth, and she'll suck him like a summer popsicle, hard and wet and hungry. But for now he feels more like a lollipop, to belabor the metaphor, dragged in and out, teased, the tip of her tongue tracing lightly over his most sensitive contours.
He loves this, sex for fun, for the joy of feeling good. Emily likes giving him head and knowing that she's having fun, is feeling heady and powerful and pleased with herself, that makes it even better.
She doesn't like him holding her head so he sketches over her features with his thumb, smoothing the lines at the corners of her eyes and tracing her eyebrow before sliding down to stroke her cheek. She immediately lets his cock slip to that side of her mouth so he can feel the head of his own cock against the inside of her cheek.
"Fuck me," Dave murmurs, stroking his other hand down her neck. He can't reach her breasts, which is a shame because they look very good to him.
Emily arches her eyebrow and does something with her tongue that makes Dave's balls tighten up without even being touched. She lets him shift back to center in her mouth again and draws off slowly, with tiny little sweeps of her tongue. She holds him in both hands, the warmth of her fingers and palms making up for the lack of her mouth. "Is that a request?" she asks and then draws the head of his cock back into her mouth. She only lingers long enough to trace his circumference with her tongue and then pulls off and adds, "Or maybe an invitation? Or is that an order, Agent Rossi?"
He knows if he spills in her mouth, gives it up right here, he can still take her upstairs and make her come by any number of methods.
But her skin is glazed with sweat and sun and the memory-fantasy-anticipation of peeling away her shorts and t-shirt and bra and pushing into her, sticky and hot, is irresistible.
"You better bet your ass," he growls, because if he's not just a little bit of an asshole, there's no telling what kind of desperate sentiment might work its way out.
He expects her to hop to her feet, grab his hand, and drag him into the house. Maybe they'll make it to the bedroom or maybe they'll have to detour to a couch, or do it leaning up against a wall. Maybe he'll just bend her over the nearest horizontal surface and he tries to think what's near the back door.
He spends too much time thinking and the button and zipper on her shorts are undone before he realizes she's stripping down right there.
"Emily!" he protests, because all right, a blow job, she's still dressed, he's mostly so. But fucking in the middle of the lawn in the middle of the day? "No way."
"Why not?" she asks. She's braced on her knees, legs apart, and her shorts are just far enough open and down that he can see her underwear is yellow and has some little design on it - maybe flowers.
"Because you'll be naked," he says, knowing he sounds possessive, and also silly, since he's standing there with his dick out, sucked wet and so hard.
"Not all the way," she says. She pushes the shorts down to her knees and sits back. "We can do it like this." She sinks her hands into the grass - it's going to need regular mowing again soon but it's green and lush and her hands push through it easily, blades springing back easily in their wake. "What's the point of having grass this perfect if you don't enjoy it?"
"Fuck, Emily," he says, and then he's behind her, covering her, wrapping himself around her, and pressing up against her back. His knees are going to make him pay tomorrow, maybe even as early as tonight, but right now it's perfect, amazing. She bends into him, folding to her elbows and then he's blocking any exposed bits from the neighbors. Her panties are wet against his dick and he can smell her, musky and rich in the light, sweet scent of the flowers. He guides himself into her, pushing the pretty yellow bikinis aside.
He instinctively seeks her center, where she's hottest, wettest, richest. It's almost better than her mouth and he moves, just to feel the slide of her on his cock. They'd only left condoms behind a few months ago and after a year of feeling her through a rubber, the soft suck of her cunt on the skin of his cock still made him double-blink. Enjoy it, he reminds himself. As much as he wants to rush - they were out-fucking-side and although his yard, and the adjacent yards, were so large and so rarely used that there was almost no chance of getting caught, he still feels like he's 15 and has to finish jerking off to the Playboy he'd gotten from Jimmy's brother before anyone gets home - this was a lazy Saturday morning and Dave wants to concentrate on enjoying every inch of Emily, not rushing through her. So he slows down, fucking into her at a more measured pace, making sure he notices every twitch of her muscles, every contraction, every shiver. Her hair falls straight down on either side of her face, and he reaches out and brushes it all over to the side, over one shoulder, so he can see her.
Emily turns her head and catches his fingers with her lips as he tucks her hair behind her ear. He leans over, lining his chest over her back and puts his hand down in the grass next to hers. He kisses her, even though it's awkward since he's still fucking into her. She laughs into his mouth and he slides his other hand up under her shirt.
Her bra isn't lined and her nipple is hard under his fingers as he spreads his hand over her breast. It's soft and full and ripe and he drags the cup of her bra down so he can flatten his palm against it. Emily gasps and hitches back against him and he thinks that this is the first time he's had the upper hand all morning.
He plunges into her and rubs circles against her breast, and grips the grass in his other hand, tiny soft blades stabbing into his palm, and it's all a haze of warm air and sunshine and the scent of flowers and grass and arousal in the air.
Emily's never been quiet in bed and Dave has never wished for that to change, but when she makes a sharp little cry, he knows she's getting close and he really doesn't need his neighbors calling the police on them. "Shh, Emily," he whispers firmly in her ear. "You can't - You have to - The neighbors - " She glances over her shoulder at him, biting her lip, hair falling in her face. "Shh," he says again. "You have to be quiet Emily."
"So do you," she returns in a voice only a shade louder than a whisper, even though they'd been speaking in regular tones before. She takes a deep, shaky breath, and he can't take his eyes off her face even as her cunt tightens around him.
"You have to be quiet Em," he pleads as she ducks her head and shudders from her shoulders to her hips. Dave can feel it in her pussy, the reverberations pulsing around his cock as he pushed in and out of her. She doesn't move for a moment, then she clenches hard around him and lets her breath out in a long, nearly-silent sigh. She jerks her hips forward with a tiny gasp that has him begging, "Shhh," prematurely. And then she relaxes around him and lifts her head glancing back over her shoulder.
"Your turn," she rasps and her eyes are hot. Dave's wound tight, tense with the shock of watching her orgasm so quietly. It's like being with someone else and still with Emily - new and amazing, intriguing, and still safe and comfortable.
Dave buries his face in Emily's hair and groans with the intensity of the orgasm that shudders through his body. His mouth is dry and Emily's hair smells like peach shampoo and sunshine and impatiens. He brushes his cheek over her hair, over her cotton t-shirt, and he's still a little lightheaded when he eases out of her and kisses the small of her back.
He rolls off her and sprawls on his back in the grass. The sun warms his face and a faint breeze reminds him that he's still exposed. He tucks himself carefully back into his boxers and jeans and zips himself up. He glances over at Emily, who is lifting her hips and pulling her shorts back up. She's beautifully mussed and if he had the least bit of energy, he'd muss her some more, just for fun. "You should go in and get cleaned up," he says. His stomach makes itself known and he glances at the watch on his wrist. "It's almost noon," he says. "You want to go get lunch?"
"I can't go anywhere yet," Emily says, making some adjustment that pops her bra back in place. She sits up, running one hand through her hair, where some grass has taken up residence. He can still see her nipples through her shirt. "I've still got two flats of these things to plant. I can't just leave them out here."
The words come out of his mouth almost before he knows he's saying them. "I'll help," he says. "It'll take half the time."
Emily arches an eyebrow. "I thought you weren't going anywhere near them," she says.
Dave shrugs helplessly, because projects with his wives were trials, but now all he wants is for Emily to be done and to spend time with him and he's willing, even eager, to plant stupid little flowers for that privilege. "Maybe I just want you to get done faster," he says. "So I can spend time with you."
"You know," Emily says, smiling and reaching over to brush grass off his shoulder. "W.H. Auden said, Perhaps there is only one cardinal sin: Impatience.
The End