Between God and the Devil
Title: Between God and the Devil*
Pairing: Rose Gillette/Patrick MacHeath (omg, first het EVER, so... bear with me)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Just read it. :) Shameless PWP... well, as PWP as it gets with me. lol
Disclaimer: Rose belongs to
ophelivia, and Patrick *sighs* he'd kill me if I said I own him, so...
*title taken from Jeanette Winterson's The Passion: "Somewhere between fear and sex. Somewhere between God and the Devil passion is, and the way there is sudden and the way back is worse."
And of course this is a birthday present for Liv, so *clears her throat* Happy Birthday toooo youuuuu... If you don't stop, I swear I'll pull the trigger. Um... ok, Patrick's threatening my life, so... you know how the song goes anyway... :)
Between God and the Devil
She’s all over him the moment he closes the door. Lips locked in a mute dance of passion, mimicked by the impatient movements of their entangled bodies. She’s as fast in freeing him from his clothes as only a woman of her profession and wild nature can be, but his fingers aren’t virginal either when it comes to women’s laces. That doesn’t mean he has to like the dull struggle with lifeless fabric just to get to her skin.
“You could have had the decency to undress, Rose.” He whispers to her, scraping his teeth over her ear. Not for the first time, he’s glad she has such a plain and fitting name, he couldn’t be bothered to remember it otherwise. But her fiery red hair always reminds him and he has seen her thorns more often than he can count. They are what keep him coming back.
It’s the same every time. He makes a remark on her dress - the first of only few words spoken between them - and as she pushes him on the bed, she smiles like the bashful virgin she has never been. He, at least, can’t imagine her as anything other than what she is now. There, above him. Her long hair a curtain, shielding them from the world. Her skin burning with want. Worshipping his firm chest with lips, tongue and finger before sliding lower, her eyes twinkling with the promise of even sweeter pleasures.
She loves his body. Or maybe she’s just so accustomed to faking lust that not even she can tell the difference anymore. He knows he wouldn’t be able to and doesn’t care to pretend he wants to. Instead he gives himself to pleasure as she takes him in her mouth and sucks greedily on his cock. He doesn’t even need to bury his hand in her long hair to control her movements, she has learned what he likes by now and can push him close to the edge in mere minutes if she chooses to. Today she does. She’s eager. The thought makes him look down at her with a slightly amused grin on his face.
She looks at him with that devilish fire in her eyes that is a clear indicator of what’s to come. It’s always the same. And his palm is already aching for the contact with her cheek. She started calling him Patty instead of Patrick after only a week. It earned her a painful slap that first time and every time since. His slaps are not to be played with, the angry red mark of his palm is always visible even next morning. She does it anyway. Always. Her eyes challenging him to try harder.
Today is no exception. She slides up his body, her trembling lips feigning the innocence of the prey but her eyes show her true nature of the predator, reminding him why he always comes back to her. A challenge. A silent battle without stakes. Her blazing hair like the fiery anger of a volcano. Her highs like mountains to climb. Her depth like a dark cave - wet, inviting and perilous. The plane surface of her body scarred like the face of the earth. And her eyes, violent and volatile like the sea - reminding him of childish tales about the feared sea goddess he had never believed in.
“Fuck me…” She can’t stop a teasing grin as her lips open to pronounce the word that would earn a painful reward. His hand is already moving, prepared for the blow. A smug grin already forming on his face. She leans close to him, her breath seductively playing on his lips as she speaks in a low whisper. “Patrick…”
Any other man couldn’t have stopped his hand once in the air for such a hard blow but his reflexes had always been fast. She surprised him again. And her short, victorious laugh as she looks at his arm frozen mid-blow, makes his blood burn with desire. He flips her on her back, holding her arms over hear head. She opens her legs instinctively and he pushes inside without warning or hesitation. A low chuckle escapes him at her keen moan, which makes her narrow her eyes and move her hips slightly. It sends ripples of pleasure down his spine, forcing a deep moan out of him. Oh, yes, she’s born for this. He can’t imagine she’d be fit for anything but being a whore. He once whispered this in her ear while pounding into her. It earned him a painful bite in his lower lip and fingers violently clutching at his hair. But she came harder than ever before, her eyes raging with a fatal storm of fire. That was the only time he thought her pretty.
Normally he wouldn’t describe her as beautiful. He doesn’t like how she screws up her face when in pleasure, but he definitely enjoys the way her back arches off the bed, bringing her breasts closer to his body. Her hard nipples barely brushing against the soft hair on his chest. And he likes coming inside her soft warmth that is so unlike the rest of her. It’s strange that her body seems so much warmer than her heart. But it’s not her heart that keeps him coming back, is it? It’s this. This moan, somewhere between practised teasing and true passion. Her eager wetness that makes him forget she’s a whore and her too knowing movements that constantly remind him and urge him towards the edge.
They pretend he’s not just another customer. It gives her the freedom to tend to her own needs too, if she should feel like it. Sometimes she flips him over after his release and with his slowly softening cock deep inside her, she rubs herself against his body until she cries out too. On other nights she’s just content with the feeling of his come tainting her thighs as he pulls out of her. He can never tell which way she’d go.
This time she lets him pull out after his violent release, but grabs his strong arm before he could move away, and presses one of his fingers inside her. Not enough to make her scream with pleasure, not even a teasing pressure, not after she had his cock inside. It’s just there. Here release is silent this time, only a barely audible sigh. Her grip on his wrist increases and she’s pulling his finger even deeper. She’s still for a second, waiting for the last shiver to pass, with her eyes closed and mouth open.
Another man might kiss her now, he thinks. But he just waits for her to let go of his hand. She surprises him again as she sits up and crawls closer to him, taking his finger in her mouth, scraping her teeth along its length, and tasting the mixed flavour of their passion. It’s not enough to make him want her again, just a gentle, unnecessary reminder that this was not the last time.
But as she releases him, they both reach for their clothes with the practiced movements of a forming habit. They don’t waste glances on each other. They’re not lovers. They’re not quite sure what they are, though. They didn’t bother to name it. They pretend he’s a casual fuck. Not work but pleasure. Though lacking any tender, tedious bonds. They agreed a long time ago he wouldn’t pay. He still leaves the appropriate sum on the bed every time. She never complains.
There are no goodbyes either, they’ll see each other soon enough anyway. No farewells, no overly romantic caresses, no overrated kisses, no regrets. Just the harsh clinking sound of money falling onto the bed that he doesn’t care to disguise and the dull thud of the closing door.
Pairing: Rose Gillette/Patrick MacHeath (omg, first het EVER, so... bear with me)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Just read it. :) Shameless PWP... well, as PWP as it gets with me. lol
Disclaimer: Rose belongs to
ophelivia, and Patrick *sighs* he'd kill me if I said I own him, so...
*title taken from Jeanette Winterson's The Passion: "Somewhere between fear and sex. Somewhere between God and the Devil passion is, and the way there is sudden and the way back is worse."
And of course this is a birthday present for Liv, so *clears her throat* Happy Birthday toooo youuuuu... If you don't stop, I swear I'll pull the trigger. Um... ok, Patrick's threatening my life, so... you know how the song goes anyway... :)
Between God and the Devil
She’s all over him the moment he closes the door. Lips locked in a mute dance of passion, mimicked by the impatient movements of their entangled bodies. She’s as fast in freeing him from his clothes as only a woman of her profession and wild nature can be, but his fingers aren’t virginal either when it comes to women’s laces. That doesn’t mean he has to like the dull struggle with lifeless fabric just to get to her skin.
“You could have had the decency to undress, Rose.” He whispers to her, scraping his teeth over her ear. Not for the first time, he’s glad she has such a plain and fitting name, he couldn’t be bothered to remember it otherwise. But her fiery red hair always reminds him and he has seen her thorns more often than he can count. They are what keep him coming back.
It’s the same every time. He makes a remark on her dress - the first of only few words spoken between them - and as she pushes him on the bed, she smiles like the bashful virgin she has never been. He, at least, can’t imagine her as anything other than what she is now. There, above him. Her long hair a curtain, shielding them from the world. Her skin burning with want. Worshipping his firm chest with lips, tongue and finger before sliding lower, her eyes twinkling with the promise of even sweeter pleasures.
She loves his body. Or maybe she’s just so accustomed to faking lust that not even she can tell the difference anymore. He knows he wouldn’t be able to and doesn’t care to pretend he wants to. Instead he gives himself to pleasure as she takes him in her mouth and sucks greedily on his cock. He doesn’t even need to bury his hand in her long hair to control her movements, she has learned what he likes by now and can push him close to the edge in mere minutes if she chooses to. Today she does. She’s eager. The thought makes him look down at her with a slightly amused grin on his face.
She looks at him with that devilish fire in her eyes that is a clear indicator of what’s to come. It’s always the same. And his palm is already aching for the contact with her cheek. She started calling him Patty instead of Patrick after only a week. It earned her a painful slap that first time and every time since. His slaps are not to be played with, the angry red mark of his palm is always visible even next morning. She does it anyway. Always. Her eyes challenging him to try harder.
Today is no exception. She slides up his body, her trembling lips feigning the innocence of the prey but her eyes show her true nature of the predator, reminding him why he always comes back to her. A challenge. A silent battle without stakes. Her blazing hair like the fiery anger of a volcano. Her highs like mountains to climb. Her depth like a dark cave - wet, inviting and perilous. The plane surface of her body scarred like the face of the earth. And her eyes, violent and volatile like the sea - reminding him of childish tales about the feared sea goddess he had never believed in.
“Fuck me…” She can’t stop a teasing grin as her lips open to pronounce the word that would earn a painful reward. His hand is already moving, prepared for the blow. A smug grin already forming on his face. She leans close to him, her breath seductively playing on his lips as she speaks in a low whisper. “Patrick…”
Any other man couldn’t have stopped his hand once in the air for such a hard blow but his reflexes had always been fast. She surprised him again. And her short, victorious laugh as she looks at his arm frozen mid-blow, makes his blood burn with desire. He flips her on her back, holding her arms over hear head. She opens her legs instinctively and he pushes inside without warning or hesitation. A low chuckle escapes him at her keen moan, which makes her narrow her eyes and move her hips slightly. It sends ripples of pleasure down his spine, forcing a deep moan out of him. Oh, yes, she’s born for this. He can’t imagine she’d be fit for anything but being a whore. He once whispered this in her ear while pounding into her. It earned him a painful bite in his lower lip and fingers violently clutching at his hair. But she came harder than ever before, her eyes raging with a fatal storm of fire. That was the only time he thought her pretty.
Normally he wouldn’t describe her as beautiful. He doesn’t like how she screws up her face when in pleasure, but he definitely enjoys the way her back arches off the bed, bringing her breasts closer to his body. Her hard nipples barely brushing against the soft hair on his chest. And he likes coming inside her soft warmth that is so unlike the rest of her. It’s strange that her body seems so much warmer than her heart. But it’s not her heart that keeps him coming back, is it? It’s this. This moan, somewhere between practised teasing and true passion. Her eager wetness that makes him forget she’s a whore and her too knowing movements that constantly remind him and urge him towards the edge.
They pretend he’s not just another customer. It gives her the freedom to tend to her own needs too, if she should feel like it. Sometimes she flips him over after his release and with his slowly softening cock deep inside her, she rubs herself against his body until she cries out too. On other nights she’s just content with the feeling of his come tainting her thighs as he pulls out of her. He can never tell which way she’d go.
This time she lets him pull out after his violent release, but grabs his strong arm before he could move away, and presses one of his fingers inside her. Not enough to make her scream with pleasure, not even a teasing pressure, not after she had his cock inside. It’s just there. Here release is silent this time, only a barely audible sigh. Her grip on his wrist increases and she’s pulling his finger even deeper. She’s still for a second, waiting for the last shiver to pass, with her eyes closed and mouth open.
Another man might kiss her now, he thinks. But he just waits for her to let go of his hand. She surprises him again as she sits up and crawls closer to him, taking his finger in her mouth, scraping her teeth along its length, and tasting the mixed flavour of their passion. It’s not enough to make him want her again, just a gentle, unnecessary reminder that this was not the last time.
But as she releases him, they both reach for their clothes with the practiced movements of a forming habit. They don’t waste glances on each other. They’re not lovers. They’re not quite sure what they are, though. They didn’t bother to name it. They pretend he’s a casual fuck. Not work but pleasure. Though lacking any tender, tedious bonds. They agreed a long time ago he wouldn’t pay. He still leaves the appropriate sum on the bed every time. She never complains.
There are no goodbyes either, they’ll see each other soon enough anyway. No farewells, no overly romantic caresses, no overrated kisses, no regrets. Just the harsh clinking sound of money falling onto the bed that he doesn’t care to disguise and the dull thud of the closing door.