hell_in_highheels | [oom] Coming Home

He lets out a small frustrated growl. The water makes it hard for him to hold her and while he loves the feel of her thigh stroking his, he'd much rather be feeling something else right now.

He returns her kiss as he twists them around, pushing her up against the slate slab that makes up the back of the shower. He starts lifting her again, putting her neck and other things within distance of his head.

He demonstrates by nibbling at her jaw line and working his way down.

Her head tips back, her gasp turning into a sigh of pleasure. He's pinning her against the warm stone with his weight, giving her leave to wind her legs around his waist. She can feel the scruff of his beard against the sensitive skin of her throat, the graze of his teeth. Her hands can't get enough of him, roaming over his skin.

The marks he left three days ago have almost healed.

That's okay, he can make new ones.

He nibbles his way down her throat until he hits her collarbone. He follows the ridge out to her shoulder before working his way back along the hollow it forms, kissing and lapping at the water there.

His groin grinds against hers, hardness drawn to softness.

She holds onto his head and neck, nuzzling into his hair.

He has her pinned, transfixed, and she can't move, can't rise to meet him. She only try draw him close, her heels digging into his thighs, her breath hitching in his ear as he teases along the crux of her thighs.

He finds her neck again, biting in earnest, remarking her skin.

His hands find purchase under her, supporting her weight, arms flexing to hold her up. He stops pushing against her quite so much, giving them both a chance to manoeuvre to the proper positions.

She hisses as his teeth sink into her flesh, and she shudders with the intensity of it. She holds tight, her hips guiding him as best she can. He can hear her murmur softly "Yes, yes," as he presses in and up, filling her with heat and hardness.

Her scent carries the same wild ecstasy, bright and strong, woven with that deeper, more powerful emotion, stronger still than he has ever smelled it on her before.

He loves that smell and his hold on her throat loosens a bit as he shakily breathes it in. His eyes close in the ecstasy of it all, taste and touch and smell and sound.

"Love you," he says, voice rough and deep as he pushes up into her again.

His words, the mere sound of his voice drives her higher. She contracts around him, fingernails tiny bright points of pain on his back, her body pulsing hard around him, her heels urging him on.

Through it all, a breathless whisper, thick with bliss, "Love you, my love, my love."

Richard slips back into canine to say, Love my love, mine, my love. It leaves his mouth free to mark her throat, leaving deep red dents in her skin.

He keeps pushing into her, shoving her backside up against the warm slate in his eagerness.

She rocks against him, ascending with each bite, each thrust driving her up into that halo of sensation. The stone against her back has no give, and she feels every ounce of his power as he pounds into her.

She holds tight, hearing her own voice rise in a keening cry as her orgasm washes over her. Time slows. She feels the pleasure twisting and rolling through her body in long, hard pulses in synch with his motions.

Richard's voice rises to match hers in a deep and sonorous howl. He's panting with effort when it ends, heart racing, arms straining but still holding her steadily.

"Love you," he murmurs gently over her throat, tongue gently tending to the marks he's left.

Her breath is ragged, and a joyous laugh bubbles up in her throat. The warm water beats on her skin, and she brushes her hand over his cheek, drawing his eyes back to her face. "I love you, wolf."

Somehow, even as she's situated, she manages a fairly intelligible snippet of canine.

My mate.

My mate, he agrees with a happy, proud grin and gives her a sloppy kiss.

"Breakfast?" He inquires hopefully. All this excitement has made him rather ravenous.

"Soap first," she laughs. "And then breakfast."

She nuzzles his cheek as he lets her down, and then reaches for a cloth and the soap dispenser. Don't worry, she's quick about it, and with all that hot water, soon they're both squeaky clean.

She tells the shower to shut down and finds a thick terry cloth towel for the both of them.

Mmm, soft.

He keeps bumping into her, little touches to let him know she's there, gentle shoulderbumps to remind her of the same. It's been quite some time since he was this happy without any magical influence.

"You said Deitmar stopped by?" He asks, slighly muffled because he's towelling his hair.

She echoes those same touches and shoulder bumps, so very glad he is home safe.

She winds her own hair in a towel and twists it on top of her head. "Yes. Interesting young man. Cellular biologist? Said you made him destroy all the samples."

Her hands reach out to touch his skin, stroking down his back.

He leans into her hand for as long as it's there.

"I didn't know him as well then as I do now," he says a bit wryly, passing her his towel.

He'd probably still make him destroy the samples. Deitmar can be...opportunistic.

She hangs up his towel, and then her own, before moving back into his arms. She steals a kiss, tender and gentle, leading him into the bedroom.

She opens the wardrobe and hands him a green silk robe before slipping into a dove grey one herself.

She cocks an eyebrow at him. "He also told me about Suzi and his meeting with your wolf self."

Richard cocks an eyebrow right back at her as he slides into his robe.

"Something which I highly disapprove of and have asked them not to do again. TO the best of my knowledge, they've complied." He stalks over to knot her robe for her.

"I'm not the only werewolf out there, you know," he says with a frown.

She leans into him, rubbing her chin against his scruff. "And I'm not helpless," she answers, her tone adamant.

"Regardless, he mentioned it. And he implied that your 'state' as he called it -- the fact that you're deceased -- might impact your ability to transmit the lycanthropy. But," she holds up a finger, "he said we have no way of knowing for sure."

"I know," he says quietly, holding and supporting her. "But it's not the sort of thing one tests lightly."

That applies to both statements as far as he's concerned.

There is a powerful wash of love in her scent as she holds him. "Do I seem to be the kind of person who does anything lightly?"

"Now, c'mon. Let me see if I can't find something for you to eat." She gives him a wink.

"Well, you didn't seem too serious when you asked me out to dinner..." he says teasingly, following her to the kitchen.

Damocles is happily curled up on a couch with one of his chew toys when they come out. Ryan frowns. "Do you want him on the furniture?" Brand new leather and all.

"Up to you," she smirks. "I don't mind either way."

"And I confess, I make a habit of picking the most dangerous man in the room and asking him to dinner. It's a hobby of mine." She shoots him a look as she moves into the kitchen.

Ryan shrugs. The dog's already allowed on the bed, it'd only be a matter of time till he claimed the couches too.

He steps behind her into the small space, still not sure which of them is going to do the cooking. "I suppose I'll just have to work at being the most dangerous man in the room, then."

He's not entirely joking there.

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