bakerstreet | the Surprise Kiss Meme

He needed that other arm around her. She didn't want to get away from that white hot touch he was subjecting her to, but there had been a hierarchy here, and he had upended it. His kiss, his touch, his voice, all came together to light her up. She gasped against his mouth as he found the right angle, the right pressure to make her tense and shudder.

His question drew a breathless, dark laugh. "Oh now you want to be responsible? Fuck." Another hot lance of sensation radiated out from her core, and her eyes rolled back in her head.

Whatever he's doing between her thighs, he seemed to have found his way to the promised land. She rolled to her back, greedy hands pulling him with her, keeping him close.

"Well, not if I don't have to be. I like to imagine I'm capable of it once in a while," he murmured, his teeth tugging at her earlobe as his fingers kept up their relentless assault. "But I'll take that as a 'no.'"

And then following where she pulled, he rolled on top of her, spreading her thighs with his knees. "Yes ma'am," he replied, with a little smirk playing over his lips. "As you wish."

Taking his prick in hand, he dipped it into her slit, coating the head with her moisture and taking up where his fingers left off to rub it against her clit; less focused, but with infinitely more heat. Lifting his eyes to her face, he watched her intently as he leaned in, grasping her hips as he sunk himself balls-deep.

Sweet mother Mary, she couldn't have found a more perfect man if she'd ordered him out of a catalogue. His teeth at her ear drew a soft whine. He rolled with her, rising above her, and her legs wrapped around his waist. Her hands rested on his thighs, and she watched with dark eyes as he took himself in hand, her hips lifting off the bed to meet him, shameless as ever. When hot flesh met slick hot flesh, her cunt throbbed, the involuntary pulse telegraphed through her entire body and came out of her mouth as a quiet gasp.

And then he met her gaze.

She didn't close her eyes or look away, though it would have been simple to do so. No, the fact remained, that deep, unflinching eye contact was just as vital to her right now as the length of his hard cock sliding home. She held his gaze even when the air went out of her lungs in a long wanton sigh. She held his gaze as he filled her full to brimming, and then some. She held his gaze as her heels dug in and kept him there, not letting him pull back just yet. He'd soon find out, she was no less demanding for being flat on her back. She held her breath, held his gaze, held his cock clenched tight inside her, teasing and torturing them both with a moment of stillness.

He had no intention of moving just yet, needing a moment to adjust to the sensation; the intense heat of her core and the tightness of her pussy causing his cock to throb almost unbearably from the outset. Eyes glittering darkly, he gazed down at her, silent for the most part, aside from the sound of his quickened breath as he panted through his mouth.

Her felt her heels dig in and his teeth bared, halfway between a grimace and a grin. He couldn't move back—not easily, at least—but he could move forward to a small extent and shifting his hands to grip her arms, he began to slowly and heavily grind his pelvis into hers.

Bliss. She arched, using her strength to meet and match that glorious press and grind. Her lips parted, her jaw gone slack with pleasure. Her fingers splayed wide, but she didn't resist his grip, using it instead to anchor herself to him.

Her pupils are shot wide, evidence of just how far gone he's gotten her in such a short time. Surrender isn't in her nature, but the struggle is. This isn't her being contentious, this is her striving with him. Still reaching to find their groove, but focused on just this. Just him, held deep inside her, driving her out of her mind. She exhales, rocking with him, lost in that green eyed gaze.

Every small, limited movement only made the urge to thrust more compelling and despite the struggle, he made some headway in the length of his stroke, even as he resisted an increase in speed, not wanting to push it to a fever pitch too quickly.

That was going to take a lot of concentration on his part, as every little noise she made, every constriction of her muscles on him, made his heart-rate leap and his blood begin to boil; the throbbing pulse in his cock dictating the pace like a primal drumbeat.

Muscles taut, sweat beading up on his chest and forehead, he groaned through clenched teeth, his slow, hard thrusts building in intensity until 'shagging her blind' was a thing more real than fantasy; never once taking his eyes from hers.

She was as taut as a guy wire, her strong legs flexing and relaxing in time with those glorious thrusts. Her hips rocked with him, undulating in a subtle circle while still angled to take him as deep as he could go. Her breasts bounced with every thrust, and he could see ripples of tension moving across her flat stomach. Sweat sheened on her skin, and somewhere along the line, he could tell it became impossible for her to keep her gaze locked to his, though she did try valiantly. Her spine curled and her hands turned in his, shifting so she could press palm to palm, fingers interlaced. Thus anchored, she gave up trying. The pleasure was just too much, and her eyes went glassy and unfocused, her head tipping back in the sheets.

A quiet litany of oh my god oh my god oh my god fell from her lips, breathless and sharp. He felt like a summer thunderstorm between her thighs, like an earthquake coming from a great distance, and she could feel the tremors threatening with every stroke. He knew when he found it, knew in an instant. She gasped and went rigid at the precise moment of contact. Her body pulsed hard around his cock, and he could feel every tendon and muscle vibrate. He pulled back to do it again, and she whimpered, begging now. Every press of his hips took her little closer to heaven, and he alone was the engine of her ascension.

Little by little, cracks were appearing in his composure, like fissures spidering through a foundation, then widening rapidly as his tenuous grasp on his self-control crumbled.

With a strangled-sounding moan, he abruptly gave in and abandoned any effort to hold back, shifting the angle slightly to drive as deeply into her as he possibly could; pounding a red-hot stake into boiling sea of lava. Judging from the way her body convulsed, his arrow had hit the bullseye dead center.

Hips plunging, he strained against her, his cock aching for the release that shortly followed. He went over the edge in turn in a sweat-soaked frenzy of movement that left him gasping and shuddering as it subsided, his body jerking with the aftershocks. He thought she'd had two, maybe three orgasms—he might've lost count. He just had the one (as men do), but it was an explosive one.

Edited 2014-01-29 18:38 (UTC)

The first came when he gave in and began to move with intent. It was bright and high, and he stroked through her through it without stopping. She pulled him forward so she could bury her face against his throat, her hands clutching at his shoulders. He kept going and she did her best to keep up, but her body was completely at his mercy.

The second he took from her, might as well have been at gunpoint, because she fought and clawed not to give in, but it was no use. He'd found her sweet spot and was hammering it like John Henry on a railroad spike. She lost all coordination as white heat coalesced, condensed and then exploded through her entire body, and if she'd convulsed before, it was nothing next to this. She'd bucked hard beneath him, and let loose a long, high pitched keening cry, until there was no air left in her lungs.

By the time he hit the end, she was not much more than a puddle of molten heat beneath him, clinging weakly to his neck, and his own peak drew one more from her, almost an afterthought but no less pleasurable for it. It left her pulsing in time with him, panting hard, painting his temple and cheek and mouth with kisses, tasting his sweat and feeling the way his pulse settled back to normal.

Her legs slipped back to the bed, and her hands combed through his hair. Somehow she found the energy smile, a lazy, wicked little grin.

"Not bad," she drawled. "Not bad at all."

Panting heavily, he fell rather than rolled to the side, taking his weight off her, but not really moving away. Preoccupied with breathing, it was a moment before he replied.

That had been, without a doubt, the most mind-blowing sex he'd ever had. Granted, his bar was set pretty low, in that he hadn't really slept around too much, but even if that weren't the case, he'd still rate this encounter leagues above anything he'd ever experienced before.

He still wasn't entirely sure he didn't need to maintain a certain level of wariness around Miss Barking Mad Wednesday—there was something about her that brought to mind vague impressions of those female spiders who eat their mate after copulation—instinctively, he felt she was a dangerous person. But then, so was he. How dangerous they were to each other however, remained to be seen.

"Well, I had fun." The most deadpanned understatement of the year, right there.

That deadpan comment earned him a bright, broad smile, crinkling the corners of her eyes. Even her nose wrinkled up a bit in amusement. She laughed under her breath, and leaned close to steal another slow, sensual kiss. She seemed fascinated with the feel of his mouth against hers. He might have been a better kisser than he'd thought.

When she pulled back, it was again with great reluctance. "Well, I think," she drew the sentence out with her own fair imitation of the local meandering rhythm, dark brown eyes seeking everywhere but his own penetrating gaze until the last possible second, "we can do better."

It wasn't that she didn't see the ink in his skin. It was obvious that she did, by the way her hand hesitated over the blackest of sins, but kept going, caressing over it because it was just ink. It wouldn't bite. She chose not to comment. He hadn't seemed to her like a man who needed his sins recounted, or his political views, past or present, expounded upon. If he was paying close attention, he'd see that yes, she was dangerous, but not to him. He was not the enemy, and for as dangerous as he was, she knew she had nothing to fear from him. She knew that like she knew how to breathe. She knew it without even thinking about it.

But she knew the winter wolf deserved respect, and she would give him nothing less. And there was affection, too, but tentatively offered. One does not expect the winter wolf to roll over and offer his belly just from a little ear scratch.

Boyd exhaled a soundless laugh. "Give me five minutes or so, then I'll see what I can do."

He lay passively, watching her face as her hand traveled over the various scars and tattoos on his body as though she were reading the tales each one had to tell simply from touch alone. Whether or not she gleaned any truth was harder to say; some of his tattoos, like his verbiage, needed Google Translate to be understood at times.

She didn't ask for any explanation and he wasn't in too much of a hurry to provide one—at least not a brutally honest one. Boyd was not a man who relished acknowledging his true motivations regarding certain things, even to himself. But he conceded to give a vague blanket disclaimer, shrugging slightly with his eyebrows, his tone mild. "There might be one or two things in my past which I regret."

"Let he who is without sin, cast the first stone." If she was reading anything by touch alone, it was the way he occupied his skin, especially in the quiet moments after sex. She was still exploring him, learning the planes and curves of his wiry build, weaving herself into his senses. Also, he was beautiful in his own way, and she couldn't resist the temptation to indulge.

The one she came back to was the shield with the horse's head. "Military?"

"Jesus also said, 'Go and sin no more.' My inability to comply with the latter might preclude any absolution from the former." Boyd could afford to be philosophical about it; the possibility of Divine Judgment no longer much of a concern for him. "Changin' the sin doesn't make a person any less of a sinner."

Whatever his current sins were, they didn't seem to fall into the same category, at least as far as (ostensible) regret went.

"U.S. Army, 1st Cavalry Division. I did a tour of duty in Kuwait during Desert Storm. You look like you've seen some action," he observed, tracing the scar on her thigh.

"In my experience, there is no sin but failure to adapt."

Her eyes drifted closed for moment at the touch of his hand on that particular bit of her history. "Baja, Sea of Cortez. Went skin diving and tangled with a diablo rojo. A Humboldt squid. Lost my mask and ended up fighting him off with just my dive knife. Half of that was his beak, other part was me convincing him I wasn't on the menu." She still has nightmares about that encounter.

"I believe it was Shakespeare who said, 'Some rise by sin and some by virtue fall.' That doesn't speak much for virtue, does it?" The grin he flashed her certainly didn't contain much.

"I'm only marginally familiar with critters of the oceanic variety, but that doesn't sound like one of those 'swim with dolphins' excursions." He was being facetious, yes, although the expression on his face became quite serious as he rubbed his fingertips back and forth over the wound. "Have you done a lot of divin'?"

She gave a wry little laugh. "Some, but not a lot. I've learned very quickly, if the sea wants you, she'll have you, one way or another."

She dropped a kiss on his shoulder, and lay her arm along his so she could guide his touch. "If you press a bit, you can feel it. It goes all the way around." He'd found the worst of it, but the dime-sized scars marched two by two in a sinuous line around to the tender flesh at the crease of her ass, and there was a matching line that circled towards her inner thigh.

"You should have heard me cursing. I couldn't sit down for a month."

He did as she instructed, following the scar around until his hand reached her ass, which was a nice place for it to be, so he left it there, caressing the soft skin.

"'She,' huh? You sound like a sailor. I'll be you curse like one too," he went on, breaking into a grin again. "I don't know if my delicate ears coulda stood it."

She didn't mind, as it put them almost nose to nose and his touch was deliciously distracting. The sentiment earned him a wicked little smirk. "Your delicate ears would do just fine, I think. You seem to have an appreciation for language, and I'd wager you've turned a colorful phrase or two in your day."

Her hand resumed exploring, savoring his skin under her palm. Over his ribs, and flat stomach, along his hip before reversing course and traversing his side all the way to his pecs. Eventually, her fingertips lit on the scar in the center of his chest, and her tone became serious. "What happened here?"

"When it comes to profanity, I tend towards conservatism." He shrugged a little, looking mischievous. "Shit, fuck, goddammit, et cetera. That ain't too salty, I'll bet you've got that beat."

She certainly seemed to like touching him and while he wasn't a tactile person himself, he didn't have a problem with it, relaxing a little under her caress. It wasn't something he was used to, but it felt nice; more soothing than sensual.

When her fingers touched the bullet-hole scar, he paused a moment before answering the question, opting for cheekiness rather than mirroring her tone. "Somebody tried to kill me. A shockin' notion, I know."

Ari was one to experience the world through her senses. Intellectual stimulation aside, she wanted the sun on her face and the wind in her hair. She wanted to feel the way the earth moved beneath her feet. Some might call it a sixth sense. Ari would claim those people just weren't paying close enough attention to the world around them. And when presented with such an intriguing and enigmatic prospect as Boyd Crowder, she wanted to suss him out with her hands. As if she could learn something about him by reading the way his bones fit together.

Her dark eyes flit to his face, her lips twisted in what might be called frustration, or a dark amusement. Might be something else, too. He's not the only one with the occasional inscrutable look.

"I must confess, the thought had crossed my mind that your mouth was going to get you in trouble sooner or later. I guess I'm a little late to the party."

"I don't think it was my propensity for rhetoric that provoked this particular reaction," he remarked wryly, still playing it down. "It was more like a showdown at the O.K. Corral, during which I made the near-fatal mistake of allowin' my attention to be distracted. I'm just lucky he wasn't a better shot."

That was a thing that had given him pause more than once over the last few years, in that Raylan was an expert marksman; the best there was. He'd thought for a while it had been the hand of God intervening, but when he stopped believing that, he started wondering if Raylan had actually choked; if in that split second, he couldn't actually bring himself to kill his old coal mining buddy. Not that Raylan would ever admit as much.

Ari raised one eyebrow at him, and dropped her chin. Her fingertips graze over the scar of a wound that would have killed any other man.

"The man that did this was a damned sight better than most. By all rights, you should be dead."

In her world, not paying attention is the quickest way to get killed. She's had her fair share of close calls, and it's not a lesson one soon forgets. But if he wanted to downplay it with humor, who was she to argue?

"I suspect you may have lived out of pure contrarian spite for one who shot you. Either that, or you're tricksy enough to keep your heart someplace other than where it's supposed to be. Like in a box on a shelf somewhere, for safekeeping."

"Oh, now you've gone and guessed my secret," he replied mischievously, running with that. "All the people who called me heartless over the years, they had no idea just how literal that was."

Although the truth of the matter was, it was a pretty apt metaphor. He didn't wear his heart on his sleeve and he certainly didn't give it away easily. It was carefully enough guarded that even its owner was seldom aware of its existence.

Boyd spent a moment reflecting on Raylan and the odd symbiotic relationship he had with the man. "I don't hate him for doin' it. I was arrogant enough at the time to actively goad him into it. I was pretty long on bravado and short on caution. In fact, for a while there, I considered him the instrument of my salvation. It didn't exactly stick, but it did help me to grow up some."

And she, the one who slips into well-guarded places and returns with rare and highly sought-after precious goods. It was almost like throwing down a gauntlet.

Ari sat up a bit, ran a hand through her dark hair to pull it off her face, and rested on one elbow so she could look down at him, one thigh still draped over his. Her brow furrowed and she frowned over a smirk at his mischievous tone.

"Let me see if I've got this straight: you goaded a man, a dead shot no less, into shooting you in the chest. He did and through some trick of fate, you didn't die. So you found God, repented your evil ways, took up a crusade, and got a lot of men killed. And then you lost God again. Did I miss anything?"

There had to be more to that story, but the basics were always a good place to start.

Edited 2014-02-03 16:56 (UTC)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject