In the Evening
In the Evening
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Runaways
Characters: Dale and Stacey Yorkes
Warnings: Sex
Disclaimer: This is me owning nothing.
1984 isn’t so bad, he thinks, watching Stacey as she lay on the floor, fiddling with some piece of the portico.
Dale’s long since stopped bothering. The Gibborim have offered them a sweet deal and they’ve got a nice place, and for the first time in while, they’re not running from something.
And it’s not like they have to go and fight a war, or something. Worst decade in history, or no.
Stacey makes a frustrated noise from her place on he floor.
"What is it, my love?" he asks.
She drops the equipment and the tool she’s been using and pushes herself up.
"It’s useless. I’ve been working on that piece-that one piece-for three days. We’re never getting out of here," she snapped.
She’s kneeling on the floor in a way he finds very attractive. He’ll never tell her that. She’d just stop doing it and get offended. But he does like the way she looks up at him and frowns in concentration.
"Why don’t you join me on the couch, then?" he asks, hopeful, patting the cushion next to him.
She sighs, pulls off her boots, and curls up against his side, drawing her feet up under her. He drapes his arm over her shoulders.
"I guess this doesn’t suck as bad as it could," she says, using a word she’d not used since they’d left home.
"Suck? That’s one I haven’t heard in that context for quite some time."
"Nevermind."
"Janet has been teaching you words again, hasn’t she?" he teases.
She sticks her tongue out at him and he runs his fingernails through her hair, grazing her scalp. He rolls his eyes. She grins at him.
"She has also been teaching me actions," Stacey says, but it’s lost, at least to her, as she looks into his eyes, and loses herself, as well.
He presses a kiss to her forehead, breaking the spell and the lovely picture he knows they make in the living room window. She shivers and sighs and doesn’t open her eyes for a moment.
Dale wraps his free hand around her wrist and pulls her over into his lap, gentle, warm, easy. He’s always been afraid he’d break her if he were too rough with her and now is no exception. She doesn’t fight back and he takes that as a good sign.
She’s leaning against the arm of the couch, watching him, calculating. It was odd being on the receiving end of one of those looks. Like being sized up for a fight, only with less fight. She cocks her head to the side and ‘hmmms,’ as if to say, "I know exactly what you want, but you’re going to have to work for it." And he will, he knows, because she has him wrapped around her little finger tight enough to cut off circulation, and he’s completely at her mercy for the time being.
She touches his face. Her glove is smooth from use and her hand is strong beneath it. He covers it with his own, wrapping his fingers around hers. She gives him a shy look, like the ones she used to give him in school, like he’s going to bite her, but she’s not so sure she’d mind. He draws the hand around to his mouth and kisses it instead.
"Darling," she whispers, starting to say something else, but he cuts her off, pressing his lips to hers. Soft. Warm. She moans.
"Yes, my love?"
She smiles up at him, eyes half-lidded. "Nevermind."
"I never do," he teases.
She grabs a handful of his hair and tugs it playfully, sitting up to straddle his hips in a way she’d thought obscene not too long ago.
He reaches for her goggles and the clasp of her cloak, and drops them both to the floor behind her.
"Dale!"
She is oddly exposed without them. He’s so used to seeing her in them that even seeing her in the clothes Catharine and Janet helped her find is strange beyond words. He runs his hands down her sides, eyes following the path of his hands.
She reaches up and grabs his in retaliation, as his palms find her hips and he looks back up to her face, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth.
They share a laugh, and his hands begin their journey back up, under her shirt this time.
She yelps and pushes him away-or, tries to. She succeeds in almost falling backwards off the couch in a most undignified manner, and he catches her, pulling her back up by one hand.
Stacey falls against his chest, leaning her head on his shoulder, and he takes advantage of the situation to slide both hands under her shirt, one just high enough to hold her, and the other higher.
"Dale! We can’t do this here!"
"I fail to see why not."
His fingers find the clasp of her brassiere and he flips it open with one hand and a vague snapping motion.
She pushes on him, with much less force this time, and crosses her arms over her chest.
"The window is wide open and the neighbors will see," she scolds.
"Probably nothing they’ve never seen before," he points out. "The Steins do live next door, after all."
She frowns at him. He reaches for the drawstring and tugs it, letting the blinds fall shut behind them, closing them off from the street outside. Her frown deepens.
"Would you like me to draw the curtains, as well? I can reach one from here, but you’ll have to help me with the other," he says.
They are effectively shielded as it is, but Stacey is modest.
"It’s just not proper, undressing on the couch," she says.
"We could get off the couch to undress," he replies. He grins at her suggestively and she shifts. Her eyes widen and she pauses. "Stacey?"
She stands up and looks away from him, mortally embarrassed, even though there’s no one there to see them.
"It’s just not proper," she repeats, and runs to lock herself in the bedroom.
Congratulations, he reprimands himself. You’ve managed to ruin the mood with just as much finesse as last time.
He stands up to follow her, pausing to adjust himself and to pick up her things, setting them on the end table. He taps on the door.
"Stacey?" he calls, hopeful.
When no answer is forthcoming, he opens the bedroom door and steps inside.
She’s sitting on the far side, her side, snapping the clasp back into place. The blush runs from the top of her head to the middle of her back, and he knows it’s mirrored on the front. He walks around the bed and sits down next to her.
It’s fairly dark in this room. It’s too early to turn on lights, but the curtains are all drawn shut. He wraps his arms around her and holds her for a moment. She does not pull away, and he remains hopeful.
"I did not mean to offend you, my love," he says.
"I… No, it’s just… It’s not proper."
"I know, and I am sorry."
"The neighbors might have seen."
"Yes, my love. I was out of line."
"I shouldn’t have started it."
He silences her, pressing two gloved fingers to her lips. She closes her eyes and bows her head demurely.
"Is it proper to do such things in the bedroom?" he asks, teasing.
She gives him a startled look. "I-I suppose…"
He smiles gently at her and jumps to his feet. "I shall avenge your honor, and challenge my actions on the couch to a duel!" he declares.
She giggles. "Yes, my hero!" she cries, playing along.
"Hah!" He pulls an imaginary sword from thin air and brandishes it at the door. "Oh, this will be difficult."
Stacey covers her mouth with her hands and laughs into them. "You’ll win, I know you will!"
He lunges like a fencer and jumps back. "There! Defeated! You’ll never be untoward with anyone again!"
She falls back on the bed, laughing uncontrollably. He turns and watches her for a moment, before chuckling a bit himself.
"My-my hero," she chokes out, between gasping for breath and giggling.
"Ah, darling," he says, sighing dramatically. "Anything for you."
She sits up, pulling the band out of her hair, and tosses her head, sending a spray of red over one shoulder in a way he can’t resist.
He pulls his gloves off and reaches out to touch it, running bare fingers through soft strands. He lets out a little moan, dropping the gloves on the nightstand, before reaching out and tangling the other hand in the silky mass, as well.
She meets his eyes and smiles. He gazes down at her and shivers.
They haven’t had much of a chance to be together since the portico broke down. He hadn’t realized how much he’s missed it.
Time-hopping was an unpleasant experience. The feeling of having ones molecules torn apart, and the idea of needing the faith in the machine that it’ll pull them back together was always mildly terrifying. But at least they’d been together the entire time.
She brings her hands up and hooks them around his wrists.
"Dale."
It’s all that’s needed. She doesn’t have to ask for anything, just speak one syllable, four little letters, and he’ll melt in her hands.
"Darling."
He reluctantly removes his hands and sits down on the bed beside her once more, pulling her into a long, long, long kiss.
She sighs when he pulls out of it, leaning against his shoulder, eyes closed, lips parted, hands folded in her lap. Hair a mess.
He watches her longer than he intends to. Her eyes open, slowly, ever so slowly, and she turns them on him, questioning. No. Stacey never questions. She inquires. He answers, meeting her eyes, and laying her back on the bed.
She settles in and takes off her gloves, still seeming strangely undressed.
He stretches out beside her, facing her. She turns her face to him and smiles nervously. She always smiles nervously before…
He kisses the tip of her nose.
"May I?" he asks, not wanting to scare her off again.
She edges closer to him and catches him in a kiss; quick, sweet, sharp.
He’s incredibly hard. It never takes long for him to reach this state, not with her, anyway. It’s part of the reason he married her, and part of the reason he never wants to be without her. Nevermind that he doesn’t think he’d be able to breathe without her.
She’s so pretty in these moments, and he just watches her for a few minutes.
She blushes and turns her eyes away after a few seconds.
Her hands find the buttons on his jacket. He’d forgotten he still had it on, but it only made sense, he supposes. She pops the buttons loose and pushes it back over his shoulders.
He sits up and pulls his shirt off over his head. She reaches up and tweaks a nipple, and it’s his turn to blush. She’s not usually so aggressive.
"Stacey, my love," he says. She cocks her head, but he has nothing really to say.
She responds with, "My darling," and he throws the shirt off of the bed.
Stacey looks up at him with pleading eyes. He’s not sure what it is she’s asking him for, but he aims to find out.
He leans over her, hands resting on her hips, fingers toying with the hem of her shirt. She smiles encouragingly. And he slides his hands underneath. He is not thrown off this time.
Dale smiles and muses that they still tremble when they touch. It’s something his parents had stopped doing long before he was born. Then again, maybe they never did at all. But he’s always moved by Stacey. And she, apparently, is always moved by him.
Her eyes are huge by the time his fingers unfasten her brassier and his lips find hers in another long kiss, tongue pushing past her lips, past her teeth, slipping into her mouth and teasing hers into a tender battle. He brings his hands back around her to cup her breasts. She arches under him, moaning softly into his mouth.
He braces himself with sheer willpower and swings one leg over her body, holding the kiss, holding her breasts, and coming to rest with one knee on either side of her body.
She pulls back, gasping for air.
"Dale," she whispers. "Oh, darling."
His father’s explanation of sex had been methodical. Like an experiment one had to repeat until the desired results had been achieved.
Stacey had proven his father’s theory wrong on so many occasions he’d lost count.
He rubs a nipple gently, just to get a reaction. She throws her head back and moans. She’s sensitive today. It’s so much better when she’s sensitive. Some days it took all he had just to get anything out of her besides, "Harder, please!"
She grabs his bare shoulders and pulls herself up. They’ve perfected this one. She holds on and he pulls her shirt off, getting it over her head and off of her wrists just as she hits the bed again.
Her breasts bounce nicely and he finds himself watching them until they come mostly to rest, disturbed only by her breathing and occasional shivers.
It is cold in the room.
"Would you like me to warm you up?"
She smiles a sweet half-smile at him and holds out her arms, inviting.
Their bare chests press together. He leans on his elbows to take some weight off of her and stretches his legs out to tangle with hers, holding her tight to him.
He turns his head and kisses her neck, extracting moans and sighs and quiet little noises. He works his way up to her ear, nibbling on the outer edge a little and murmuring-he doesn’t know what he’s saying, but she likes it, so he doesn’t stop.
Stacey slides her knee up, pressing it to his crotch, getting an odd angle that nonetheless feels delightful. Then she runs her nails up his spine, just to push his buttons.
It’s successful. He rises, back arching, and gasps.
She bites his collarbone with the delicacy of the dinosaur in the basement, then sucks on the mark, running her tongue over muscle and skin and bone. He whimpers, half-pain, half-need, a pinch of desire, and a dash of ‘no more.’
His manhood throbs and he knows he’ll just come in his trousers if he’s not careful, and it was miserable trying to get semen stains out of leather.
He pulls back, rising to his hands and knees and gives her a look that tells all. She moves up to sit against the headboard, sliding out from under him with ease. He sits up, settling on his knees, and reaches for her, intending to kiss her.
She turns her head away and doesn’t look at him for a long moment, screwing up her courage to try this thing Janet was talking about, and she’s not sure how it works, and she’s not sure she wants to do it, but she’s willing to try, and she turns her eyes to the bulge in his pants.
She’s convinced the moment will disappear if she doesn’t decide soon, so she takes a deep breath and stretches out a hand.
"Stacey?"
She doesn’t look at him. He worries.
"Darling?"
Her fingers find the buttons at the front of his trousers-he always was a stickler for details-and shakingly release them. She leans forward, trying not to flinch or tremble, and failing at both.
"Stacey, darling, what are you doing?"
He slips a hand around the back of her neck, tilting her face back up, and covering himself with the other.
"I-I was just… Janet was," she falters. "Janet was talking about it and-and I thought…"
He kisses her, because it seems like the thing to do. She calms and he separates himself just enough to mumble something meaningless and unintelligible before her hand reaches past his and she’s touching him.
It’s tentative and gentle; always is. She pets it and waits for his approval.
It hits him that such a strong woman as his wife always seems to be asking for permission, even when she knows she has it. Even when she doesn’t though, he reasons, she goes through with whatever she’d planned anyway.
He moves his hand, realeases her neck, and she wrests herself into a more comfortable position. She squeezes him, kneeling in front of him, and rests her forehead against his chest for a few seconds. When she’s sure she isn’t going to panic, she leans down and wraps her lips around the head of his penis.
He blushes, watching her, and goes to say something, only to have it come out as a moan. How long, he wonders, has it been since someone’s done this for him?
She’s inexperienced and clumsy, scrapes him with her teeth a little too hard a couple of times, but just watching her red head bob up and down is enough to bring him off.
He tries to warn her. Can’t get the words out. She chokes, gags, almost throws up over the side of the bed. He wraps his arms around her and holds her until she’s not heaving anymore.
She leans against him. "I’m sorry," she mumbles.
"Hush and don’t be."
She coughs. Wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. Sits up to look at him.
"Was it… Was it alright?" she asks, terrified of the answer.
"It was fine," he assures her, hardening again already.
She notices and smiles a tiny private smile. One of those enigmatic expressions that had captivated him.
"My love. You know it is rude to point," she scolds teasingly, feeling like a bad cliché.
He laughs out loud at this. Pushes her onto her back.
"Is it now? I don’t seem to recall you complaining any other time," he mock-pouts.
"Most of the time, I can’t see it, now, can I?"
He smirks at her and flips her belt open, then pulls her soft pants down, not bothering with buttons or zipper. It’s a little harder than he wanted it to be, and he feels a bit awkward, but she sqeezes her thighs together, crosses her arms, and tries to look modest in nothing but her lacy unmentionables.
He takes in the sight and works his boots off, dropping them on the floor. She turns a pretty shade of pink, starting at her hairline and working its way slowly down to her pink nipples. His pants join the boots. She shimmies out of her panties and they sit together for a moment, exposed, and it’s like they’ve just met, with fire raging between them and nerves exploding.
He’s terrified he’ll do something wrong.
She’s terrified she’ll say the wrong thing.
He stares at her, eyes wide and honest. She stares back, eyes heavy-lidded and nervous.
He runs a hand up one smooth leg, leans down to kiss her, and brings himself into her.
She gasps, mouth opening and allowing his tongue to slide in. And it all goes so fast after that.
He pushes, moans, balls pressing against her, then retreating, as slow as he can go, as gentle as he can be.
Her body arches as he hits something inside her that makes her see blue, and she’s sure she screams, but not sure at the same time. It doesn’t matter. He does it again.
And again.
And again.
He leans down, sucking on a nipple, massaging her other breast, feeling her writhe beneath him. Her hands tangle in his hair and she squeezes, and it pulls, and a few strands separate from his scalp.
He thrusts in, hard, fast, sharp. He sits up, ignoring the fact that she still holds his hair, and reaches down, touching her, rubbing her soft femininity until she thrashes wildly, hands gripping the comforter.
She comes. He feels her tighten around him, convulsing in ways that she just cannot seem to help. Her back arches impossibly, and she lets out a thin keen with all the intensity of an atomic bomb.
It’s only a few seconds before he comes as well, filling her, moving just so.
He slides out of her and lays down beside her.
She’s beautiful and warm and coming down off of her high gasping for breath. He reaches for her. She reaches for him. Outside, the sun sets and their worries slip away with it.
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Runaways
Characters: Dale and Stacey Yorkes
Warnings: Sex
Disclaimer: This is me owning nothing.
1984 isn’t so bad, he thinks, watching Stacey as she lay on the floor, fiddling with some piece of the portico.
Dale’s long since stopped bothering. The Gibborim have offered them a sweet deal and they’ve got a nice place, and for the first time in while, they’re not running from something.
And it’s not like they have to go and fight a war, or something. Worst decade in history, or no.
Stacey makes a frustrated noise from her place on he floor.
"What is it, my love?" he asks.
She drops the equipment and the tool she’s been using and pushes herself up.
"It’s useless. I’ve been working on that piece-that one piece-for three days. We’re never getting out of here," she snapped.
She’s kneeling on the floor in a way he finds very attractive. He’ll never tell her that. She’d just stop doing it and get offended. But he does like the way she looks up at him and frowns in concentration.
"Why don’t you join me on the couch, then?" he asks, hopeful, patting the cushion next to him.
She sighs, pulls off her boots, and curls up against his side, drawing her feet up under her. He drapes his arm over her shoulders.
"I guess this doesn’t suck as bad as it could," she says, using a word she’d not used since they’d left home.
"Suck? That’s one I haven’t heard in that context for quite some time."
"Nevermind."
"Janet has been teaching you words again, hasn’t she?" he teases.
She sticks her tongue out at him and he runs his fingernails through her hair, grazing her scalp. He rolls his eyes. She grins at him.
"She has also been teaching me actions," Stacey says, but it’s lost, at least to her, as she looks into his eyes, and loses herself, as well.
He presses a kiss to her forehead, breaking the spell and the lovely picture he knows they make in the living room window. She shivers and sighs and doesn’t open her eyes for a moment.
Dale wraps his free hand around her wrist and pulls her over into his lap, gentle, warm, easy. He’s always been afraid he’d break her if he were too rough with her and now is no exception. She doesn’t fight back and he takes that as a good sign.
She’s leaning against the arm of the couch, watching him, calculating. It was odd being on the receiving end of one of those looks. Like being sized up for a fight, only with less fight. She cocks her head to the side and ‘hmmms,’ as if to say, "I know exactly what you want, but you’re going to have to work for it." And he will, he knows, because she has him wrapped around her little finger tight enough to cut off circulation, and he’s completely at her mercy for the time being.
She touches his face. Her glove is smooth from use and her hand is strong beneath it. He covers it with his own, wrapping his fingers around hers. She gives him a shy look, like the ones she used to give him in school, like he’s going to bite her, but she’s not so sure she’d mind. He draws the hand around to his mouth and kisses it instead.
"Darling," she whispers, starting to say something else, but he cuts her off, pressing his lips to hers. Soft. Warm. She moans.
"Yes, my love?"
She smiles up at him, eyes half-lidded. "Nevermind."
"I never do," he teases.
She grabs a handful of his hair and tugs it playfully, sitting up to straddle his hips in a way she’d thought obscene not too long ago.
He reaches for her goggles and the clasp of her cloak, and drops them both to the floor behind her.
"Dale!"
She is oddly exposed without them. He’s so used to seeing her in them that even seeing her in the clothes Catharine and Janet helped her find is strange beyond words. He runs his hands down her sides, eyes following the path of his hands.
She reaches up and grabs his in retaliation, as his palms find her hips and he looks back up to her face, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth.
They share a laugh, and his hands begin their journey back up, under her shirt this time.
She yelps and pushes him away-or, tries to. She succeeds in almost falling backwards off the couch in a most undignified manner, and he catches her, pulling her back up by one hand.
Stacey falls against his chest, leaning her head on his shoulder, and he takes advantage of the situation to slide both hands under her shirt, one just high enough to hold her, and the other higher.
"Dale! We can’t do this here!"
"I fail to see why not."
His fingers find the clasp of her brassiere and he flips it open with one hand and a vague snapping motion.
She pushes on him, with much less force this time, and crosses her arms over her chest.
"The window is wide open and the neighbors will see," she scolds.
"Probably nothing they’ve never seen before," he points out. "The Steins do live next door, after all."
She frowns at him. He reaches for the drawstring and tugs it, letting the blinds fall shut behind them, closing them off from the street outside. Her frown deepens.
"Would you like me to draw the curtains, as well? I can reach one from here, but you’ll have to help me with the other," he says.
They are effectively shielded as it is, but Stacey is modest.
"It’s just not proper, undressing on the couch," she says.
"We could get off the couch to undress," he replies. He grins at her suggestively and she shifts. Her eyes widen and she pauses. "Stacey?"
She stands up and looks away from him, mortally embarrassed, even though there’s no one there to see them.
"It’s just not proper," she repeats, and runs to lock herself in the bedroom.
Congratulations, he reprimands himself. You’ve managed to ruin the mood with just as much finesse as last time.
He stands up to follow her, pausing to adjust himself and to pick up her things, setting them on the end table. He taps on the door.
"Stacey?" he calls, hopeful.
When no answer is forthcoming, he opens the bedroom door and steps inside.
She’s sitting on the far side, her side, snapping the clasp back into place. The blush runs from the top of her head to the middle of her back, and he knows it’s mirrored on the front. He walks around the bed and sits down next to her.
It’s fairly dark in this room. It’s too early to turn on lights, but the curtains are all drawn shut. He wraps his arms around her and holds her for a moment. She does not pull away, and he remains hopeful.
"I did not mean to offend you, my love," he says.
"I… No, it’s just… It’s not proper."
"I know, and I am sorry."
"The neighbors might have seen."
"Yes, my love. I was out of line."
"I shouldn’t have started it."
He silences her, pressing two gloved fingers to her lips. She closes her eyes and bows her head demurely.
"Is it proper to do such things in the bedroom?" he asks, teasing.
She gives him a startled look. "I-I suppose…"
He smiles gently at her and jumps to his feet. "I shall avenge your honor, and challenge my actions on the couch to a duel!" he declares.
She giggles. "Yes, my hero!" she cries, playing along.
"Hah!" He pulls an imaginary sword from thin air and brandishes it at the door. "Oh, this will be difficult."
Stacey covers her mouth with her hands and laughs into them. "You’ll win, I know you will!"
He lunges like a fencer and jumps back. "There! Defeated! You’ll never be untoward with anyone again!"
She falls back on the bed, laughing uncontrollably. He turns and watches her for a moment, before chuckling a bit himself.
"My-my hero," she chokes out, between gasping for breath and giggling.
"Ah, darling," he says, sighing dramatically. "Anything for you."
She sits up, pulling the band out of her hair, and tosses her head, sending a spray of red over one shoulder in a way he can’t resist.
He pulls his gloves off and reaches out to touch it, running bare fingers through soft strands. He lets out a little moan, dropping the gloves on the nightstand, before reaching out and tangling the other hand in the silky mass, as well.
She meets his eyes and smiles. He gazes down at her and shivers.
They haven’t had much of a chance to be together since the portico broke down. He hadn’t realized how much he’s missed it.
Time-hopping was an unpleasant experience. The feeling of having ones molecules torn apart, and the idea of needing the faith in the machine that it’ll pull them back together was always mildly terrifying. But at least they’d been together the entire time.
- isn’t so bad, but he misses his wife, his Stacey.
She brings her hands up and hooks them around his wrists.
"Dale."
It’s all that’s needed. She doesn’t have to ask for anything, just speak one syllable, four little letters, and he’ll melt in her hands.
"Darling."
He reluctantly removes his hands and sits down on the bed beside her once more, pulling her into a long, long, long kiss.
She sighs when he pulls out of it, leaning against his shoulder, eyes closed, lips parted, hands folded in her lap. Hair a mess.
He watches her longer than he intends to. Her eyes open, slowly, ever so slowly, and she turns them on him, questioning. No. Stacey never questions. She inquires. He answers, meeting her eyes, and laying her back on the bed.
She settles in and takes off her gloves, still seeming strangely undressed.
He stretches out beside her, facing her. She turns her face to him and smiles nervously. She always smiles nervously before…
He kisses the tip of her nose.
"May I?" he asks, not wanting to scare her off again.
She edges closer to him and catches him in a kiss; quick, sweet, sharp.
He’s incredibly hard. It never takes long for him to reach this state, not with her, anyway. It’s part of the reason he married her, and part of the reason he never wants to be without her. Nevermind that he doesn’t think he’d be able to breathe without her.
She’s so pretty in these moments, and he just watches her for a few minutes.
She blushes and turns her eyes away after a few seconds.
Her hands find the buttons on his jacket. He’d forgotten he still had it on, but it only made sense, he supposes. She pops the buttons loose and pushes it back over his shoulders.
He sits up and pulls his shirt off over his head. She reaches up and tweaks a nipple, and it’s his turn to blush. She’s not usually so aggressive.
"Stacey, my love," he says. She cocks her head, but he has nothing really to say.
She responds with, "My darling," and he throws the shirt off of the bed.
Stacey looks up at him with pleading eyes. He’s not sure what it is she’s asking him for, but he aims to find out.
He leans over her, hands resting on her hips, fingers toying with the hem of her shirt. She smiles encouragingly. And he slides his hands underneath. He is not thrown off this time.
Dale smiles and muses that they still tremble when they touch. It’s something his parents had stopped doing long before he was born. Then again, maybe they never did at all. But he’s always moved by Stacey. And she, apparently, is always moved by him.
Her eyes are huge by the time his fingers unfasten her brassier and his lips find hers in another long kiss, tongue pushing past her lips, past her teeth, slipping into her mouth and teasing hers into a tender battle. He brings his hands back around her to cup her breasts. She arches under him, moaning softly into his mouth.
He braces himself with sheer willpower and swings one leg over her body, holding the kiss, holding her breasts, and coming to rest with one knee on either side of her body.
She pulls back, gasping for air.
"Dale," she whispers. "Oh, darling."
His father’s explanation of sex had been methodical. Like an experiment one had to repeat until the desired results had been achieved.
Stacey had proven his father’s theory wrong on so many occasions he’d lost count.
He rubs a nipple gently, just to get a reaction. She throws her head back and moans. She’s sensitive today. It’s so much better when she’s sensitive. Some days it took all he had just to get anything out of her besides, "Harder, please!"
She grabs his bare shoulders and pulls herself up. They’ve perfected this one. She holds on and he pulls her shirt off, getting it over her head and off of her wrists just as she hits the bed again.
Her breasts bounce nicely and he finds himself watching them until they come mostly to rest, disturbed only by her breathing and occasional shivers.
It is cold in the room.
"Would you like me to warm you up?"
She smiles a sweet half-smile at him and holds out her arms, inviting.
Their bare chests press together. He leans on his elbows to take some weight off of her and stretches his legs out to tangle with hers, holding her tight to him.
He turns his head and kisses her neck, extracting moans and sighs and quiet little noises. He works his way up to her ear, nibbling on the outer edge a little and murmuring-he doesn’t know what he’s saying, but she likes it, so he doesn’t stop.
Stacey slides her knee up, pressing it to his crotch, getting an odd angle that nonetheless feels delightful. Then she runs her nails up his spine, just to push his buttons.
It’s successful. He rises, back arching, and gasps.
She bites his collarbone with the delicacy of the dinosaur in the basement, then sucks on the mark, running her tongue over muscle and skin and bone. He whimpers, half-pain, half-need, a pinch of desire, and a dash of ‘no more.’
His manhood throbs and he knows he’ll just come in his trousers if he’s not careful, and it was miserable trying to get semen stains out of leather.
He pulls back, rising to his hands and knees and gives her a look that tells all. She moves up to sit against the headboard, sliding out from under him with ease. He sits up, settling on his knees, and reaches for her, intending to kiss her.
She turns her head away and doesn’t look at him for a long moment, screwing up her courage to try this thing Janet was talking about, and she’s not sure how it works, and she’s not sure she wants to do it, but she’s willing to try, and she turns her eyes to the bulge in his pants.
She’s convinced the moment will disappear if she doesn’t decide soon, so she takes a deep breath and stretches out a hand.
"Stacey?"
She doesn’t look at him. He worries.
"Darling?"
Her fingers find the buttons at the front of his trousers-he always was a stickler for details-and shakingly release them. She leans forward, trying not to flinch or tremble, and failing at both.
"Stacey, darling, what are you doing?"
He slips a hand around the back of her neck, tilting her face back up, and covering himself with the other.
"I-I was just… Janet was," she falters. "Janet was talking about it and-and I thought…"
He kisses her, because it seems like the thing to do. She calms and he separates himself just enough to mumble something meaningless and unintelligible before her hand reaches past his and she’s touching him.
It’s tentative and gentle; always is. She pets it and waits for his approval.
It hits him that such a strong woman as his wife always seems to be asking for permission, even when she knows she has it. Even when she doesn’t though, he reasons, she goes through with whatever she’d planned anyway.
He moves his hand, realeases her neck, and she wrests herself into a more comfortable position. She squeezes him, kneeling in front of him, and rests her forehead against his chest for a few seconds. When she’s sure she isn’t going to panic, she leans down and wraps her lips around the head of his penis.
He blushes, watching her, and goes to say something, only to have it come out as a moan. How long, he wonders, has it been since someone’s done this for him?
She’s inexperienced and clumsy, scrapes him with her teeth a little too hard a couple of times, but just watching her red head bob up and down is enough to bring him off.
He tries to warn her. Can’t get the words out. She chokes, gags, almost throws up over the side of the bed. He wraps his arms around her and holds her until she’s not heaving anymore.
She leans against him. "I’m sorry," she mumbles.
"Hush and don’t be."
She coughs. Wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. Sits up to look at him.
"Was it… Was it alright?" she asks, terrified of the answer.
"It was fine," he assures her, hardening again already.
She notices and smiles a tiny private smile. One of those enigmatic expressions that had captivated him.
"My love. You know it is rude to point," she scolds teasingly, feeling like a bad cliché.
He laughs out loud at this. Pushes her onto her back.
"Is it now? I don’t seem to recall you complaining any other time," he mock-pouts.
"Most of the time, I can’t see it, now, can I?"
He smirks at her and flips her belt open, then pulls her soft pants down, not bothering with buttons or zipper. It’s a little harder than he wanted it to be, and he feels a bit awkward, but she sqeezes her thighs together, crosses her arms, and tries to look modest in nothing but her lacy unmentionables.
He takes in the sight and works his boots off, dropping them on the floor. She turns a pretty shade of pink, starting at her hairline and working its way slowly down to her pink nipples. His pants join the boots. She shimmies out of her panties and they sit together for a moment, exposed, and it’s like they’ve just met, with fire raging between them and nerves exploding.
He’s terrified he’ll do something wrong.
She’s terrified she’ll say the wrong thing.
He stares at her, eyes wide and honest. She stares back, eyes heavy-lidded and nervous.
He runs a hand up one smooth leg, leans down to kiss her, and brings himself into her.
She gasps, mouth opening and allowing his tongue to slide in. And it all goes so fast after that.
He pushes, moans, balls pressing against her, then retreating, as slow as he can go, as gentle as he can be.
Her body arches as he hits something inside her that makes her see blue, and she’s sure she screams, but not sure at the same time. It doesn’t matter. He does it again.
And again.
And again.
He leans down, sucking on a nipple, massaging her other breast, feeling her writhe beneath him. Her hands tangle in his hair and she squeezes, and it pulls, and a few strands separate from his scalp.
He thrusts in, hard, fast, sharp. He sits up, ignoring the fact that she still holds his hair, and reaches down, touching her, rubbing her soft femininity until she thrashes wildly, hands gripping the comforter.
She comes. He feels her tighten around him, convulsing in ways that she just cannot seem to help. Her back arches impossibly, and she lets out a thin keen with all the intensity of an atomic bomb.
It’s only a few seconds before he comes as well, filling her, moving just so.
He slides out of her and lays down beside her.
She’s beautiful and warm and coming down off of her high gasping for breath. He reaches for her. She reaches for him. Outside, the sun sets and their worries slip away with it.