Something small and strangled, something that might have been a whimper, escaped her throat. A shiver ran through her, her fingers digging for a moment into his back. She was off the edge of the map now; the two boyfriends she'd had before had never gotten this far. Oddly, though, that thought did not distress her in the slightest. Of course, it was difficult to be even remotely distressed with Stephen kissing her neck, with his hands doing whatever complicated thing they were doing against her back. For a moment she almost forgot to breathe, but when she remembered she managed a faint gasp of a laugh.
"I think," she said, the words half a whisper, "I can live with with that." Her fingers were trailing down his back, tracing along his spine, exploring each scar she found. Though she'd inhabited his body, she'd never realized how many scars he had, and she memorized them by feel.
Her breath caught sharply in her throat at that; even with what she'd read, to hear it...
"You're not the only one," she whispered, wrapping one leg around his. Her foot ran along his calf, a kind of silent invitation--she wasn't afraid, now, even if all she'd ever heard of said she should be.
He shivered, slightly, at that -- the intent not lost on him in the least, the effect only amplified by how subtle and silent an invitation it was. It was one thing to to hear her say she did not want to stop. It was quite another to be shown. His arms tightened around her, his body pressing against hers, restless.
Susan, feeling his shiver, smiled. He knew what he wanted; she knew what she wanted....
Without warning she turned his face to hers and kissed him, slow and lingering as she shifted beneath him in a single sinuous movement. A much more direct invitation, she thought. On instinct, she bit very lightly at his lower lip, and when she released him from the kiss her eyes met his quite pointedly.
That was the Susan he knew, forthright and daring. A woman who used a fireplace poker as a weapon was not the kind of woman one needed to handle with kid gloves. "I have to remind myself you will not break," he said, amused at himself. She looked so delicate, fine-boned, skin like porcelain; but porcelain was cool, and Susan was warm in his arms, warm and alive and wonderfully his, if he would only make her so. That warmth fired his blood too.
Grace he might have, but whatever undergarment this was that she wore, its slippery fabric confounded his efforts to roll it smoothly down, and he found the obstruction only made him impatient. With a low inarticulate sound of frustration he managed to get them down her hips and off.
Susan smiled again at that, an almost impish smile. "I've been called many things," she said, "but breakable is not one of them." It still hadn't fully hit home, yet, that this was real; part of her kept expecting to wake up and find it yet another of her recent dreams--which had always ended right about now, so it probably wasn't.
Unfortunately, she had no experience in assisting anyone trying to remove her underwear, and so wasn't much help until he was almost done anyway. That done, she reached for him, silently compelling him to lose the last of their physical barriers and leave absolutely nothing between them.
That, at least, he could and did manage with all due speed. "I could call you a good many things," he agreed, covering her body with his, running a line of kisses up her neck to her ear as he spoke.
That drew an actual whimper from her, as her arms tightened around him, hard. She wanted to say something to that--some suitable reply; she didn't know what--but her words were lost in that whimper, in that single sound of absolute desire. Rather than speak she arched against him, her head falling back and silently offering her throat.
"Could you?" she breathed, the words half a whimper themselves.
That sound was his undoing. One smooth motion and she had parted around him, God, so sweet, he knew it would be this sweet but knowing was different from having.
"Susan," he breathed, and that was an answer in itself. All the words that could describe her, in all the languages he knew, could only begin to approximate a fraction of what she was.
She'd expected it to hurt. It was supposed to hurt, your first time, wasn't it? This...most emphatically did not hurt; it was as far from pain as it was possible to go. Susan didn't even hear herself moan; all she knew was that single, simple movement made dark stars momentarily bloom behind her eyes. Her fingers dug into his back, almost hard enough to be painful, and again shifted beneath him, an instinctive lissome movement that required no thought from her whatsoever.
If she asked, later, he'd tell her sometimes it didn't always hurt. Sometimes if you'd been very athletic in your youth, or if you were born lucky, it didn't. And if she pressed, he might say that maybe she'd known someone she didn't remember. Things happened at Hogwarts. That was all.
None of those things would be a lie.
It was wonderful and she was wonderful and he told her so before it was over, in words he only dimly knew she wouldn't understand, because they weren't any language she would know. He loved her with all the focus and drive and intensity that was in him, and that was considerable.
Susan was never quite certain, afterward, just what passion-ragged cries he'd drawn from her. She was aware of every second, every touch, yet at the same time some part of her mind was completely overwhelmed by sheer, unabashed, unadulterated ecstasy. The fact that it was Stephen...that it was him, saying and doing so many things even her imagination hadn't dreamed of.... She clung to him, hard, writhing beneath and against him until, finally, her senses slowly tried to regain normal equilibrium.
She was lying beside Stephen, when rational thought finally restored itself, lying with her head rested against his chest. Gradually she realized she was shivering, and not from cold--well, not much; she reached and drew the blankets up over both of them. She didn't know what to say, or if she should, or even if she could--coherent speech might still be gone, and so she did not try. Instead she pressed against him, her head rested over his heart, her hair a lazy, quiescent mass around them both.
Stephen hadn't given blankets so much as a thought. His senses were still reeling. It took a moment to register what she was doing, and then he was grateful. How very sensible of her. She was tucked against him now; he held her with one arm, and with the other reached to stroke her hair.
He thought he could be quite content here indefinitely.
Susan didn't want to move. She didn't want to even think of getting up, so she snuggled deeper into her nest of blankets, one arm wrapped around Stephen's waist.
"At the risk of sounding cliche," she said, the words soft and hoarse and utterly happy all at once, "that was amazing." She tilted her head back and kissed his jaw, absolutely and inordinately content.
She was right. What was more, he had no idea what to make of it -- any of it, really. Missing the wedding made very little difference to him. He was not close to the bride or the groom or the families thereof, and he had never been a great respecter of formal occasions. Formal occasions generally constituted an inconvenience, a disruption of his happily unregimented schedule. There was also another problem.
"If you put that dress back on, I will only want to take you out of it again," he observed.
Her eyebrows went up at that, a small and almost evil smile crossing her face. "Oh really?" Susan's hand brushed over his temple and down, following the line of his arm. "Well, in that case I really ought to put it on again, shouldn't I?" Much of her brain was still reeling, but that of it which was her own was...happy. Susan was, on the whole, quite satisified with her life, and had been for years, but actual happiness was rare indeed. Right here, right now, with Stephen, she couldn't ask for anything else.
"I think," she said, the words half a whisper, "I can live with with that." Her fingers were trailing down his back, tracing along his spine, exploring each scar she found. Though she'd inhabited his body, she'd never realized how many scars he had, and she memorized them by feel.
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"You're not the only one," she whispered, wrapping one leg around his. Her foot ran along his calf, a kind of silent invitation--she wasn't afraid, now, even if all she'd ever heard of said she should be.
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Without warning she turned his face to hers and kissed him, slow and lingering as she shifted beneath him in a single sinuous movement. A much more direct invitation, she thought. On instinct, she bit very lightly at his lower lip, and when she released him from the kiss her eyes met his quite pointedly.
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Grace he might have, but whatever undergarment this was that she wore, its slippery fabric confounded his efforts to roll it smoothly down, and he found the obstruction only made him impatient. With a low inarticulate sound of frustration he managed to get them down her hips and off.
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Unfortunately, she had no experience in assisting anyone trying to remove her underwear, and so wasn't much help until he was almost done anyway. That done, she reached for him, silently compelling him to lose the last of their physical barriers and leave absolutely nothing between them.
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"Could you?" she breathed, the words half a whimper themselves.
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"Susan," he breathed, and that was an answer in itself. All the words that could describe her, in all the languages he knew, could only begin to approximate a fraction of what she was.
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None of those things would be a lie.
It was wonderful and she was wonderful and he told her so before it was over, in words he only dimly knew she wouldn't understand, because they weren't any language she would know. He loved her with all the focus and drive and intensity that was in him, and that was considerable.
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She was lying beside Stephen, when rational thought finally restored itself, lying with her head rested against his chest. Gradually she realized she was shivering, and not from cold--well, not much; she reached and drew the blankets up over both of them. She didn't know what to say, or if she should, or even if she could--coherent speech might still be gone, and so she did not try. Instead she pressed against him, her head rested over his heart, her hair a lazy, quiescent mass around them both.
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He thought he could be quite content here indefinitely.
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Susan didn't want to move. She didn't want to even think of getting up, so she snuggled deeper into her nest of blankets, one arm wrapped around Stephen's waist.
"At the risk of sounding cliche," she said, the words soft and hoarse and utterly happy all at once, "that was amazing." She tilted her head back and kissed his jaw, absolutely and inordinately content.
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"If you put that dress back on, I will only want to take you out of it again," he observed.
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