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Talking Body

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                When in Rome, you… get pissed, evidently.

                 At least, that’s what David has done. Under other circumstances—specifically, earlier in the evening or on a night when they would not be expected on set the next morning—Catherine might find it comical. As it is, he wakes her at one in the morning with a text.

                You awake?

                Yawning, and squinting at the bright screen of her mobile, Catherine rolls her eyes. No. Maybe he’ll take the hint and let her be.

                Or not. The next message comes less than a minute later.

                Excellent. Can I pop by for a visit?

                Given that I’m asleep and all, I can’t imagine that I’d be good company.

                David is unfazed. I’ll be there in a few.

                The man, Catherine decides, must have been drinking. Sober David would not invite himself over to her hotel room in the wee hours of the morning, at least not without providing a decent reason. She wonders, briefly, what he wants, but in her sleep-addled state, no real ideas come to mind. Probably just craves company.

                She almost ignores the knock on her door. In the morning, she could easily tell David that she just fell back to sleep. He would understand. Probably apologize, too, for waking her up in the first place.

                But something draws her to the door. An itch, a curiosity. She lets out a groan and rolls out of bed, snatching up her dressing gown from a chair and pulling it tight across her front. Pads slowly across the room.

                Opening the door just enough so that she can peek through, Catherine looks out at David, standing in the hall. Once again, she has to squint at the difference in light. Good. Look bleary-eyed, maybe make him feel guilty for disrupting her. “What’s the password?”

                If his expression is any indication, the mindless question seems to cause David a great deal of distress, as he frowns and tries to think it through. So he’s helped himself to an awful lot of drink, too, then.

                “I ain’t bovvered,” he declares at last.

                Catherine almost wants to laugh. “Close enough.” She steps back and allows him inside. He stumbles slightly, and immediately she reaches out to steady him. “Exactly how much have you had to drink, David?”

                “Ahm…” David pauses, and again frowns as he thinks over the question. He begins to count on his fingers, but he gives up on that real fast. “Several, I think.”

                “I would never have guessed.” For lack of a better place for him, Catherine pulls David over to the other bed, and stands expectantly in front of him until he sits.

                “I hold my drink very well,” he affirms with a proud nod.

                For lack of any better ideas, Catherine drops down onto her own bed across from David, looking at him with some amusement. It occurs to her that they are sitting in the dark, and, finally accepting the fact that she will probably not be sleeping for some time, she reaches over and turns on the lamp on the bedside table.

                She wonders why he was drinking so much. Would it be proper to breach the subject, or should she let him take conversation where he likes?

                But he seems quite content to sit there, looking at her and grinning widely. God, he’s daft.

                “Have you done something different with your hair?” he asks cheerfully.

                Catherine raises her eyebrows. “I slept on it for a few hours, if that’s what you mean.”

                “Oh!” For the first time, the thought seems to occur to David that maybe she really had been asleep. “You mean to say that I… you were… fuck, I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have come.”

                Despite that, he makes no real move to leave.

                “Please, don’t go on my account,” she mutters dryly.

                “I’m sorry,” he says again. Still not leaving. “It’s just that I was thinking of you, and I… wanted to see you. Because I was thinking of you.”

                Uncertain of how to respond, Catherine finds herself just nodding. What does he mean, thinking of her? At one in the morning when he’s drunk off his arse? What the fuck was he thinking about?

                David seems to notice the shift in her mood before Catherine does; he sits up straighter—or tries to—and does his best at a concerned expression, given the circumstances. “Should I not have said that? It made you anxious. I wasn’t trying to make you anxious. I was just…”

                “You haven’t made me anxious.” But, she realizes, he has, and she can’t pinpoint the reason why. Which worries her even more.

                He shakes his head decisively. “You’re lying. Why don’t you just tell me to sod off, if you don’t want me here?”

                “I don’t mind,” she rushes to say, the words slipping out even as the reasonable side of her brain is screaming that yes, she should tell him to sod off, to go bother someone else so that she can be well-rested in the morning.

                “Yeah?”

                Send him away. Catherine knows that she should send him away. “Yeah.”

                A grin lights up his face and it sends a shiver through her. “Does that mean we can cuddle?”

                The connection escapes Catherine, and her brow furrows in confusion. Without intending to, she pulls herself farther from David. “I agree not to make you leave, and that turns into an invitation to cuddle?”

                “I like having a good cuddle, every now and again. That’s what I was thinking about when I texted. I was thinking that you would probably be nice to cuddle with.”

                So David’s fits squarely in the camp of affectionate drunk, then. Not too surprising, she supposes. Always a bit touchy-feely, with lots of hugs and a bit more hand-holding than she normally does with her mates. She wants to laugh over the cuddling proposition, but she’s finding the whole situation less and less amusing as she stares at him, pouting across from her.

                “Oh, c’mon then.” Like she can say no to that tragic face.

                He clings to her, and Catherine is vaguely reminded of the way that Erin might run into her room to seek comfort after a particularly disturbing nightmare. David’s head rests in the crook between her shoulder and her neck, and his arms wind around her waist. She can feel him blinking, his eyelashes just barely grazing the skin of her neck as he opens and closes his eyes.

                “You’re very comfortable,” he says fondly after some minutes, curling into her more. One of his legs now rests on top of hers, and she can’t bear to move away.

                “And you’re disturbingly affectionate. Most of the blokes I’ve shagged didn’t feel the need to hold me this long.” Twig doesn’t feel the need to hold her this long, but she doesn’t think that should be added into the conversation.

                “I don’t even get the sex that comes before the holding.”

                There’s a note to his tone that Catherine can’t identify, but she can’t shake the feeling that it’s dangerous, and she treats it as such, shaking her head and asserting, “No, no you don’t. Just cuddles for you.”

                “Shame, that. I’m a good shag.” Sitting there, still snuggling up against her with as little embarrassment as he might have if discussing the weather.

                But she lacks the verve to get genuinely irritated with him. “Modest, too.”

                “Don’t believe me?” David’s voice has suddenly gone low. He lifts his head from her shoulder, but his mouth is mere inches from her ear as he continues, “I could show you, if you like.”

                Catherine’s breath catches in her throat. She is unsurprised that the conversation made its way here. Honestly, she knows that she should have been expecting him to come on to her as soon as she opened the bloody door. She should have been expecting it as soon as she got the text.

                And maybe she was, a little bit, even then. Late night text from a bloke, looking to see her… well, everyone knows what that means. Even a mate, even David…

                That’s the thing, though, isn’t it? That it’s David. If it were any other man, she would probably be snogging him by now.

                With one of his hands, he’s playing with the tie of her dressing gown. Not undoing it, not crossing that line… But Catherine turns her head to look at him, and she sees in his eyes just how eager, how hopeful he is.

                She allows herself a moment, in which she feels scared. Terrified. Because she’s not happy, and although a mindless roll in the hay could prove to be a temporary distraction, David is the worst possible candidate for such a job, because he actually means something. And at the thought of what might come next, of what might be… well, she has every reason to be scared.

                And then she snogs him anyway. She grabs the back of his neck and eagerly pulls him closer, immediately pressing her tongue into his slightly open mouth. All before he can so much as blink.

                David doesn’t take very long to catch up, though. He opens his mouth wider, and Catherine is suddenly bombarded by the taste of whatever stuff it is that he was drinking. Maybe under any other circumstances she would care—enough, perhaps, to put a stop to this. But as it is she’s too far gone. His tongue brushes against hers, and the moan that comes from deep in Catherine’s throat is foreign to her own ears.

                He pushes her down until she’s lying back on the bed. Her head rests nearly on the edge of the mattress, but she neither notices, nor cares. David kisses her sloppily, again and again, biting her lip more than once—she can’t tell if it’s on purpose. Meanwhile, he unties her dressing gown. Pushes it open, and his hand splays across her hip, her thin nightgown the only separation between his hand and her bare skin. He grinds his pelvis against hers, prompting her to gasp into his mouth and involuntarily arch up. The reaction makes David grin.

                It is only when Catherine begins to feel light-headed from the onslaught of kisses, that David moves his attention to places other than her mouth. He kisses down her neck, sucking curiously to gauge her reaction to the sensation. One spot in particular seems to make her writhe, and he licks, sucks at it delightedly for what seems to be an eternity before proceeding. He bites along her clavicle, and Catherine still possesses enough presence of mind to mentally cringe at the thought of how much cover-up she’ll have to wear to make these marks go away.

                Her mind doesn’t remain on the subject for long; David’s other hand, which had been so gently cradling her face, has drifted down to her chest, and she doesn’t realize that it’s on her breast until his thumb grazes her nipple through her nightgown. The friction causes her to cry out before she’s even placed the feeling, and David takes this, too, as encouragement, massaging the nipple to a peak through the fabric. Not wanting to give any preferential treatment, he dips his head down and tries to suck on her other breast, also through the gown.

                To his great distress, the presence of the fabric serves to dampen his intended effect, and he growls as he sits up to examine Catherine—or, more specifically, the difficulty that is her attire. Her breathing is ragged, and he is temporarily transfixed by the sight of her breasts, rising and falling as she takes in gasps of air. Until he looks to her eyes, and sees that she is gazing up at him with fervent desire.

                “I imagined you like this,” David tells her, himself feeling a little breathless. “When I texted you, this is what I was picturing. You, lying beneath me.” He backs up a little bit, grabs her hands and pulls her up into a sitting position. “You weren’t wearing this much… But we can fix that, yeah?” He pushes the dressing gown down, off her shoulders, and Catherine lets it fall away beneath her.

                David places wet kisses on her shoulders, onto those beautiful freckles of hers.

                “This wasn’t the first time.”

                Catherine frowns; she doesn’t understand. And she finally regains her voice, actually manages to say, “What wasn’t the first time?”

                He has the decency, at least, to blush; or maybe it’s just all that alcohol that’s got his face so red, but Catherine allows him the benefit of the doubt. He fingers at the hem of her nightgown and he confesses, “This wasn’t the first time that I imagined something like this between us.”

                She considers this. Blushes a little herself, at the thought. She leans close to him, so close that their foreheads are touching. Before she can lose her nerve, she murmurs, “I’ve imagined things like this too. With you.”

                A pained expression flits across David’s face that she can only describe as forlorn. But it’s gone in a flash; his eyes light up and he’s grinning again. Catherine wonders if he’s always so manic in bed, and briefly dares to think that it’s a shame that she can’t find out.

                He starts to pull the gown up, maintaining eye contact, but when his hands have reached her hips, something connects in his brain and he looks down, laughing delightedly. “You don’t wear knickers to bed.”

                “What, do you wear knickers to bed?”

                “I might.” David presses a kiss to her lips, and in one fluid motion, pulls the nightgown off, leaving Catherine entirely exposed. He looks her up and down, eyes filled with reverence. He’s drinking her in as though he can’t believe that this is real and that she’s actually in front of him. “Gorgeous,” he drawls. “You’re gorgeous, Catherine.”

                She flushes with color at the compliment. “You next,” Catherine says, trying to direct attention away from herself. She grabs at David’s shirt, and he dutifully raises his arms over his head so that she can pull it off for him.

                 As soon as his hands are free, David begins to kiss her again with renewed vigor, pushing her onto her back once more. When he presses his tongue to her lips, she opens her mouth to him and begins to suck on it lightly, playfully. He groans desperately.

                Catherine hardly notices when his hand untangles itself from her hair; she’s too busy thinking about his tongue, tracing its way down her neck.

                And then suddenly that hand is between her legs and she’s most certainly noticing then; at even the first, light touch, she lets out a gasp. David’s thumb works in gentle circles, over and around her clit, while he continues to eagerly kiss her neck. She knots her fingers into his hair, and she arches up, into his touch. David is smiling against her throat—she can feel it. He’s positively ecstatic that he’s eliciting such a response.

                “David,” she breathes. He doesn’t stop, and it occurs to Catherine that he might interpret the invocation of his name as simply an expression of her appreciation. She rolls her eyes, and, as she tries (and fails) to suppress a moan, she exclaims, “David! Get those bottoms off.”

                She doesn’t want him to just get her off with his hand; she wants to feel him inside her. She wants it desperately.

                He immediately goes to remove his pajama bottoms, but he pauses suddenly and looks down at Catherine, looking rather anxious. “Look, I haven’t got… I mean, I didn’t think to…”

                “I’m on the pill, it’s fine,” she assures him immediately.

                Relief floods David’s face, and within seconds, his pajama bottoms are discarded. Catherine bites her lip, unable to resist the urge to smile. “You don’t wear pants to bed.”

                “Actually, I don’t wear anything.” He smiles unabashedly. “I just thought it might be frowned upon to pop over to your cast mate’s hotel room in the nude. It might raise suspicion.”

                “Because there’s certainly no reason for suspicion.”

                “Oh no, absolutely none.”

                His daft grin can be rivaled only by Catherine’s own.

                As he’s about to enter her, David hesitates for a few moments. He holds her gaze, and seems to almost be challenging her to put a stop to what’s about to happen. She doesn’t.

                Very slowly, he buries himself in her. He presses his forehead to hers, breathes, “You feel incredible.”

                She doesn’t answer him; instead, she kisses him lightly, waits as he begins to slowly pull out, and press in again.

                David focuses intently on finding a rhythm that Catherine likes, paying close attention to when she lets out a gasp, to when she presses against him, seeking out more, more, more. He loses himself her heat, and he goes back to kissing her, sloppy kisses that barely hit their mark, if at all.

                He becomes suddenly and painfully aware that he will not be able to hold out much longer. He also realizes that, despite her appreciative gasps, Catherine is not quite there with him. And so David’s hand returns to her clit, massaging the bundle of nerves.

                “Fuck, David,” she exclaims, hips immediately bucking up in response to the gentle coaxing of his hand.

                And when he spills himself into her with a wordless shout, Catherine is only a few seconds behind, walls clenching around him as she moans. Her fingers scratch down his back and her hands settle at his hips, trying to pull him in deeper, trying to intensify the sensation as all of her nerve endings ignite.

                She holds David’s gaze as she comes down from her climax, and pulls him in for a lazy, satisfied kiss. “Fine,” Catherine whispers. “You’re a good shag.”