Amending the End Game, Chapter Two
Title: Amending the End Game, Chapter Two
Author: domfangirl
Starring: Lincoln and Gretchen
Category: Multi-chapter (*curses*)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Gretchen comes to collect what she’s due.
Author’s Notes: This follows the events of Eulogy and is basically post-series (or at least post-season 4) IMHO. I make conjecture about what will happen in the final six episodes, but I haven’t read any spoilers as yet, and don’t know any details, and this picks up after it’s all over. Chapter One is here
Lincoln, for a short moment, tries to remember his last blowjob. He can't, everything before Fox River is a haze, and as Gretchen sits back, her full, curvy ass resting on his thighs, he realizes it doesn't matter who was the last to gift him with such a thing or when he received it.
All that matters is that she is fucking amazing at it, which shouldn't surprise him. She's probably had lots of practice, though the fact that she didn't deep throat him and it was still mind numbingly thorough perplexes him--but also, just for a short moment.
If he had any air left for words, he might even thank her. At least give her an atta girl. His chest heaves as he recovers, and he relishes the idea of trying to one-up her, because if she's going to try to beat him at this, this is something he can enjoy losing.
Why did he ever try to fight her? He almost can't remember. Of course, looking back, he's unsure of why he did a lot of things, since in the end they didn't matter one fucking bit. He doesn't want to dwell on any of that, though. Not why he and Michael haven't spoken in months, or how he somehow gets up every day and puts on three-piece suits and does shit he never dreamed of doing, or how in a hundred thousand years the only thing he wants to do right now is reach up and unbutton Gretchen Morgan's tailored black shirt and fill his palms with her breasts.
So he doesn't dwell on it, he just does it, unfastening her blouse without haste; after all, it will take him some time to recuperate, and he might as well enjoy the show for as long as it lasts. At some point she'll get around to telling him why she's really here, and he doubts either of them will want to fuck after that comes up.
Well, maybe they'll still want to, but Lincoln knows at some point grace will intervene, and he'll have to start doing the right thing again.
She’s built like a brick shithouse, something he's thought about her since the first time he saw her. All lush curves and tight muscles, she's gorgeous in all the outward terms of beauty. But because of what's inside her, it's all he can do to not just devour her, ravage her, leave her like a victim on the side of the road. Forcing himself to go slowly, he moves his fingers fleetingly over her nipples, pass-by grazing, as he pushes her shirt down her arms. Leaving her bra in place, his eyes descend to her mostly bare legs.
He'd been right about her not wearing underwear, though she has a sexy black garter belt on, holding up equally sexy black stockings that go up just past her knees. He'd noticed them when he peeled her pants down, but he'd also noticed an array of scars over the tops of her thighs that the garter didn't hide. He traces his thumbs down the insides of her legs, away from her wet center, touching the most severe marks. Then he lifts his eyes to hers, asking the question silently.
"You don't want to know," she says, her voice hushed, her eyes on his face. "No details to make you feel sorry for me."
He grunts, and answers bluntly, "I doubt knowing would change anything about how I feel about you."
"Yeah," she replies with a slight curve to her lips. "I probably deserved it."
The sarcasm in her tone aggravates Lincoln, so he shoves his hand back up between her legs, sticking his thumb roughly where his tongue had been not very long ago. She's still slick from her orgasm, and he can't help himself from thumbing her clit aggressively. Whimpering, she stiffens against him, and her fingernails carve sharply into the skin of his hips, where her hands still rest. "Do you deserve this?" he asks, moving his thumb in a circular motion and watching with feral satisfaction as her teeth dig into her bottom lip in an effort to keep any other sounds from breaking from her throat.
"God, yes," she mumbles, her head falling forward as though her neck doesn't have the strength to hold it up. Her eyes drift shut as she loses herself to the rhythm of moving her hips back and forth to make the motion of his thumb all the more rewarding.
"I knew you wouldn't wear panties," he remarks, the tightening of his stomach muscles letting him know that his own personal revival is only a few moments away.
She gasps as he turns his hand slightly so that his first and middle fingers slide inside her, but she manages to ask, "How?"
"Whores don't waste time with barriers, do they?" he asks, which causes her head to snap up and her eyes to fly open.
She reaches out, and he can't help but flinch, wondering if she's going to grab him by the shorthairs for that one, though he welcomes the idea of their mutual desire to inflict pain upon one another. Her hands grasp the bottom edges of his vest, and she yanks the lapels apart, sending the three buttons pinging in various directions. Then she grabs at his white dress shirt, her fingers curling over the long V that hangs almost to his navel and repeats the motion so that his chest and abdomen are exposed to her hands. The light grazing of her fingernails over his quivering stomach is the last ingredient necessary for his cock to stand at full attention, and Gretchen, as if sensing that's all it would take, doesn't hesitate. Rising up on her knees, she shoves his hand away from her snatch, scooting forward at the same moment that she wraps her fist around him. Squeezing none too gently, she holds him so that as her creamy warmth envelopes him her other hand braces her position of dominance over him and she slams herself down so that he's swallowed all at once, and the sheer ecstasy of it nearly makes him come on the first stroke.
Leaning over him, she whispers, "I'm only your whore if you pay me, Linc. Are you gonna pay me?"
Incapable of speech at the moment, he only moans an incomprehensible response as he clamps his hands on her hips and attempts to control her movements somewhat. He knows she will make him pay, in some way... There will be a giant-ass fine for giving into the need to fuck her, but he can't even imagine, at present anyway, why he wouldn't be willing to pay hand over fist whatever the price is.
Her palms flatten on his chest, molding to the curves of his pectoral muscles with indecent precision. His eyes roll back in his head, and all he can think as he chases the white lightening moment that is just beyond his reach is that they fit together too damn well, and it's going to be harder to let go of it than it ever was to grab on to it.
Pulling her down hard into him, he feels her start to come just before he totally loses it, and he consoles himself with the fact that at least they're both getting something out of it.
She falls forward once they're both finished, her black hair splaying across his chest as she shimmies her hips away from his. Residue of his semen glistens on his pant leg as she attempts to slide off of him, but one of his arms wraps around her back, not letting her move completely away. He doesn't know if that's her intent, but he's not even close to being done yet.
Her head lifts as she feels him pulling her against him and he flips up on to his side so that they lay on the plush carpet facing each other. Her eyes search for his and he sends the arm not already cradling her against him to find the fastening of her bra. Expertly releasing the catch, he feels her breasts shift forward slightly into his chest. He looks down, tugging at the straps until the unwanted garment slips down between their bellies. Her nipples are darker than he expected, not quite brown, but a dusky pink color that intrigues him far more than it should. They're just boobs, and he's seen a few hundred pair in his lifetime if he's seen one. All the same, hers are impressive, not too large, not too small, and because it's the only way to know for sure, he cups the right one in his left hand-perfect, he laments, as it fits into his palm nicely. When her nipple hardens against the fleshy pads at the base of his fingers without him even offering a caress, he curses out loud.
That's when he finally returns her stare, her ice blue eyes confused, either by his refusal to let her move away from him, or his choice now to utter epithets in her honor. "Why do I want you so much?" he questions, feeling it's easier to pose a question that has an obvious answer than the other, much more difficult ones.
"Because I want you," she states, which isn't what he would have thought she'd say at all. "I'm an easy lay. A sure thing. You don't even have to try, after all. I came all this way for you, you could hardly doubt my intentions."
He chuckles, removing his arm from around her so he can lean on his elbow now that she's stopped trying to squirm away from him. "I could hardly even know your intentions, you mean. You're not going to lie and say you came here just to get laid, are you? I'm not that stupid. I'm stupid enough to let my guard down with you, to let this happen, possibly fall asleep and wake up dead, but I know you're here for more than some cock."
"No," she says slowly, her eyes fluttering as his thumb starts moving over the hardened center of her breast caressingly. "I'm not going to lie to you."
When she says nothing further, he nudges her with one leg. "So you're just not going to talk at all, huh? Avoid having to lie."
"Seems like a good plan, since I can tell you're gearing up to fuck me again. Maybe when I've gotten enough, I'll tell you what you want to hear." The breathless quality in her voice encourages him to slip his leg between hers. The silky glide of her stockings against the expensive fabric of his pants is sufficiently erotic, ensuring it will be a long while before he feels completely satisfied.
Leaning his face very close to hers, he whispers, "How long till you get enough?"
Watching her pupils expand with such wanton lust makes his cock stir inexplicably, as if he were 16 again. "I'll have to get back to you on that," she breathes, her voice trailing off into a low moan when he pinches her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
He thinks her next move is completely spontaneous, because the look of surprise that widens her eyes is almost comical as her fingers curl around the nape of his neck to tug his face closer to hers, until their lips are only a hairs-breadth apart. Lincoln holds back, though it feels like a gargantuan effort to do so. When he whispers, "Give me an guesstimate," their lips brush with the motion. He can tell, like him, she's got no control over it.
She might be the most calculating bitch he's ever fucked, but she's powerless as long as she can see how much he wants her. And goddamn him, but he wants her more than anything he can presently recollect.
Ultimately, it is she who closes what little distance is left between them. Her lips rub against his, and then he feels her smile, and it somehow doesn't feel like the cynical sneer he's always associated with her. Not that he can see it, because his eyes have closed and then his tongue is in her mouth, and a new battle for domination has begun.
*
They eventually make it to his bedroom, and to his bed, but Lincoln isn’t sure how much time passes. At some point, however, it finally catches up with him and he becomes so exhausted he is unable to keep his eyes open any longer. His hand moves through her hair, and he mumbles something akin to an apology, but all he hears from her is a soft murmur, and then her lips brush at his temple.
It’s that gentleness that makes him think he won’t wake up dead, but he also, in part, just doesn’t care. If she came to rape and pillage, he doesn’t have the energy to worry about it. He lets unconsciousness draw him away from her, but she’s still in his dreams, so he cannot fully escape.
When he awakes, the room is dusky, but not dark. The sun doesn’t set until 8 or 9 at night, so it can’t be much later than that. His stomach grumbles loudly, reminding him that sex is not enough to survive on. (Though he’d sure like to try.)
She’s not on the pillow next to him; instead her head lies on his stomach, her hair fanned out over his chest. One arm is curled around his hips, while the other is flung out beside them in the large expanse of bed they haven’t yet abused. It’s an oddly sweet sight, the crisscrossing of scars on her back notwithstanding, and he’s not all too sure what he thinks of it. She has scars all over her body, and the only one he knows the origination of is the bullet wound in her abdomen.
She stirs, and he doesn’t know if she was already awake, or if his movements are what disturbed her, but her head shifts, and he can feel her lips just below his navel, brushing softly over the thin line of hair there. She doesn’t kiss him, per se, but the caress is just one more thing that sets him on edge. He realizes he’d much rather her be harsh than tender, because at least he knows how to react to the hostility.
“Don’t you dare bite me,” he warns (or prompts, maybe? he’s not sure), wrapping his fingers around the back of her neck.
He feels her smile against his sensitive flesh, and though, like before the sensation is fleeting, he once again feels as though she has lost some of the cynicism he’s come to expect from her. “Only love bites,” she promises, though her teeth still don’t emerge, only her tongue, and she licks a straight line from his belly button down to his quickly awakening cock.
“Oh, shit,” he breathes, and he isn’t sure if he’s referring to the delicious torture that she’s initiating, or the fact that she just used the word ‘love’ in reference to anything between them.
Running her tongue down the length of his erection, she scoots around so that her ass is closer to his face, and the wicked thought that flashes through his mind must be what she’s thinking as well. Hours ago, they’d abandoned their clothes, but he still finds her nudity almost more distracting than the attention of her lips and tongue on the underside of his penis.
Letting go of her neck, he puts both hands on her bottom and when she lifts one leg, he knows she wants the same thing he does. Pulling her leg over his chest, he has a grand view of the tight area he’s inhabited over the course of a blissful afternoon, and he tries in vain to remember the last time he had such dirty sex.
See, Gretchen appears to have lifted every single thought from every single one of his fantasies, and it unnerves him that she’s in his head so effectively. So while she sucks him dry, he tongue fucks her into oblivion and tries to ignore the screaming fear inside of him.
After that, he can’t help but ask, “You hungry?” because his stomach will not accept his neglect any longer.
She rolls over, using the corner of the sheet to dab at her chin, wiping away the last vestiges of his semen, and replies, “I could eat. You have food here?” she asks, the skepticism in her tone rampant.
“Of course, I have food here,” he snaps, sitting up. “I live here, don’t I?” Climbing off the bed, he reaches for a pair of boxer briefs from the top drawer of his dresser. “Besides, there’s someone who does all the shopping and shit for me. I’m sure there’s even girl food in there.”
He turns to face her, wondering what smart remark she’ll have about the food situation, but what he sees brings him up short. She’s buttoning up his white dress shirt, her breasts disappearing from his view as she slips the second-to-the-top disc through the corresponding hole in the fabric. “What do you mean, girl food?” she asks, looking up at him as she finishes. When he just stares at her dumbly, she looks down at herself quickly, only to meet his eyes again. “What?”
He doesn’t like it, her in his shirt, them about to share a meal. Whenever he’d thought about this scenario before, it had been a hard, fast fuck and then he walked away, or drove away, or whatever. They didn’t linger, they didn’t spend hours in bed together, they didn’t…this. Whatever this was, they weren’t supposed to do it. It felt…too, domestic, or normal, or just…what, he couldn’t decide.
But at the same moment, he didn’t want her to leave, and if he said any of that, she probably would. So he just shrugs, glancing away from her.
“You don’t want me to wear your shirt?” she inquires, and he can’t hear anything in her tone, either positive or negative.
“No, it’s fine,” he says, dragging his gaze back to her. She looks good in it. Her hair is totally disheveled, her face rosy from the sleeping and the fucking, and as far as he can tell, her blue eyes even hold a hint of warmth.
And that’s when it hits him. It’s like he doesn’t even know her. He went to bed with one woman, but he’s waking up to a different one, one who might wear his clothes and eat his food, and…sleep in his bed.
Not just be someone he screws when the opportunity presents itself and then leaves when he commands it, or even before he says it aloud.
He can’t deal with it at all, so he turns around and walks out of the room, even though her expression plainly shows she doesn’t believe it’s all right with him that she’s wearing his clothes.
She follows him out into the kitchen, her bare feet slapping on the tile behind him. “What’s the problem?” she demands, but still she doesn’t even sound like the Gretchen he remembers.
She sounds like a lover. His lover.
“Why are you really here?” he counters, spinning around to face her. He puts a hand on the refrigerator door, but he doesn’t pull it open.
She doesn’t respond immediately. As though sizing him up, her eyes travel the length of his body, which is still naked except for his underwear. When her gaze returns to his face, she takes a step towards him, but she doesn’t follow through on it, stopping before they are within touching distance. Folding her arms over her chest, over his white dress shirt, she sighs heavily. “I came here for two reasons,” she begins. “One is that I want you. Not for a night, or even a week or two. I want to be with you.” Her boldness surprises him, not because it’s unlike her to be so ballsy, but because the hint of vulnerability in her declaration is palpable between them. “The other,” she continues, “is The Company. I want to run The Company with you. I want to be your second in command.”
Chapter Three
Author: domfangirl
Starring: Lincoln and Gretchen
Category: Multi-chapter (*curses*)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Gretchen comes to collect what she’s due.
Author’s Notes: This follows the events of Eulogy and is basically post-series (or at least post-season 4) IMHO. I make conjecture about what will happen in the final six episodes, but I haven’t read any spoilers as yet, and don’t know any details, and this picks up after it’s all over. Chapter One is here
Lincoln, for a short moment, tries to remember his last blowjob. He can't, everything before Fox River is a haze, and as Gretchen sits back, her full, curvy ass resting on his thighs, he realizes it doesn't matter who was the last to gift him with such a thing or when he received it.
All that matters is that she is fucking amazing at it, which shouldn't surprise him. She's probably had lots of practice, though the fact that she didn't deep throat him and it was still mind numbingly thorough perplexes him--but also, just for a short moment.
If he had any air left for words, he might even thank her. At least give her an atta girl. His chest heaves as he recovers, and he relishes the idea of trying to one-up her, because if she's going to try to beat him at this, this is something he can enjoy losing.
Why did he ever try to fight her? He almost can't remember. Of course, looking back, he's unsure of why he did a lot of things, since in the end they didn't matter one fucking bit. He doesn't want to dwell on any of that, though. Not why he and Michael haven't spoken in months, or how he somehow gets up every day and puts on three-piece suits and does shit he never dreamed of doing, or how in a hundred thousand years the only thing he wants to do right now is reach up and unbutton Gretchen Morgan's tailored black shirt and fill his palms with her breasts.
So he doesn't dwell on it, he just does it, unfastening her blouse without haste; after all, it will take him some time to recuperate, and he might as well enjoy the show for as long as it lasts. At some point she'll get around to telling him why she's really here, and he doubts either of them will want to fuck after that comes up.
Well, maybe they'll still want to, but Lincoln knows at some point grace will intervene, and he'll have to start doing the right thing again.
She’s built like a brick shithouse, something he's thought about her since the first time he saw her. All lush curves and tight muscles, she's gorgeous in all the outward terms of beauty. But because of what's inside her, it's all he can do to not just devour her, ravage her, leave her like a victim on the side of the road. Forcing himself to go slowly, he moves his fingers fleetingly over her nipples, pass-by grazing, as he pushes her shirt down her arms. Leaving her bra in place, his eyes descend to her mostly bare legs.
He'd been right about her not wearing underwear, though she has a sexy black garter belt on, holding up equally sexy black stockings that go up just past her knees. He'd noticed them when he peeled her pants down, but he'd also noticed an array of scars over the tops of her thighs that the garter didn't hide. He traces his thumbs down the insides of her legs, away from her wet center, touching the most severe marks. Then he lifts his eyes to hers, asking the question silently.
"You don't want to know," she says, her voice hushed, her eyes on his face. "No details to make you feel sorry for me."
He grunts, and answers bluntly, "I doubt knowing would change anything about how I feel about you."
"Yeah," she replies with a slight curve to her lips. "I probably deserved it."
The sarcasm in her tone aggravates Lincoln, so he shoves his hand back up between her legs, sticking his thumb roughly where his tongue had been not very long ago. She's still slick from her orgasm, and he can't help himself from thumbing her clit aggressively. Whimpering, she stiffens against him, and her fingernails carve sharply into the skin of his hips, where her hands still rest. "Do you deserve this?" he asks, moving his thumb in a circular motion and watching with feral satisfaction as her teeth dig into her bottom lip in an effort to keep any other sounds from breaking from her throat.
"God, yes," she mumbles, her head falling forward as though her neck doesn't have the strength to hold it up. Her eyes drift shut as she loses herself to the rhythm of moving her hips back and forth to make the motion of his thumb all the more rewarding.
"I knew you wouldn't wear panties," he remarks, the tightening of his stomach muscles letting him know that his own personal revival is only a few moments away.
She gasps as he turns his hand slightly so that his first and middle fingers slide inside her, but she manages to ask, "How?"
"Whores don't waste time with barriers, do they?" he asks, which causes her head to snap up and her eyes to fly open.
She reaches out, and he can't help but flinch, wondering if she's going to grab him by the shorthairs for that one, though he welcomes the idea of their mutual desire to inflict pain upon one another. Her hands grasp the bottom edges of his vest, and she yanks the lapels apart, sending the three buttons pinging in various directions. Then she grabs at his white dress shirt, her fingers curling over the long V that hangs almost to his navel and repeats the motion so that his chest and abdomen are exposed to her hands. The light grazing of her fingernails over his quivering stomach is the last ingredient necessary for his cock to stand at full attention, and Gretchen, as if sensing that's all it would take, doesn't hesitate. Rising up on her knees, she shoves his hand away from her snatch, scooting forward at the same moment that she wraps her fist around him. Squeezing none too gently, she holds him so that as her creamy warmth envelopes him her other hand braces her position of dominance over him and she slams herself down so that he's swallowed all at once, and the sheer ecstasy of it nearly makes him come on the first stroke.
Leaning over him, she whispers, "I'm only your whore if you pay me, Linc. Are you gonna pay me?"
Incapable of speech at the moment, he only moans an incomprehensible response as he clamps his hands on her hips and attempts to control her movements somewhat. He knows she will make him pay, in some way... There will be a giant-ass fine for giving into the need to fuck her, but he can't even imagine, at present anyway, why he wouldn't be willing to pay hand over fist whatever the price is.
Her palms flatten on his chest, molding to the curves of his pectoral muscles with indecent precision. His eyes roll back in his head, and all he can think as he chases the white lightening moment that is just beyond his reach is that they fit together too damn well, and it's going to be harder to let go of it than it ever was to grab on to it.
Pulling her down hard into him, he feels her start to come just before he totally loses it, and he consoles himself with the fact that at least they're both getting something out of it.
She falls forward once they're both finished, her black hair splaying across his chest as she shimmies her hips away from his. Residue of his semen glistens on his pant leg as she attempts to slide off of him, but one of his arms wraps around her back, not letting her move completely away. He doesn't know if that's her intent, but he's not even close to being done yet.
Her head lifts as she feels him pulling her against him and he flips up on to his side so that they lay on the plush carpet facing each other. Her eyes search for his and he sends the arm not already cradling her against him to find the fastening of her bra. Expertly releasing the catch, he feels her breasts shift forward slightly into his chest. He looks down, tugging at the straps until the unwanted garment slips down between their bellies. Her nipples are darker than he expected, not quite brown, but a dusky pink color that intrigues him far more than it should. They're just boobs, and he's seen a few hundred pair in his lifetime if he's seen one. All the same, hers are impressive, not too large, not too small, and because it's the only way to know for sure, he cups the right one in his left hand-perfect, he laments, as it fits into his palm nicely. When her nipple hardens against the fleshy pads at the base of his fingers without him even offering a caress, he curses out loud.
That's when he finally returns her stare, her ice blue eyes confused, either by his refusal to let her move away from him, or his choice now to utter epithets in her honor. "Why do I want you so much?" he questions, feeling it's easier to pose a question that has an obvious answer than the other, much more difficult ones.
"Because I want you," she states, which isn't what he would have thought she'd say at all. "I'm an easy lay. A sure thing. You don't even have to try, after all. I came all this way for you, you could hardly doubt my intentions."
He chuckles, removing his arm from around her so he can lean on his elbow now that she's stopped trying to squirm away from him. "I could hardly even know your intentions, you mean. You're not going to lie and say you came here just to get laid, are you? I'm not that stupid. I'm stupid enough to let my guard down with you, to let this happen, possibly fall asleep and wake up dead, but I know you're here for more than some cock."
"No," she says slowly, her eyes fluttering as his thumb starts moving over the hardened center of her breast caressingly. "I'm not going to lie to you."
When she says nothing further, he nudges her with one leg. "So you're just not going to talk at all, huh? Avoid having to lie."
"Seems like a good plan, since I can tell you're gearing up to fuck me again. Maybe when I've gotten enough, I'll tell you what you want to hear." The breathless quality in her voice encourages him to slip his leg between hers. The silky glide of her stockings against the expensive fabric of his pants is sufficiently erotic, ensuring it will be a long while before he feels completely satisfied.
Leaning his face very close to hers, he whispers, "How long till you get enough?"
Watching her pupils expand with such wanton lust makes his cock stir inexplicably, as if he were 16 again. "I'll have to get back to you on that," she breathes, her voice trailing off into a low moan when he pinches her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
He thinks her next move is completely spontaneous, because the look of surprise that widens her eyes is almost comical as her fingers curl around the nape of his neck to tug his face closer to hers, until their lips are only a hairs-breadth apart. Lincoln holds back, though it feels like a gargantuan effort to do so. When he whispers, "Give me an guesstimate," their lips brush with the motion. He can tell, like him, she's got no control over it.
She might be the most calculating bitch he's ever fucked, but she's powerless as long as she can see how much he wants her. And goddamn him, but he wants her more than anything he can presently recollect.
Ultimately, it is she who closes what little distance is left between them. Her lips rub against his, and then he feels her smile, and it somehow doesn't feel like the cynical sneer he's always associated with her. Not that he can see it, because his eyes have closed and then his tongue is in her mouth, and a new battle for domination has begun.
*
They eventually make it to his bedroom, and to his bed, but Lincoln isn’t sure how much time passes. At some point, however, it finally catches up with him and he becomes so exhausted he is unable to keep his eyes open any longer. His hand moves through her hair, and he mumbles something akin to an apology, but all he hears from her is a soft murmur, and then her lips brush at his temple.
It’s that gentleness that makes him think he won’t wake up dead, but he also, in part, just doesn’t care. If she came to rape and pillage, he doesn’t have the energy to worry about it. He lets unconsciousness draw him away from her, but she’s still in his dreams, so he cannot fully escape.
When he awakes, the room is dusky, but not dark. The sun doesn’t set until 8 or 9 at night, so it can’t be much later than that. His stomach grumbles loudly, reminding him that sex is not enough to survive on. (Though he’d sure like to try.)
She’s not on the pillow next to him; instead her head lies on his stomach, her hair fanned out over his chest. One arm is curled around his hips, while the other is flung out beside them in the large expanse of bed they haven’t yet abused. It’s an oddly sweet sight, the crisscrossing of scars on her back notwithstanding, and he’s not all too sure what he thinks of it. She has scars all over her body, and the only one he knows the origination of is the bullet wound in her abdomen.
She stirs, and he doesn’t know if she was already awake, or if his movements are what disturbed her, but her head shifts, and he can feel her lips just below his navel, brushing softly over the thin line of hair there. She doesn’t kiss him, per se, but the caress is just one more thing that sets him on edge. He realizes he’d much rather her be harsh than tender, because at least he knows how to react to the hostility.
“Don’t you dare bite me,” he warns (or prompts, maybe? he’s not sure), wrapping his fingers around the back of her neck.
He feels her smile against his sensitive flesh, and though, like before the sensation is fleeting, he once again feels as though she has lost some of the cynicism he’s come to expect from her. “Only love bites,” she promises, though her teeth still don’t emerge, only her tongue, and she licks a straight line from his belly button down to his quickly awakening cock.
“Oh, shit,” he breathes, and he isn’t sure if he’s referring to the delicious torture that she’s initiating, or the fact that she just used the word ‘love’ in reference to anything between them.
Running her tongue down the length of his erection, she scoots around so that her ass is closer to his face, and the wicked thought that flashes through his mind must be what she’s thinking as well. Hours ago, they’d abandoned their clothes, but he still finds her nudity almost more distracting than the attention of her lips and tongue on the underside of his penis.
Letting go of her neck, he puts both hands on her bottom and when she lifts one leg, he knows she wants the same thing he does. Pulling her leg over his chest, he has a grand view of the tight area he’s inhabited over the course of a blissful afternoon, and he tries in vain to remember the last time he had such dirty sex.
See, Gretchen appears to have lifted every single thought from every single one of his fantasies, and it unnerves him that she’s in his head so effectively. So while she sucks him dry, he tongue fucks her into oblivion and tries to ignore the screaming fear inside of him.
After that, he can’t help but ask, “You hungry?” because his stomach will not accept his neglect any longer.
She rolls over, using the corner of the sheet to dab at her chin, wiping away the last vestiges of his semen, and replies, “I could eat. You have food here?” she asks, the skepticism in her tone rampant.
“Of course, I have food here,” he snaps, sitting up. “I live here, don’t I?” Climbing off the bed, he reaches for a pair of boxer briefs from the top drawer of his dresser. “Besides, there’s someone who does all the shopping and shit for me. I’m sure there’s even girl food in there.”
He turns to face her, wondering what smart remark she’ll have about the food situation, but what he sees brings him up short. She’s buttoning up his white dress shirt, her breasts disappearing from his view as she slips the second-to-the-top disc through the corresponding hole in the fabric. “What do you mean, girl food?” she asks, looking up at him as she finishes. When he just stares at her dumbly, she looks down at herself quickly, only to meet his eyes again. “What?”
He doesn’t like it, her in his shirt, them about to share a meal. Whenever he’d thought about this scenario before, it had been a hard, fast fuck and then he walked away, or drove away, or whatever. They didn’t linger, they didn’t spend hours in bed together, they didn’t…this. Whatever this was, they weren’t supposed to do it. It felt…too, domestic, or normal, or just…what, he couldn’t decide.
But at the same moment, he didn’t want her to leave, and if he said any of that, she probably would. So he just shrugs, glancing away from her.
“You don’t want me to wear your shirt?” she inquires, and he can’t hear anything in her tone, either positive or negative.
“No, it’s fine,” he says, dragging his gaze back to her. She looks good in it. Her hair is totally disheveled, her face rosy from the sleeping and the fucking, and as far as he can tell, her blue eyes even hold a hint of warmth.
And that’s when it hits him. It’s like he doesn’t even know her. He went to bed with one woman, but he’s waking up to a different one, one who might wear his clothes and eat his food, and…sleep in his bed.
Not just be someone he screws when the opportunity presents itself and then leaves when he commands it, or even before he says it aloud.
He can’t deal with it at all, so he turns around and walks out of the room, even though her expression plainly shows she doesn’t believe it’s all right with him that she’s wearing his clothes.
She follows him out into the kitchen, her bare feet slapping on the tile behind him. “What’s the problem?” she demands, but still she doesn’t even sound like the Gretchen he remembers.
She sounds like a lover. His lover.
“Why are you really here?” he counters, spinning around to face her. He puts a hand on the refrigerator door, but he doesn’t pull it open.
She doesn’t respond immediately. As though sizing him up, her eyes travel the length of his body, which is still naked except for his underwear. When her gaze returns to his face, she takes a step towards him, but she doesn’t follow through on it, stopping before they are within touching distance. Folding her arms over her chest, over his white dress shirt, she sighs heavily. “I came here for two reasons,” she begins. “One is that I want you. Not for a night, or even a week or two. I want to be with you.” Her boldness surprises him, not because it’s unlike her to be so ballsy, but because the hint of vulnerability in her declaration is palpable between them. “The other,” she continues, “is The Company. I want to run The Company with you. I want to be your second in command.”
Chapter Three