Chapter 5: A Kind of Blindness (NC-17)
A Kind of Blindness
Fewthistle
Warehouse 13
Myka/H.G.
Disclaimer: Property of Syfy and other foolish souls who squandered the wonder that is Helena and Myka. I would never have been so unwise.
Rating: NC-17. Yes, Virginia, there is sex in this chapter. For those of you who know me, close your mouths: you'll catch flies. For those who don't, I seldom, if ever, write sex, so I make no promises as to the quality. Still, it's sex. So there.
Chapter 5/?
Words: 5,244
Author’s Note: This is a sequel to By the Pricking of My Thumbs. While it is not absolutely necessary for you to have read it, I would suggest you take a gander, if only to know what in the world is going on, since I veered completely away from canon into my own much happier world. Besides, my greedy little Muse insists on pointing out that it’s not too bad and who doesn’t enjoy a good read? *bg*. My eternal gratitude to darandkerry for finding all those missing words, removing all those extra spaces, and keeping me ever vigilant. You are the best, Tex-Ass!! Love ya!
The use of Millville, California and surrounding area is entirely accidental and wishes no harm to that lovely part of the country. I just liked the name.
A/N 2: The title of this piece comes from here: have a listen. Wait
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
CHAPTER FIVE
Route 44, outside Redding, California
By the time they picked up Pete in Millville, the snow was falling steadily, mingling with the ash coating the ground, covering the devastation, a white sheet pulled up over the face of the deceased, hiding the grim face of death. Pete’s face was flushed, although whether from the cold air or triumph remained to be seen. He climbed into the back seat, bringing with him the scent of smoke and snow.
“So, did you find out anything from young Master Kevin?” Helena inquired, turning in the passenger seat with a curious look.
Pete grinned at her with that self-satisfied smirk that seemed to be parceled out to all men at birth, along with an over-abundance of testosterone and the occasionally endearing belief that the universe did, in fact, revolve around them. “Yup,” he replied, his lips making a popping sound on the last syllable. “Kev and I bonded a little over Halo and I managed to get him to open up to old Uncle Pete.”
“And what precisely did he share with ‘Uncle’ Pete?” Myka asked, her gaze in the rearview mirror fondly amused.
“He saw the guy playing the lyre,” Pete pronounced with great aplomb. “Well, actually he said he saw a guy playing some weird looking harp, but either way, he saw him. He spent most of the afternoon with his grandmother, helping her finish making cookies for her Sunday School class. But after dinner, he was bored out of his mind. He’d left his iPod at home, and his grandparents were watching The Lawrence Welk show, which by the way, I had no idea was still on T.V.. Did you know they still show it? I remember watching it with my grandparents when I was a kid.”
“Pete, focus. What did he see?” Myka reminded him, shaking her head at his ability to wander so far afield in so short a time.
“Right, anyway, so he snuck out onto the roof,” Pete resumed, only to be interrupted by Helena’s faint mutter.
“What?” Pete asked, leaning forward to hear her better.
“I said, sneaked, not snuck,” Helena repeated, clearly a little chagrined at having been heard. “I’m sorry. At times, I have an appalling urge to correct grammar. I assure you, it will not happen again.”
Pete simply rolled his eyes at her and continued his story, ignoring Myka’s quiet chuckle. “Yeah, so he sneaked out onto the roof from the upstairs window. That side of the house faces the church and he could see that the lights were on inside the sanctuary. The windows on the side of the church alternated, regular glass with stained glass, and Kev was watching when he saw this guy. At first he thought it was just somebody practicing something for the service Sunday, but then he realized that the guy was walking around, kinda strumming the harp, as he calls it, and all of the sudden, it got brighter and brighter inside the church.”
“Did he tell his grandparents?” Myka asked, her eyes intent on maneuvering the SUV along the snow-coated road.
“Not exactly,” Pete hedged.
“How does one ‘not exactly’ tell one’s grandparents that the church next to their home is burning?” Helena’s eyebrows climbed her forehead as she gazed accusingly at Pete.
Pete held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, don’t glare at me! I’m not the one who didn’t tell. The kid was scared. He had been told to never climb out on the roof and he didn’t want to get in trouble. By the time he got back in and downstairs the church was completely engulfed and it was spreading towards his grandparents. They dragged him out of the house and the fire trucks came and everything was crazy. It wasn’t until after you two talked to his granny and she asked him if he saw anyone did he admit that he might have been where he shouldn’t have been.”
“Well, given the circumstances, quite understandable, I suppose,” Helena agreed. “Did he get a good look at the man or was it merely an outline that he saw?”
“I asked him that. He said that at first he could just see the shape of him and the harp…,” Pete answered smugly, only to be interrupted as Helena again muttered softly.
“Huh?” Pete grunted, moving forward some more, most of his upper body now positioned between the two front seats.
“I said, lyre. It’s a lyre, not a harp. Distinctly different shape, different tonal quality, arrangement of strings,” Helena explained, her voice dying out at the annoyed expression on Pete’s face.
“You said you wouldn’t do that again,” he reminded her, emphasizing his point with a small poke to her left shoulder with his index finger.
“Quite right. My apologies. I don’t know what came over me,” Helena said contritely.
“Honey? Just ignore the grammatical issues and the whole harp versus lyre thing and let him tell us what our arsonist looks like, okay?” Myka asked sweetly, one hand leaving the wheel to gently clasp one of Helena’s, the warm smile on her face taking away any sting the words might have held.
“Honey?! Honey?” Pete laughed loudly, his expression teasing.
“Yes, I called my girlfriend, ‘honey’. Feel free to harass me about it later,” Myka ranted a bit, face a trifle thunderous as her patience reached its limit, “but for God’s sake, just tell us what the kid saw, will you?”
Pete looked rather put out at having his fun so summarily restricted, but, finally, he continued, “As I was saying before ‘honey’ here interrupted me again, Kevin said he saw the shape first, but then, as he was turning around to climb back in the window, the light from the flames lit up the inside of the church and he could see the guy’s face. He didn’t recognize him, but he said he was tall and he had dark hair, kind of long in front, so it hung down over his forehead. Dark hoodie and jeans. That was all he saw.”
“Did Kevin have any idea how old the man was?” Helena asked, a thoughtful expression on her face.
“Kinda old, he said,” Pete answered, sliding back a bit to lean against the seat. “Of course, when you’re eleven, twenty looks kinda old. By the way, I talked to Claudia earlier. No joy on her end so far, but she said she’d keep digging. And keep Artie off our backs as long as she could.”
“I had a feeling she’d have a hard time finding anything. There are simply too many names to sort through. Fifty years worth from the camp and the high school. I feel badly leaving her to deal with Artie. It’s kind of strange that he hasn’t called us.” Myka replied, a look of guilt taking up residence in her green eyes.
“Actually, he has,” Pete admitted, giving Myka a smile that was part apology, part sympathy. “Remember, you said I should take the Farnsworth with me last night? Well, Artie called around five this morning. Apparently he forgot the time difference, or he just didn’t care. I’m leaning towards the not caring, but anyway, he called. I filled him in on what we’d found so far, which was very little and promised we’d call tonight.”
“We had breakfast this morning. Why didn’t you mention that you’d talked to Artie?” Myka asked, puzzled.
“I was sound asleep when he called and I was a little out of it. He asked me what I was doing and I said I was sleeping and that it was only five in the morning and he asked where you were and I said I was pretty sure you were sleeping, too and he suggested I go wake you up and I kinda said something like, ‘I’m not waking them up’, and Artie said, ‘them’ and then he sort of grunted and I just figured I wouldn’t mention it,” Pete babbled, one long sentence in one long breath. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. You’re not the one being a giant weenie. You can keep the Farnsworth tonight, too.” Myka took a sharp right, parking the SUV in front of a Chinese restaurant down the street from their hotel. “We should get some take out, that way we don’t have to go back out in this weather later.”
“Sounds like a plan, Stan,” Pete agreed, zipping his dark jacket higher as he eased open the back door. “I’ll go grab a menu and then we can order. Back in a flash.”
Forty minutes later they pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, the now white pavement scored with a few sets of tire tracks, textured indentations already filling with snow. It was barely three p.m. and yet the sky was dark, the clouds settled snugly along the horizon. Aside from asking Myka to pick something for her off the menu, Helena had been silent since they first stopped at the restaurant, her face pensive.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, cartons of Chinese food between them and Pete sprawled in the arm chair near the window, Myka watched Helena’s face, concern growing in her at the other woman’s continued reticence. “Hey, you. Penny for your thoughts?”
It took a moment for Helena to respond. Finally she blinked slowly, her unfocused gaze centering on Myka’s worried face. “I’m sorry, darling. Really. I’m afraid I rather lost track of time. I was just trying to work something out. I may have an idea of who our lyricist might be.”
Pete paused mid-chew. “Who?” he asked, around a mouthful of General Tso’s chicken.
“I’ve been attempting to determine some connection between the fires at the camp, the high school and the church. Because, although much of the town burned as well, the fire actually had its start in the church. Therefore, it seems safe to assume that the church itself was the intended target and that the resultant spread of the fire to the remainder of the town was perhaps secondary. We’ve been working under the presumption that whoever is starting the fires has some personal grudge against the camp and the school. So, why not further that hypothesis by assuming that the church was also the focus of that same grudge?” Helena paused, dark eyes fixed with interest on Myka’s face, watching as the implication of her words flitted across Myka’s face.
“And since the church and the town were the last fire, it makes sense that the church was actually the culminating act,” Myka posed, her words meeting with a quick nod from Helena’s dark head.
“Darling, do remember when we were speaking with the Reverend Shaw? He mentioned that when he first came to the church he had a head of hair as dark as mine? He has a very distinctive cut to his hair, which I believe has less to do with attention to fashion than the way it grows, falling across his forehead. Now, we have the church camp, the local school and the church itself, all connected in some way and we have an arsonist with a shock of dark hair covering his face. I wonder if Reverend Shaw has a son?” Helena suggested, idly twisting a strand of Lo Mein around her fork.
Pete reached into the pocket of the jacket he had slung over the back of the chair and pulled out the Farnsworth. “I’ll call Claudia and see what she can find out about Rev. Shaw and his family. Kevin didn’t recognize the guy and since the kid goes to church with his grandparents every Sunday, I doubt that this guy lives around here. Kevin would’ve seen him.”
“Hey, Claudia. Is ‘you know who’ around?” Pete asked the black and white image on the screen.
“Nope. Mrs. F showed up and dragged him off about two hours ago. Don’t know why. Don’t wanna know why. Just glad it wasn’t me, you know?” Claudia answered in a pseudo-whisper. “What’s up?”
“We need some info. Plug in the name Reverend William Shaw in Millville. See if he has any kids and whatever else you can dig up, okay?” Pete requested as Myka and Helena began to gather up the empty food containers.
“Gotcha. Give me a sec,” Claudia replied, the sound of her fingers flying over the keyboard of her computer coming through the Farnsworth. Less than two minutes later she had the information. “Okay. Got it. William Shaw, aged 71. Wife Martha died in August of 2008. Has one son, John Michael, aged 28.”
“Did the son go to Foothills High?” Pete asked, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Affirmative, amigo. Although, it doesn’t look like he graduated,” Claudia supplied. “He was supposed to in 2000, but he’s not on the official list. And after 2001, he just disappears. No work record, no W-2’s, no checking account, no nothing. He just drops off the grid.”
“Thanks, Claude, you’re the best. We’ll call back tomorrow. Keep Artie occupied, will ya?” Pete applauded, smiling widely. “Tell him I’ll give him a buzz before I go to bed. It’s snowing like hell here, so we’re in for the night. We’ll head out tomorrow and see what we can find.”
“Gotcha. Give Myka and H.G. a hug for me,” Claudia smirked, her image fading suddenly as the screen went black.
“You are brilliant, you know?”” Myka said quietly, slipping her hand into Helena’s, a proud smile touching her lips.
“We’re brilliant, darling. We. I just hope that we’re brilliant enough to find the prodigal son before he wreaks his final vengeance.”
Warehouse 13, Univille, South Dakota
They had been wandering the aisles of the warehouse for nearly an hour now. Occasionally, Mrs. Fredric would pause before an artifact and scroll through the archive record, her expression, as always, inscrutable. He opened his mouth several times to ask her what she was looking for, only to be met with her patented death glare. After the first few times, he stopped, merely following her obediently as she perused the warehouse collection. He had become so used to the silence that when she did finally speak, he jerked a bit in surprise.
“You must let it go, Arthur,” she pronounced firmly, her expression as enigmatic as her words.
“Let what go, Mrs. Fredric?” Artie asked as politely as he could manage, which, on a good day, and this wasn’t, would never satisfy Emily Post.
“I recommended, the Regents voted, and Mr. Kasan decided, Arthur, that she can be trusted. Do you honestly believe that we would have allowed her back to the Warehouse as an agent if we thought she was a threat in any way? You’re being remarkably arrogant, Arthur, even for you, in maintaining that you somehow know better than we do regarding Agent Wells,” Mrs. Fredric informed him, her tone offering no quarter to argue.
He argued anyway. He ranted. He accused.
After listening to his diatribe for five minutes, Mrs. Fredric held up her hand, her voice as sharp and stinging as the snap of a whip. “Arthur. Stop. Now. This is not a discussion. This is not a conversation. This is me telling you that you must get past your mistrust of Agent Wells before you do irreparable harm to the warehouse.”
“The only irreparable harm is letting that woman have access to the warehouse. The only way she should be here is as a part of the collection,” Artie ranted, his face taking on a vaguely purple hue. “She’s dangerous and now she’s corrupted Myka…”
Before he could persist, Mrs. Fredric snapped, “Arthur! Stop! If you continue in this behavior, you risk losing Agent Bering.”
“That’s what I’m trying to say! That woman has her in her clutches and Myka is too naïve to see her for what she is,” Artie was practically yelling at this point, his voice echoing against the tall shelves.
“No, Arthur. You are wrong. Completely and entirely wrong,” Mrs. Fredric said wearily. “You’ve claimed that we don’t know why McPherson chose her, that we don’t know what his plan was, but you are wrong about that as well, Arthur. We do know. The Regents have known all along. He chose Miss Wells because of the vest. He knew about it, knew that he needed it to get into the Escher vault.”
“We only have her word for that,” Artie interrupted again, only to be silenced once more by a look.
“Arthur, the woman was encased in bronze for over a hundred years. How, exactly, do you think she managed to plot with McPherson?” Mrs. Fredric asked, her question rhetorical as she moved on quickly. “She was supposed to steal Rasputin’s robe from the vault, Arthur, a robe that protects the wearer from death. Once she brought him the robe, he could come and go in the warehouse with no fear. Go anywhere with no fear. She did not take the robe, because she did not trust him. He freed her from the bronzer, hid her away and tried to convince her that his plan to sell artifacts to the highest bidder was a noble one.”
“If that’s true, why didn’t she just tell us? Why not call and say, ‘hey, this guy’s plotting world destruction. You might want to come get him’?” Artie scoffed, a look of disdain on his florid face.
“She had no reason to trust us, either. Agent Bering and Agent Lattimer did go to London to capture her. Would you rush back to be re-encased in bronze, Arthur?” Mrs. Fredric asked, again clearly rhetorically as she continued without waiting for a reply. “I am finished discussing this. I’m telling you, it’s time to move past your feelings of mistrust for Agent Wells. And as for Agent Bering, I think you’ll find that she’s in love. Not tricked. Not conned. Not mislead. Simply in love with Agent Wells. They are not the first agents to become romantically involved over the centuries, nor will they be the last.
“And the more you push Agent Bering, the farther away she moves. If you force her to choose between the warehouse and the woman she loves, you must know what her choice will be? Move on, Arthur, before you lose not one, but two good agents.”
Mrs. Fredric turned abruptly and began to walk back down the aisle. She paused and, glancing back, said, “They’re looking for Nero’s fiddle, or lyre, as it were.”
It took Artie a few moments to process the change in the conversation. “Nero’s lyre? Are you sure?”
Mrs. Fredric looked askance at him. “Yes, Arthur, I am sure.”
“I guess it makes sense, although the lyre hasn’t been seen since the 1600’s. I’ll let them know,” Artie replied, moving at a slow trot to keep up as Mrs. Fredric walked briskly through the aisles.
“They already know.”
“What do you mean, they already know?” Artie puffed, the pace far faster than he was accustomed to.
“Agent Wells realized what it was yesterday.” Mrs. Fredric stated matter-of-factly. “They’ve been looking into it all day.”
“Why the hell didn’t they tell me that they’d identified the artifact?” Artie asked irritably, clearly out of breath as Mrs. Fredric rounded a corner and started down another aisle.
“Because, Arthur, you would have dismissed it out of hand based solely on who had identified it,” Mrs. Fredric replied, as if explaining to a small child. A small, bad-tempered child. “Let go of your animosity, Arthur. The only one it’s truly hurting is you.”
Artie closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a deep breath. When he opened them, ready to once more do battle, Mrs. Fredric was gone and he was alone amid the myriad aisles of the warehouse.
Camp Kanuga, Outside Millville, California
He lay on his back on the floor of the old cabin, the sleeping bag cinched tightly around his body, and watched as the snow fell past the window, the cracks in the panes creating a kaleidoscope of swirling white. His body was still, but his brain was a maelstrom of activity as he considered, discarded, reconsidered, again discarded a thousand different ideas, a million different permutations to his plan.
They knew about the lyre. He had never imagined that anyone would know about the lyre and yet the two women had stood not twenty feet from where he lay and talked about it as if it were the most commonplace thing in the world. The darker one, the one with the sexy British accent, she had spoken about the lyre as if it were alive, a fugitive hiding from justice, but to him it was justice, the only real justice in a world full of platitudes and false offers of redemption.
There was no redemption to be found, nothing left but the cleansing flames. He had failed before, failed to demonstrate to his father that his whole life had been a lie, but this time, he would succeed. He had seen the two women together, seen them through this same cracked window as they kissed; he had heard the offer of absolution, of love.
There was no absolution. There was no love. There was nothing but the purification of the fire. Perhaps when he showed his father that the faith he cleaved to was all calumny and deceit, he would show them, too. Show them that those promises of forever were little more than ashes in their mouths.
Redding, California
The pale yellow glow of streetlights glaring off the thick layer of snow flooded the pale walls of the hotel room as the light seeped in around the stiff edges of the floor length curtains. Myka watched, her head resting against the silken skin of Helena's thigh, as the gold washed over the taut planes of Helena's stomach, the skin beneath her lips and tongue rich and creamy as butter.
They had decided weeks ago to keep the two aspects of their lives separate, had learned quickly the need for an impenetrable barrier dividing their jobs and the fragile thing that had sprouted and grown between them. They might have been successful in holding their own needs as bay, had it not been for the lingering cadences of the conversation at the camp. The words colored every lingering look, every accidental brush of fingers, every mundane, pedestrian comment, blurring the lines between what they did and who they were.
Now, just for tonight, the barrier had been breached, and Myka allowed the feel of Helena's skin under her cheek to cleanse her mind of everything but the woman lying beneath her. She could feel Helena's fingers tracing the seashell curve of her ear, slipping along the fine, soft hair of her temple, smoothing over the tender skin of her eyelids. She didn't need to look up through the wash of golden light to know that Helena's eyes were closed, that she was learning, as a blind man would, the contours of her lover's face, the corners of her lips turned up in a melancholy smile.
Myka lay still, allowing Helena to complete her study, before slowing turning her head so that her lips just brushed along the satin skin beneath them. Pushing up on her elbows, Myka drew a detailed, intricate map up the length of Helena's leg with her lips and tongue, tracing down to the small indentation behind Helena's knee and then making her way north, lazily, meandering, following a path she already knew by heart. The brush of springy hairs against her forehead slowed her, and she mapped the last few inches cautiously, careful not to miss even a centimeter of creamy skin, as her tongue moved to tangle in soft, damp curls.
Against her closed eyelids, the golden swath of light continued to glow, as she painted her mouth and chin with liquid silk. Helena's fingers were in her hair, strong, fiercely holding on, urging her closer. Her hips moved in a rhythm that seemed to match the splay of light across the bed; languid, undulating, growing faster, pushing harder against Myka's mouth. Myka opened her eyes, her gaze sweeping up the glorious length of Helena's body, watching with the same wordless wonder she always felt as waves of sensation overtook the older woman.
Myka wrapped her arms around Helena's hips, her hands slipping under the other woman to grasp the firm, rounded globes of her ass, her fingers kneading, pulling Helena to her, attempting to control the now almost frantic thrust of her hips against Myka's attentive mouth. Myka dragged her full bottom lip across the raised bundle of nerves, moving it slowly, torturously back and forth, her arms stilling all but the most determined thrust of Helena's hips. Taking Helena's clit between her lips, she swirled her tongue around it, lost in the feel of tender flesh, and in the taste and smell of the woman she loved.
Myka didn't stop as Helena's orgasm swept over her, her mind absently hoping that the walls were thick enough and that no one would hear the cry that Helena couldn't quite manage to muffle with the pillow, even as she twirled her tongue in one last circle, drawing out the last shudder from Helena’s body.
“I love you.” Helena said softly into the darkened room, her fingers still caught in Myka’s hair, nails scraping lightly along her scalp. “And before you say it, I know you love me, too. At least, right here, at this moment, I’m very sure of it.”
“I plan on making you sure of it for many, many years,” Myka answered just as quietly, rubbing her cheek slowly against the warm, slightly sticky skin of Helena’s thigh.
“Come here,” Helena asked, her hands tugging at Myka’s hair, urging her to move up beside her on the bed.
Myka went reluctantly, unwilling to relinquish the feel and smell and taste of her make-shift pillow. Languidly, she rose up on her knees, crawling up Helena’s body, her lips nipping lightly at the skin of her abdomen and chest, before she settled tightly against Helena’s side. Before she could speak, Helena had shifted, moving with feline grace to push Myka on her back and straddle her hips, the weight of her body holding her in place as she bent and captured Myka’s lips, her mouth impossibly warm and soft.
The skin under Helena’s hands was flawless, her fingers tracing along the slope of collarbone, down the slightly raised line of sternum, between the rounded swells of flesh. They skirted the curving edge of each breast, their touch so light that it raised goose bumps, the resulting shiver just visible in the slender body under her. Her lips explored as well, nipping gently down the sensitive skin of Myka's throat, pressing open mouthed kisses along the same line her fingers had traced, her tongue circling quickly hardening nipples.
Drawing one, then the other into the moist, slick warmth of her mouth, Helena indulged herself, opening her lips to surround the whole areola, her tongue flicking the pebbled nub, teeth scraping gently. From the noises coming from Myka, she knew that the younger woman had no real objections to her ongoing ministrations.
Myka gasped loudly as that wonderfully warm mouth closed around her nipple, encircling it, sucking gently, coaxing it, teasing it with tongue and teeth. Helena's hand rose to Myka's other breast, slender fingers teasing, barely ghosting across her skin, careful to not leave it neglected.
Myka brought her hands up to tangle in the thickness of silken black hair, urging Helena closer, her back arching up at the same moment to press her breast nearer to that seeking mouth. Helena seemed to find no necessity to rush, those amazing lips now moving at a leisurely pace back and forth between her breasts, sucking less than gently on her hardened nipples, scraping across them with her front teeth, eliciting soft groans.
Myka’s thighs parted wider, allowing Helena's leg to slip between, the warm satin of her skin now just brushing against her. Helena could feel the wetness as Myka moved her hips, pushing up and then back in a slow rhythm, the smooth skin of her thigh quickly becoming slick with moisture.
Lowering her other hand between their bodies, Helena raised her thigh to allow her better access, her fingers sliding against warm, wet flesh, moving unerringly down, as three slim fingers slipped inside Myka, the heel of her hand pressed firmly against her clit, the weight of her thigh coming back to rest, increasing the pressure. Myka's hips surged up against her hand, her back arching, her head tilted back into the softness of the pillow.
Helena again focused her attention on now swollen, bruised looking nipples, her touch no longer gentle, rolling them between the sharpness of her front teeth, each bite drawing a hiss from Myka, her hands still tangled in Helena's hair. Myka's movements were becoming faster and more erratic, and Helena raised herself up on her other hand to give added leverage, as her own hips took up the same staggered rhythm, Myka's thigh now pressing up against her own wet center.
Helena felt Myka's fingers digging into the flesh of her hips as she urged Helena closer, faster, harder. Helena knew that she would probably have slender appendage shaped bruises tomorrow, but she didn't care.
She could feel her own orgasm building, the slide of her clit against the smooth skin of Myka's leg torturously pleasant, each surge forward of her hips sliding her fingers in and out of Myka in a slow, steady motion. She could feel as each thrust in became tighter around her fingers, and the convulsive grasp of Myka's hands on her hips told her that her lover was just as close.
“Fuck,” Myka groaned. Her head was thrown back at an uncomfortable angle, her eyes closed, breath now coming in punctuated gasps. Helena felt Myka tighten convulsively around her fingers, that slender body shuddering under hers. Helena's breathing wasn't any better, her skin, along with Myka's, ruddy with exertion, coated with a sheen of moisture.
Helena lowered her head, trying unsuccessfully to catch her breath, her hand still trapped between Myka's thighs. Finally, her heart slowed enough that the wave of lightheadedness passed, Helena slid back, gently pulling her fingers free.
She rolled over to the side, seeing the steady rise and fall of Myka's chest as her breathing began to return to normal. Placing a hand lightly on Myka's breastbone, Helena propped herself up on her other hand. “You are so very beautiful and I am so hopelessly in love with you.”
“Ditto.” Myka said a trifle breathlessly.
“Ditto?” Helena laughed. “I make a heartfelt declaration of love and all I get from you is ‘ditto’?”
“You’re lucky you got that,” Myka breathed, smiling and reaching up to cup Helena’s cheek. “After that orgasm, you’re fortunate I’m able to breathe, much less speak.”
“Oh, well, as long as you have a good excuse for your lackadaisical response,” Helena teased, dark eyes sparkling in the faint golden light.
“Lackadaisical? Seriously?” Myka challenged, a smirk on her lips as her eyes narrowed. She moved suddenly, pushing Helena on to her back. “I’ll show you lackadaisical, baby.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Helena chuckled, before the feel of Myka’s mouth and hands robbed her of speech.
Fewthistle
Warehouse 13
Myka/H.G.
Disclaimer: Property of Syfy and other foolish souls who squandered the wonder that is Helena and Myka. I would never have been so unwise.
Rating: NC-17. Yes, Virginia, there is sex in this chapter. For those of you who know me, close your mouths: you'll catch flies. For those who don't, I seldom, if ever, write sex, so I make no promises as to the quality. Still, it's sex. So there.
Chapter 5/?
Words: 5,244
Author’s Note: This is a sequel to By the Pricking of My Thumbs. While it is not absolutely necessary for you to have read it, I would suggest you take a gander, if only to know what in the world is going on, since I veered completely away from canon into my own much happier world. Besides, my greedy little Muse insists on pointing out that it’s not too bad and who doesn’t enjoy a good read? *bg*. My eternal gratitude to darandkerry for finding all those missing words, removing all those extra spaces, and keeping me ever vigilant. You are the best, Tex-Ass!! Love ya!
The use of Millville, California and surrounding area is entirely accidental and wishes no harm to that lovely part of the country. I just liked the name.
A/N 2: The title of this piece comes from here: have a listen. Wait
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
CHAPTER FIVE
Route 44, outside Redding, California
By the time they picked up Pete in Millville, the snow was falling steadily, mingling with the ash coating the ground, covering the devastation, a white sheet pulled up over the face of the deceased, hiding the grim face of death. Pete’s face was flushed, although whether from the cold air or triumph remained to be seen. He climbed into the back seat, bringing with him the scent of smoke and snow.
“So, did you find out anything from young Master Kevin?” Helena inquired, turning in the passenger seat with a curious look.
Pete grinned at her with that self-satisfied smirk that seemed to be parceled out to all men at birth, along with an over-abundance of testosterone and the occasionally endearing belief that the universe did, in fact, revolve around them. “Yup,” he replied, his lips making a popping sound on the last syllable. “Kev and I bonded a little over Halo and I managed to get him to open up to old Uncle Pete.”
“And what precisely did he share with ‘Uncle’ Pete?” Myka asked, her gaze in the rearview mirror fondly amused.
“He saw the guy playing the lyre,” Pete pronounced with great aplomb. “Well, actually he said he saw a guy playing some weird looking harp, but either way, he saw him. He spent most of the afternoon with his grandmother, helping her finish making cookies for her Sunday School class. But after dinner, he was bored out of his mind. He’d left his iPod at home, and his grandparents were watching The Lawrence Welk show, which by the way, I had no idea was still on T.V.. Did you know they still show it? I remember watching it with my grandparents when I was a kid.”
“Pete, focus. What did he see?” Myka reminded him, shaking her head at his ability to wander so far afield in so short a time.
“Right, anyway, so he snuck out onto the roof,” Pete resumed, only to be interrupted by Helena’s faint mutter.
“What?” Pete asked, leaning forward to hear her better.
“I said, sneaked, not snuck,” Helena repeated, clearly a little chagrined at having been heard. “I’m sorry. At times, I have an appalling urge to correct grammar. I assure you, it will not happen again.”
Pete simply rolled his eyes at her and continued his story, ignoring Myka’s quiet chuckle. “Yeah, so he sneaked out onto the roof from the upstairs window. That side of the house faces the church and he could see that the lights were on inside the sanctuary. The windows on the side of the church alternated, regular glass with stained glass, and Kev was watching when he saw this guy. At first he thought it was just somebody practicing something for the service Sunday, but then he realized that the guy was walking around, kinda strumming the harp, as he calls it, and all of the sudden, it got brighter and brighter inside the church.”
“Did he tell his grandparents?” Myka asked, her eyes intent on maneuvering the SUV along the snow-coated road.
“Not exactly,” Pete hedged.
“How does one ‘not exactly’ tell one’s grandparents that the church next to their home is burning?” Helena’s eyebrows climbed her forehead as she gazed accusingly at Pete.
Pete held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, don’t glare at me! I’m not the one who didn’t tell. The kid was scared. He had been told to never climb out on the roof and he didn’t want to get in trouble. By the time he got back in and downstairs the church was completely engulfed and it was spreading towards his grandparents. They dragged him out of the house and the fire trucks came and everything was crazy. It wasn’t until after you two talked to his granny and she asked him if he saw anyone did he admit that he might have been where he shouldn’t have been.”
“Well, given the circumstances, quite understandable, I suppose,” Helena agreed. “Did he get a good look at the man or was it merely an outline that he saw?”
“I asked him that. He said that at first he could just see the shape of him and the harp…,” Pete answered smugly, only to be interrupted as Helena again muttered softly.
“Huh?” Pete grunted, moving forward some more, most of his upper body now positioned between the two front seats.
“I said, lyre. It’s a lyre, not a harp. Distinctly different shape, different tonal quality, arrangement of strings,” Helena explained, her voice dying out at the annoyed expression on Pete’s face.
“You said you wouldn’t do that again,” he reminded her, emphasizing his point with a small poke to her left shoulder with his index finger.
“Quite right. My apologies. I don’t know what came over me,” Helena said contritely.
“Honey? Just ignore the grammatical issues and the whole harp versus lyre thing and let him tell us what our arsonist looks like, okay?” Myka asked sweetly, one hand leaving the wheel to gently clasp one of Helena’s, the warm smile on her face taking away any sting the words might have held.
“Honey?! Honey?” Pete laughed loudly, his expression teasing.
“Yes, I called my girlfriend, ‘honey’. Feel free to harass me about it later,” Myka ranted a bit, face a trifle thunderous as her patience reached its limit, “but for God’s sake, just tell us what the kid saw, will you?”
Pete looked rather put out at having his fun so summarily restricted, but, finally, he continued, “As I was saying before ‘honey’ here interrupted me again, Kevin said he saw the shape first, but then, as he was turning around to climb back in the window, the light from the flames lit up the inside of the church and he could see the guy’s face. He didn’t recognize him, but he said he was tall and he had dark hair, kind of long in front, so it hung down over his forehead. Dark hoodie and jeans. That was all he saw.”
“Did Kevin have any idea how old the man was?” Helena asked, a thoughtful expression on her face.
“Kinda old, he said,” Pete answered, sliding back a bit to lean against the seat. “Of course, when you’re eleven, twenty looks kinda old. By the way, I talked to Claudia earlier. No joy on her end so far, but she said she’d keep digging. And keep Artie off our backs as long as she could.”
“I had a feeling she’d have a hard time finding anything. There are simply too many names to sort through. Fifty years worth from the camp and the high school. I feel badly leaving her to deal with Artie. It’s kind of strange that he hasn’t called us.” Myka replied, a look of guilt taking up residence in her green eyes.
“Actually, he has,” Pete admitted, giving Myka a smile that was part apology, part sympathy. “Remember, you said I should take the Farnsworth with me last night? Well, Artie called around five this morning. Apparently he forgot the time difference, or he just didn’t care. I’m leaning towards the not caring, but anyway, he called. I filled him in on what we’d found so far, which was very little and promised we’d call tonight.”
“We had breakfast this morning. Why didn’t you mention that you’d talked to Artie?” Myka asked, puzzled.
“I was sound asleep when he called and I was a little out of it. He asked me what I was doing and I said I was sleeping and that it was only five in the morning and he asked where you were and I said I was pretty sure you were sleeping, too and he suggested I go wake you up and I kinda said something like, ‘I’m not waking them up’, and Artie said, ‘them’ and then he sort of grunted and I just figured I wouldn’t mention it,” Pete babbled, one long sentence in one long breath. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. You’re not the one being a giant weenie. You can keep the Farnsworth tonight, too.” Myka took a sharp right, parking the SUV in front of a Chinese restaurant down the street from their hotel. “We should get some take out, that way we don’t have to go back out in this weather later.”
“Sounds like a plan, Stan,” Pete agreed, zipping his dark jacket higher as he eased open the back door. “I’ll go grab a menu and then we can order. Back in a flash.”
Forty minutes later they pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, the now white pavement scored with a few sets of tire tracks, textured indentations already filling with snow. It was barely three p.m. and yet the sky was dark, the clouds settled snugly along the horizon. Aside from asking Myka to pick something for her off the menu, Helena had been silent since they first stopped at the restaurant, her face pensive.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, cartons of Chinese food between them and Pete sprawled in the arm chair near the window, Myka watched Helena’s face, concern growing in her at the other woman’s continued reticence. “Hey, you. Penny for your thoughts?”
It took a moment for Helena to respond. Finally she blinked slowly, her unfocused gaze centering on Myka’s worried face. “I’m sorry, darling. Really. I’m afraid I rather lost track of time. I was just trying to work something out. I may have an idea of who our lyricist might be.”
Pete paused mid-chew. “Who?” he asked, around a mouthful of General Tso’s chicken.
“I’ve been attempting to determine some connection between the fires at the camp, the high school and the church. Because, although much of the town burned as well, the fire actually had its start in the church. Therefore, it seems safe to assume that the church itself was the intended target and that the resultant spread of the fire to the remainder of the town was perhaps secondary. We’ve been working under the presumption that whoever is starting the fires has some personal grudge against the camp and the school. So, why not further that hypothesis by assuming that the church was also the focus of that same grudge?” Helena paused, dark eyes fixed with interest on Myka’s face, watching as the implication of her words flitted across Myka’s face.
“And since the church and the town were the last fire, it makes sense that the church was actually the culminating act,” Myka posed, her words meeting with a quick nod from Helena’s dark head.
“Darling, do remember when we were speaking with the Reverend Shaw? He mentioned that when he first came to the church he had a head of hair as dark as mine? He has a very distinctive cut to his hair, which I believe has less to do with attention to fashion than the way it grows, falling across his forehead. Now, we have the church camp, the local school and the church itself, all connected in some way and we have an arsonist with a shock of dark hair covering his face. I wonder if Reverend Shaw has a son?” Helena suggested, idly twisting a strand of Lo Mein around her fork.
Pete reached into the pocket of the jacket he had slung over the back of the chair and pulled out the Farnsworth. “I’ll call Claudia and see what she can find out about Rev. Shaw and his family. Kevin didn’t recognize the guy and since the kid goes to church with his grandparents every Sunday, I doubt that this guy lives around here. Kevin would’ve seen him.”
“Hey, Claudia. Is ‘you know who’ around?” Pete asked the black and white image on the screen.
“Nope. Mrs. F showed up and dragged him off about two hours ago. Don’t know why. Don’t wanna know why. Just glad it wasn’t me, you know?” Claudia answered in a pseudo-whisper. “What’s up?”
“We need some info. Plug in the name Reverend William Shaw in Millville. See if he has any kids and whatever else you can dig up, okay?” Pete requested as Myka and Helena began to gather up the empty food containers.
“Gotcha. Give me a sec,” Claudia replied, the sound of her fingers flying over the keyboard of her computer coming through the Farnsworth. Less than two minutes later she had the information. “Okay. Got it. William Shaw, aged 71. Wife Martha died in August of 2008. Has one son, John Michael, aged 28.”
“Did the son go to Foothills High?” Pete asked, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Affirmative, amigo. Although, it doesn’t look like he graduated,” Claudia supplied. “He was supposed to in 2000, but he’s not on the official list. And after 2001, he just disappears. No work record, no W-2’s, no checking account, no nothing. He just drops off the grid.”
“Thanks, Claude, you’re the best. We’ll call back tomorrow. Keep Artie occupied, will ya?” Pete applauded, smiling widely. “Tell him I’ll give him a buzz before I go to bed. It’s snowing like hell here, so we’re in for the night. We’ll head out tomorrow and see what we can find.”
“Gotcha. Give Myka and H.G. a hug for me,” Claudia smirked, her image fading suddenly as the screen went black.
“You are brilliant, you know?”” Myka said quietly, slipping her hand into Helena’s, a proud smile touching her lips.
“We’re brilliant, darling. We. I just hope that we’re brilliant enough to find the prodigal son before he wreaks his final vengeance.”
Warehouse 13, Univille, South Dakota
They had been wandering the aisles of the warehouse for nearly an hour now. Occasionally, Mrs. Fredric would pause before an artifact and scroll through the archive record, her expression, as always, inscrutable. He opened his mouth several times to ask her what she was looking for, only to be met with her patented death glare. After the first few times, he stopped, merely following her obediently as she perused the warehouse collection. He had become so used to the silence that when she did finally speak, he jerked a bit in surprise.
“You must let it go, Arthur,” she pronounced firmly, her expression as enigmatic as her words.
“Let what go, Mrs. Fredric?” Artie asked as politely as he could manage, which, on a good day, and this wasn’t, would never satisfy Emily Post.
“I recommended, the Regents voted, and Mr. Kasan decided, Arthur, that she can be trusted. Do you honestly believe that we would have allowed her back to the Warehouse as an agent if we thought she was a threat in any way? You’re being remarkably arrogant, Arthur, even for you, in maintaining that you somehow know better than we do regarding Agent Wells,” Mrs. Fredric informed him, her tone offering no quarter to argue.
He argued anyway. He ranted. He accused.
After listening to his diatribe for five minutes, Mrs. Fredric held up her hand, her voice as sharp and stinging as the snap of a whip. “Arthur. Stop. Now. This is not a discussion. This is not a conversation. This is me telling you that you must get past your mistrust of Agent Wells before you do irreparable harm to the warehouse.”
“The only irreparable harm is letting that woman have access to the warehouse. The only way she should be here is as a part of the collection,” Artie ranted, his face taking on a vaguely purple hue. “She’s dangerous and now she’s corrupted Myka…”
Before he could persist, Mrs. Fredric snapped, “Arthur! Stop! If you continue in this behavior, you risk losing Agent Bering.”
“That’s what I’m trying to say! That woman has her in her clutches and Myka is too naïve to see her for what she is,” Artie was practically yelling at this point, his voice echoing against the tall shelves.
“No, Arthur. You are wrong. Completely and entirely wrong,” Mrs. Fredric said wearily. “You’ve claimed that we don’t know why McPherson chose her, that we don’t know what his plan was, but you are wrong about that as well, Arthur. We do know. The Regents have known all along. He chose Miss Wells because of the vest. He knew about it, knew that he needed it to get into the Escher vault.”
“We only have her word for that,” Artie interrupted again, only to be silenced once more by a look.
“Arthur, the woman was encased in bronze for over a hundred years. How, exactly, do you think she managed to plot with McPherson?” Mrs. Fredric asked, her question rhetorical as she moved on quickly. “She was supposed to steal Rasputin’s robe from the vault, Arthur, a robe that protects the wearer from death. Once she brought him the robe, he could come and go in the warehouse with no fear. Go anywhere with no fear. She did not take the robe, because she did not trust him. He freed her from the bronzer, hid her away and tried to convince her that his plan to sell artifacts to the highest bidder was a noble one.”
“If that’s true, why didn’t she just tell us? Why not call and say, ‘hey, this guy’s plotting world destruction. You might want to come get him’?” Artie scoffed, a look of disdain on his florid face.
“She had no reason to trust us, either. Agent Bering and Agent Lattimer did go to London to capture her. Would you rush back to be re-encased in bronze, Arthur?” Mrs. Fredric asked, again clearly rhetorically as she continued without waiting for a reply. “I am finished discussing this. I’m telling you, it’s time to move past your feelings of mistrust for Agent Wells. And as for Agent Bering, I think you’ll find that she’s in love. Not tricked. Not conned. Not mislead. Simply in love with Agent Wells. They are not the first agents to become romantically involved over the centuries, nor will they be the last.
“And the more you push Agent Bering, the farther away she moves. If you force her to choose between the warehouse and the woman she loves, you must know what her choice will be? Move on, Arthur, before you lose not one, but two good agents.”
Mrs. Fredric turned abruptly and began to walk back down the aisle. She paused and, glancing back, said, “They’re looking for Nero’s fiddle, or lyre, as it were.”
It took Artie a few moments to process the change in the conversation. “Nero’s lyre? Are you sure?”
Mrs. Fredric looked askance at him. “Yes, Arthur, I am sure.”
“I guess it makes sense, although the lyre hasn’t been seen since the 1600’s. I’ll let them know,” Artie replied, moving at a slow trot to keep up as Mrs. Fredric walked briskly through the aisles.
“They already know.”
“What do you mean, they already know?” Artie puffed, the pace far faster than he was accustomed to.
“Agent Wells realized what it was yesterday.” Mrs. Fredric stated matter-of-factly. “They’ve been looking into it all day.”
“Why the hell didn’t they tell me that they’d identified the artifact?” Artie asked irritably, clearly out of breath as Mrs. Fredric rounded a corner and started down another aisle.
“Because, Arthur, you would have dismissed it out of hand based solely on who had identified it,” Mrs. Fredric replied, as if explaining to a small child. A small, bad-tempered child. “Let go of your animosity, Arthur. The only one it’s truly hurting is you.”
Artie closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a deep breath. When he opened them, ready to once more do battle, Mrs. Fredric was gone and he was alone amid the myriad aisles of the warehouse.
Camp Kanuga, Outside Millville, California
He lay on his back on the floor of the old cabin, the sleeping bag cinched tightly around his body, and watched as the snow fell past the window, the cracks in the panes creating a kaleidoscope of swirling white. His body was still, but his brain was a maelstrom of activity as he considered, discarded, reconsidered, again discarded a thousand different ideas, a million different permutations to his plan.
They knew about the lyre. He had never imagined that anyone would know about the lyre and yet the two women had stood not twenty feet from where he lay and talked about it as if it were the most commonplace thing in the world. The darker one, the one with the sexy British accent, she had spoken about the lyre as if it were alive, a fugitive hiding from justice, but to him it was justice, the only real justice in a world full of platitudes and false offers of redemption.
There was no redemption to be found, nothing left but the cleansing flames. He had failed before, failed to demonstrate to his father that his whole life had been a lie, but this time, he would succeed. He had seen the two women together, seen them through this same cracked window as they kissed; he had heard the offer of absolution, of love.
There was no absolution. There was no love. There was nothing but the purification of the fire. Perhaps when he showed his father that the faith he cleaved to was all calumny and deceit, he would show them, too. Show them that those promises of forever were little more than ashes in their mouths.
Redding, California
The pale yellow glow of streetlights glaring off the thick layer of snow flooded the pale walls of the hotel room as the light seeped in around the stiff edges of the floor length curtains. Myka watched, her head resting against the silken skin of Helena's thigh, as the gold washed over the taut planes of Helena's stomach, the skin beneath her lips and tongue rich and creamy as butter.
They had decided weeks ago to keep the two aspects of their lives separate, had learned quickly the need for an impenetrable barrier dividing their jobs and the fragile thing that had sprouted and grown between them. They might have been successful in holding their own needs as bay, had it not been for the lingering cadences of the conversation at the camp. The words colored every lingering look, every accidental brush of fingers, every mundane, pedestrian comment, blurring the lines between what they did and who they were.
Now, just for tonight, the barrier had been breached, and Myka allowed the feel of Helena's skin under her cheek to cleanse her mind of everything but the woman lying beneath her. She could feel Helena's fingers tracing the seashell curve of her ear, slipping along the fine, soft hair of her temple, smoothing over the tender skin of her eyelids. She didn't need to look up through the wash of golden light to know that Helena's eyes were closed, that she was learning, as a blind man would, the contours of her lover's face, the corners of her lips turned up in a melancholy smile.
Myka lay still, allowing Helena to complete her study, before slowing turning her head so that her lips just brushed along the satin skin beneath them. Pushing up on her elbows, Myka drew a detailed, intricate map up the length of Helena's leg with her lips and tongue, tracing down to the small indentation behind Helena's knee and then making her way north, lazily, meandering, following a path she already knew by heart. The brush of springy hairs against her forehead slowed her, and she mapped the last few inches cautiously, careful not to miss even a centimeter of creamy skin, as her tongue moved to tangle in soft, damp curls.
Against her closed eyelids, the golden swath of light continued to glow, as she painted her mouth and chin with liquid silk. Helena's fingers were in her hair, strong, fiercely holding on, urging her closer. Her hips moved in a rhythm that seemed to match the splay of light across the bed; languid, undulating, growing faster, pushing harder against Myka's mouth. Myka opened her eyes, her gaze sweeping up the glorious length of Helena's body, watching with the same wordless wonder she always felt as waves of sensation overtook the older woman.
Myka wrapped her arms around Helena's hips, her hands slipping under the other woman to grasp the firm, rounded globes of her ass, her fingers kneading, pulling Helena to her, attempting to control the now almost frantic thrust of her hips against Myka's attentive mouth. Myka dragged her full bottom lip across the raised bundle of nerves, moving it slowly, torturously back and forth, her arms stilling all but the most determined thrust of Helena's hips. Taking Helena's clit between her lips, she swirled her tongue around it, lost in the feel of tender flesh, and in the taste and smell of the woman she loved.
Myka didn't stop as Helena's orgasm swept over her, her mind absently hoping that the walls were thick enough and that no one would hear the cry that Helena couldn't quite manage to muffle with the pillow, even as she twirled her tongue in one last circle, drawing out the last shudder from Helena’s body.
“I love you.” Helena said softly into the darkened room, her fingers still caught in Myka’s hair, nails scraping lightly along her scalp. “And before you say it, I know you love me, too. At least, right here, at this moment, I’m very sure of it.”
“I plan on making you sure of it for many, many years,” Myka answered just as quietly, rubbing her cheek slowly against the warm, slightly sticky skin of Helena’s thigh.
“Come here,” Helena asked, her hands tugging at Myka’s hair, urging her to move up beside her on the bed.
Myka went reluctantly, unwilling to relinquish the feel and smell and taste of her make-shift pillow. Languidly, she rose up on her knees, crawling up Helena’s body, her lips nipping lightly at the skin of her abdomen and chest, before she settled tightly against Helena’s side. Before she could speak, Helena had shifted, moving with feline grace to push Myka on her back and straddle her hips, the weight of her body holding her in place as she bent and captured Myka’s lips, her mouth impossibly warm and soft.
The skin under Helena’s hands was flawless, her fingers tracing along the slope of collarbone, down the slightly raised line of sternum, between the rounded swells of flesh. They skirted the curving edge of each breast, their touch so light that it raised goose bumps, the resulting shiver just visible in the slender body under her. Her lips explored as well, nipping gently down the sensitive skin of Myka's throat, pressing open mouthed kisses along the same line her fingers had traced, her tongue circling quickly hardening nipples.
Drawing one, then the other into the moist, slick warmth of her mouth, Helena indulged herself, opening her lips to surround the whole areola, her tongue flicking the pebbled nub, teeth scraping gently. From the noises coming from Myka, she knew that the younger woman had no real objections to her ongoing ministrations.
Myka gasped loudly as that wonderfully warm mouth closed around her nipple, encircling it, sucking gently, coaxing it, teasing it with tongue and teeth. Helena's hand rose to Myka's other breast, slender fingers teasing, barely ghosting across her skin, careful to not leave it neglected.
Myka brought her hands up to tangle in the thickness of silken black hair, urging Helena closer, her back arching up at the same moment to press her breast nearer to that seeking mouth. Helena seemed to find no necessity to rush, those amazing lips now moving at a leisurely pace back and forth between her breasts, sucking less than gently on her hardened nipples, scraping across them with her front teeth, eliciting soft groans.
Myka’s thighs parted wider, allowing Helena's leg to slip between, the warm satin of her skin now just brushing against her. Helena could feel the wetness as Myka moved her hips, pushing up and then back in a slow rhythm, the smooth skin of her thigh quickly becoming slick with moisture.
Lowering her other hand between their bodies, Helena raised her thigh to allow her better access, her fingers sliding against warm, wet flesh, moving unerringly down, as three slim fingers slipped inside Myka, the heel of her hand pressed firmly against her clit, the weight of her thigh coming back to rest, increasing the pressure. Myka's hips surged up against her hand, her back arching, her head tilted back into the softness of the pillow.
Helena again focused her attention on now swollen, bruised looking nipples, her touch no longer gentle, rolling them between the sharpness of her front teeth, each bite drawing a hiss from Myka, her hands still tangled in Helena's hair. Myka's movements were becoming faster and more erratic, and Helena raised herself up on her other hand to give added leverage, as her own hips took up the same staggered rhythm, Myka's thigh now pressing up against her own wet center.
Helena felt Myka's fingers digging into the flesh of her hips as she urged Helena closer, faster, harder. Helena knew that she would probably have slender appendage shaped bruises tomorrow, but she didn't care.
She could feel her own orgasm building, the slide of her clit against the smooth skin of Myka's leg torturously pleasant, each surge forward of her hips sliding her fingers in and out of Myka in a slow, steady motion. She could feel as each thrust in became tighter around her fingers, and the convulsive grasp of Myka's hands on her hips told her that her lover was just as close.
“Fuck,” Myka groaned. Her head was thrown back at an uncomfortable angle, her eyes closed, breath now coming in punctuated gasps. Helena felt Myka tighten convulsively around her fingers, that slender body shuddering under hers. Helena's breathing wasn't any better, her skin, along with Myka's, ruddy with exertion, coated with a sheen of moisture.
Helena lowered her head, trying unsuccessfully to catch her breath, her hand still trapped between Myka's thighs. Finally, her heart slowed enough that the wave of lightheadedness passed, Helena slid back, gently pulling her fingers free.
She rolled over to the side, seeing the steady rise and fall of Myka's chest as her breathing began to return to normal. Placing a hand lightly on Myka's breastbone, Helena propped herself up on her other hand. “You are so very beautiful and I am so hopelessly in love with you.”
“Ditto.” Myka said a trifle breathlessly.
“Ditto?” Helena laughed. “I make a heartfelt declaration of love and all I get from you is ‘ditto’?”
“You’re lucky you got that,” Myka breathed, smiling and reaching up to cup Helena’s cheek. “After that orgasm, you’re fortunate I’m able to breathe, much less speak.”
“Oh, well, as long as you have a good excuse for your lackadaisical response,” Helena teased, dark eyes sparkling in the faint golden light.
“Lackadaisical? Seriously?” Myka challenged, a smirk on her lips as her eyes narrowed. She moved suddenly, pushing Helena on to her back. “I’ll show you lackadaisical, baby.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Helena chuckled, before the feel of Myka’s mouth and hands robbed her of speech.