This wasn’t supposed to become a thing , but her conversation with Dean--her fight with Dean--about how they were going to address the whole… marijuana-in-their-son’s-sock-drawer situation had left her with a migraine and a bone-deep exhaustion that was too familiar. And it turned out that the siren call of the baggie that had made its way into her sock drawer and the fraction of a joint left over from--
She couldn’t resist. Besides, she’d been alone at the time, and she was going to be alone for the better part of a weekend, so... what was the harm?
Laying across her bed, she can’t not think about last time, and she eyes her half-open bedroom door as her fingertips pass over her lips and the heel of her other hand presses between her legs through her jeans. It’s not nearly enough, but it makes her give a frustrated little groan and rock her hips up into it. In spite of the fact that she knows the house is empty, there’s somehow something about touching herself, even over her clothes, in the middle of the day and on top of her covers that makes a thrill skip down her spine. Her hands move idly, without any real intention beyond buildup as she imagines Rio's hips rolling into hers, his mouth on hers, on her throat, the buzzing-bruised feeling of her lips when he’d left. Eyes sliding shut, she lets out a sigh and--
She sits up, startled, when she hears something, but it takes her a moment to register that something as a knock at the door.
Whoever it is knocks again, and she can’t tell if it’s worse to answer or ignore it. After a second, she decides not answering is the greater of two evils and shoves herself out of bed. Of course, she realizes how very wrong that decision was when she finds Rio on her front step.
“Were your ears burning?” she asks, words bubbling out of her before she can consider that she definitely should not say that .
“Are you stoned right now?” he demands, already grinning.
Groaning, she shuts her eyes and drops her forehead to the edge of the door and asks, “What are you doing here?”
“Thought you might wanna finish what we started,” he explains, shrugging too casually when she cracks one eye open, “But see, I didn't think you’d get a head start on me.”
Oh, if only you knew, she thinks wryly. Still, he’s not wrong , and more than that, more than wanting him so badly she aches for it, she finds she craves how easy it was to just be with him the last time. She could use the distraction, anyway, and Rio is nothing if not distracting.
“Early bird,” she responds as she steps back to let him inside. He passes by closer than necessary, his shoulder barely brushing hers as he goes, and she’s not quick enough to hide the way her lips curl at that. “My bedroom,” she directs him as she locks the door behind her. He turns, and she interrupts before he even opens his mouth, “Don’t. I just didn’t want to have to air out the whole living room this time.”
It’s not entirely a lie--she doesn’t love the idea of her family sitting on a couch that smells like drugs.
“Uh-huh,” is his only reply.
She heads to the kitchen and calls to his retreating back, “Do you want something to drink?” He declines, so she fills a glass with water and gulps down half before refilling it and following him to her room.
There’s no real way, she thinks, to prepare herself for the sight of Rio cross-legged in her bed, already at work on another joint--she leans heavily into the doorframe and watches him. Somehow, maybe in his posture or what he’s doing or the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth, he looks incredibly young. She wants to make a joke--about how he’s made himself at home like he pays rent, about him using her for a middle schooler’s connection, about the shoes set side by side next to the foot of her bed--but the words stick in her throat, and instead she kicks the door shut behind her and makes her way to the bed, setting down her water and arranging her pillows so she can lean against them with her knees drawn up. She watches in mild disbelief as he lays back, stretching his legs out, and she’s certain that his being so comfortable in her bed is gonna come back to bite her.
“So, is this just a thing we do now?” she asks, feeling surreal as she watches him light it.
“I dunno,” he says thickly around a plume of smoke. “It’s a thing we’re doin’.”
“That was almost philosophical,” she teases, warm when he grins up at her. She snags the joint as he’s lifting it back to his lips and takes a hit, following the smoke with her eyes as it curls in abstract patterns on its way to the ceiling, before passing it back.
The following silence rests relatively painlessly between them, stretches until she could almost forget he’s even there in the room with her. There’s a small part of her still trying to convince herself it’s weird--it is weird, but what about her life right now isn’t?--but it’s also really easy , and she’s unwilling to disturb that.
He doesn’t seem to have any similar qualms.
“I ain’t gonna keep doing this hot and cold shit with you, Elizabeth,” he says, seemingly out of the blue.
Except it’s not that unexpected, is it? “Yeah,” she breathes, brow furrowing. An apology seems inadequate--and a little voice in the back of her mind protests childishly against apologizing. He bumps the back of her hand, and she takes the joint between her thumb and index finger, frowns at it, and says, “Yeah, it’s kind of a dick move.”
As she drags in a hit with a little too much confidence and struggles not to choke it back out, she looks down at him, finds she doesn’t like the angle, and scoots forward until she can lay next to him, inches apart. “So am I,” she shrugs, passing back to him. She thinks she should probably say more--that she hadn’t done it on purpose , that she hadn’t even considered him--but somehow she doesn’t think that’ll help anything because everything she could say sounds like an excuse. It’s kind of a dick move, she thinks. For a long moment, he holds her gaze before smiling so brightly she almost forgets what they were talking about, and she finds herself gaping for a second and has to shake her head a little to stop that spectacle.
“Hey, hand me that water,” he says, pushing up onto one elbow.
“No,” she scowls without much heat, too loose and pleasantly warm as she curls onto her side to face him to muster too much vehemence, “I offered to get you something, this one’s mine.”
“Now that’s cold, darling,” he murmurs, falling back with a grunt and shutting his eyes.
“You know where the kitchen is,” is her answer as her gaze fixes on the hand flat against his stomach, rising and falling with every deep breath. Glancing back up at his face, she finds he’s watching her, and she narrows her eyes and asks, “Why’d you come over the other day?”
The thing is--for all he’s threatened and insinuated and implied, flirted and mocked and sneered, she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him actually caught off guard. Not like this, not wide-eyed and guilty like he got caught with his hands down his pants--which isn’t so much a mental image as a punch to the gut. It’s only a moment before he seems to be able to get control of his face, sardonic mask slipping down--but she saw that brief moment, and she’s pretty sure she knows exactly what it means.
“You were just screwing with me,” she says, dawning realization in her voice. When he doesn’t deny it, she sighs, “You’re such an ass, I have no idea why I like you.”
“You like me?” he asks, sounding for all the world genuinely surprised.
Well, she did say that, didn’t she? “Parts of you,” she mutters indignantly, realizing that doesn’t really make it better but still pleased when he lets out a full belly laugh. “So,” she adds, a moment later, “When you said you thought we could finish what we started, I didn’t think it’d involve so much talking.”
“Yeah?” he grins, stretching lazily and tucking one arm under his head, and her eyes track from the hand still on his stomach to the spot where his T-shirt has ridden up. “What did you think it’d involve?”
“You know.” His eyebrows raise in a silent do I? “Well, it definitely involved less clothing.”
In a quick, seemingly careless motion, his hand flies up and lands high on her arm, and he's straight-faced as he says, “Be the change you wanna see in the world, Elizabeth.”
“Oh, screw you,” she groans in mock dismay, shrugging him off.
“Aight,” he smirks. “C’mere then.”
She pulls a face--like getting what she wants really puts her out because, God , he’s worse than she is--and pushes up to crawl closer, hovers over him and takes in his heavy-lidded gaze and how his mouth is curled, and she hiccups a laugh around her whispered, “Hi,” just over his lips.
“Hi,” he answers, lifting his head up to catch her mouth against his and tucking her hair behind her ear as she sort of sinks into the kiss.
“Wait,” she breathes, pulling back just enough to get the word out.
“You’re not gonna get up and leave me--uh--” she cuts herself off, face hot once her words catch up with her. “You’re not expecting any calls? Not gonna leave me high and dry?”
“High and dry?” When she tries to shove herself away, he grabs her waist with a snort and a, “Wait, wait, c’mon, mami, you had to know that was coming.” His grasp slips down to her hip, over her ass, down her thigh, and guides her knee up over his hips as he says, softer now and too intimate in the shared space, “I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
She shakes her head and lets herself be pulled until she’s straddling him, pushes up onto her knees and drags her teeth over his lower lip because her only other alternative is to say something unkind about his sense of humor. Besides, she thinks she prefers the way he hisses and buries his fingers in the back of her hair to any conceivable reaction he could have to any quip she might make. His other hand spreads flat across her lower back, hot over her shirt, and she sighs, tries to somehow rock closer, wants less layers between them--two layers of jeans and, presumably, underwear is just too much. Sitting up, she takes off her shirt and watches him eye her and chew his lip.
When he flips their positions, it's sudden enough that it makes her dizzy, and she lets out a surprised giggle and drops her head back onto the pillow. She reaches for the button of her jeans, and he shifts back, shoves her hands away to unbutton and unzip them for her. Once they’re off, she sits up and makes quick work of getting his jeans undone, and he follows her as she lays back. The open zipper bites into the inside of one of her thighs, but she doesn't care--can't care--as he mashes their mouths together again, and she feels his arms slip under the pillow under her head. His hips roll into hers, and she gasps into his mouth and wraps her legs around him and tries to rock up to meet him--she has no idea how he does this, moves against her so fluidly and makes her want to beg for more.
Then he freezes with a grunt that sounds like a question, but when he rolls off of her and settles at her side, his grin is devilish and makes her hot and cold all over.
She opens her mouth to ask where do you think you’re going? but doesn’t get it out before he laughs as he pulls his hand out from beneath the pillow and holds up her vibrator , “Shoulda told me I was interrupting something.”
“Are you serious?” she demands of the ceiling, face going red. She’s not sure if she’s asking Rio or God or the universe or what but seriously? “We were having a good time, put that away.”
“I dunno, I’m still having a pretty good time,” he says, twisting the base so it turns on, and she can’t really help the way her breath catches or the little bolt of heat that trips through her as she involuntarily clenches her knees together. “Tell me what you were thinking about,” he orders, tracing a line from just under her bra to her navel with the tip of the toy.
“Nothing,” she breathes, adding at his look of clear disbelief, “Idris Elba.”
“Lie,” he chides. “ You asked if my ears were burning when I got here.”
“Yeah, I was thinking, God, I hope Rio doesn't come around to ruin the orgasm I'm planning for myself,” she replies in a rush as he drags the vibrator to the waistband of her panties, wishing she sounded less obviously desperate. “And here you are.”
“Uh-huh.” She watches his tongue dart out and swipe across his lips before he lifts the toy and offers it, “Don't let me stop you, then.”
“You're just stoned and wanna make me do all the work.”
“I'm stoned,” he nods, smirking. “I just wanna watch a little--I ain't say you were gonna do all the work. Just wanna see how you'd've done it, if I hadn't interrupted.”
There’s a clear challenge in his face, and, cheeks burning, she snatches the vibrator from him and turns it off before setting it on her other side. “I almost never start with this,” she explains, sitting up so she can unhook her bra and toss it off into some corner, and she continues as she lays back against the pillow, “Not unless I'm just trying to get off real quick.” It doesn't feel quite real, anyway--they craft these little bubbles of time together that just stop being real, and the world condenses down to just the two of them, so she can let her eyes slide shut and press her fingertips against her clit through her underwear, she can let out a soft moan and say, “I wasn't just trying to get off real quick this morning.”
She feels him shift away, and although she feels cold everywhere he'd been pressed against her, it gives her room to spread her legs a little more. “You only just started,” he says, and when she looks at him through her lashes, he's propped up on pillows next to her, eyes roaming from her face to the hand just barely moving between her legs.
“Mhm,” she sighs, wanting nothing more than to buck up into her hand or grab the toy and make short work of this--but he wanted a show , and she's realizing she doesn't hate this. Instead, she closes her eyes again and brings the fingers of her free hand to her bruised lips--she tries not to smile at his hissed shit, Elizabeth , as she opens her mouth to the press of her fingers. They're wet when she pulls them out, and she bites her lip around a whine as she rolls a nipple between her spit-slick fingers. When she opens up her eyes again, he looks like he's holding himself very still and has a hand not quite around the base of his cock but in the same neighborhood. “You wanna--you should do that,” she pants, well aware she's not making any sense, but she is, justifiably, a little preoccupied. “And take off your pants.”
“That like a thing for you?” he asks even as he's shoving his jeans off. He seems to consider his socks for a moment before kicking those off as well, and it occurs to Beth that she doesn't think she's ever seen him barefoot before. It's not. It's just that the one time she got him naked, she wasn't exactly looking at his feet. “Telling me what to do?”
“Just feeling a little exposed,” she says, and it's bizarrely easy to admit. “Needed you to catch up.” She watches him squeeze his cock through his underwear and hears the quiet little rumble of a moan that slips out.
“Tell me,” he says in a voice that’s gone gravely and rough, “What you were thinking about.”
“Finishing what we started,” she gasps, turning her face away as she pushes her hand into her underwear, and the sudden shock of skin-on-skin makes her jerk. There’s a thinly-veiled urge to say something snide like I think you’re familiar with the idea , but then she’s a little too far gone, a little too intent on rolling her hips against the pressure of her fingertips.
She slaps her free hand over his mouth--well, she misses at first, but she gets there--and bites out, “No--no more talking.”
The loud, bright laugh he lets out as he shoves her hand away sends a quiver through her belly, and she can’t help the way her breath hitches. She digs her heels into the bed and pushes up enough to shove her panties down--she thinks they end up around one ankle but isn’t sure and can’t bring herself to care--and reaches blindly for the vibrator, sucking in a breath when cold plastic makes contact with her heated skin. With a start, she moans when Rio slams his mouth into hers, sloppy as his hand covers hers, guides hers until the tip of the toy presses into her, and swallows the raw noise she makes at his sudden thrust. She lets him take over as she twists the base, and she feels the vibrations in her teeth.
“Shit,” she hisses into his mouth. Breaking the kiss, she tips her chin back and bites out another hard curse.
She wonders if his gruff Elizabeth whispered into her throat as he bites his way to her collarbone is meant to sound scandalized--mostly it just sounds turned on. Breath coming in hard and uneven, she grips the back of his neck and nods--for what, she barely even knows, she just knows she’s so close she may cry , and just as she’s having that thought he--
“Oh god damn it, Rio, I swear to God--” she growls, and he chuckles against her ear as he drags the buzzing, fever-hot toy over the insides of her thighs.
“What do you swear, mami?” he teases.
“Fuck you,” she spits.
“That’s not very nice,” he chides, still nowhere near where she needs him.
What she wants to ask is if he thinks it’s nice to screw with her, but instead she lifts her head to catch his lip between her teeth and bites sharply, and the noise he makes is caught between a yelp and a groan. She swipes her tongue over the spot she’d sunk her teeth into, sucks his lower lip as she drops back into the pillow, dragging him with her, scratching her nails over the back of his neck hard enough that it registers distantly that it’s going to leave welts as he grunts into her mouth.
“Please,” she whispers, plaintive but not quite apologetic as her fingers trace the lines she’d scratched. He pulls away to nip at her jaw, and she moans, “Please, Rio, I need to--”
“You need to what?” he asks, voice a purr now, and she doesn’t know how he switches gears so fast it makes her dizzy--she knows what he’s asking, cants her hips up in some vain hope he won’t make her say it, but then he shakes his head, “C’mon, Elizabeth, tell me.”
“I need to come,” she moans or begs or sobs--she doesn’t even know.
She barely hears his okay before the toy plunges back into her with a force just short of painful--with a cry, she grabs his wrist and bucks. Any embarrassment or reserve is forgotten in the face of the pleasure coursing through her--the angle is better, pressure harder when he does it than when she ever has, and she almost feels like she can’t breathe. His free hand buries in her hair, grip tight enough to make her gasp, and she can hear him whispering little encouragements against her skin that aren't quite drowned out by the sounds of her moans and nonsense pleas and curses. Her hold on his wrist grows tighter and tighter as she gets closer to the edge, and she can’t stop the roll of her hips--her voice is desperate to her own ears as she begs him don’t stop, please don’t stop, right there, even as he’s murmuring c’mon, I got you, c’mon Elizabeth .
Then finally, finally --and seemingly out of nowhere--her climax hits her like a truck, and she chokes on a cry, back bending so hard she thinks it should hurt but there’s only waves of pleasure crashing into her, knocking the wind out of her. Whining, she jerks his hand away and lets out a little noise too close to a yelp when he yanks the vibrator out of her.
A moment later, the buzzing stops, but it takes a while for her to stop shaking.
Almost the instant she does, she feels him pulling her, fingers still tangled in her hair, and she goes bonelessly and sighs into his lips. Kissing him open and lazy and messy, her hand strokes from his shoulder to his elbow to his hip until her finger hooks into the elastic waistband of his underwear.
“I feel like,” she mumbles, right on the edge of too sated to move as she tugs at the fabric, “I should just let you take care of this on your own.”
“Don’t be like that, sweetheart,” he responds. “I gave you a hand.”
“Hah-hah.” She lets the backs of her fingers drag low across his belly and hears his little sharp intake of breath. “I dunno if you can take credit for that,” she says, shifting impossibly closer as her hand wraps around the base of his cock. “Since you kinda showed up in the eleventh hour.”
“Partial credit,” he groans, eyes fluttering shut and hips twitching forward as she strokes slowly from root to tip.
“This isn’t school,” she mutters as she twists her wrist before letting her grip slide back down and swallowing the curse he hisses against her lips.
Her first instinct is to drag this out as much as he did, but, really, she doesn’t think she has that in her just now. The angle is wrong, though, and it only takes a moment or two for her arm to start to ache, so she takes her hand away and soothes his impatient whine --and she’s filing that away for later--with a quick kiss before pushing him onto his back. He goes more easily than she would have thought, settling back against the pillow as she slips one knee between his thighs as he shoves his boxer briefs down as far as she’ll allow. At the beginning, she props herself on one hand over him, eyes on her other hand as her sticky-slick strokes quicken--but, embarrassingly soon, her shoulder starts to hurt, and she drops down onto her elbow. It has the added benefit of bringing his mouth that much closer to hers--she licks past his lips, and he doesn’t so much kiss her back as he pants against her mouth, but somehow that sends a little thrill of satisfaction through her.
“Shit , Elizabeth,” he grinds out, fucking up into her hand with a noise that would almost sound helpless if she didn’t know him any better.
“Yeah,” she breathes, nodding without knowing really what she’s agreeing to, mostly just wanting him to make that sound again as she moves from his mouth to his throat and does her damnedest to suck a bruise at his pulse point.
His hand comes up to her hair, then to the pillow next to his head--she tracks it with her gaze as he chokes back moans, and she realizes she’s never seen him not know what to do with himself before. When she pulls back with a smirk to survey her work, letting her touches slow just a bit, his fingers close around hers, and she watches him tip his chin back and watches his Adam’s apple bob. He tightens his grip around hers, and his eyes squeeze shut, rocking against every tug--she thinks she could get used to this, watching him and feeling him grow closer to the edge, listening to him groan and gasp and hiss.
“Come on,” she orders impatiently--she thinks she could, really, do this all day, but she wants to see his face when he comes.
And her wrist is starting to get tired.
His eyes fly open to meet hers, and the look he gives her is wounded for all of a flash--eyebrows tilted up and lips parted in a hurt O --before he sucks in a breath and every muscle under her clenches. Grip going painfully tight around her hand, his strokes go fast but the rhythm is lost, and Beth finds herself unable to decide if she wants to look at their joined fists around his cock or his face, cracked open and mouth wide around ragged breaths. When he comes, he stills and goes completely silent, bites so hard on his lip she thinks he’s going to start bleeding and squeezes her hand so tightly she thinks he's going to crush her fingers. She drinks in the sight and feeling greedily, even if she does think she’ll come away bruised, but then he sinks back into the bed and lets go of her with a low fuck that may be mouthed more than said.
One of his arms is locked under her, and that hand gropes at the back of her neck to reel her into other open, messy press of mouths that involves more breathing heavily into each other than actual kissing--and it’s weird and a little gross, especially considering what her hand is covered in as she grabs his hip for leverage, but not weird or gross enough for her to want to stop until his head falls back. She pushes off of him and shoves herself out of the bed, filled suddenly with a need for activity and a desperate desire to cover herself up, and snatches her robe up off the bench at the end of her bed.
Her back’s still to him as she’s tying it, so she can really only imagine the face that matches his forlorn, “No, my shirt.”
When she turns to look at him, the front of his very black T-shirt is streaked with--she covers her mouth to stifle a shrill giggle and glances away when he tries to glare at her. How someone can even glare at her with their dick still out is beyond her, but she guesses that’s just where their relationship is.
“I do have a fully-functional washing machine if you wanna--” she cuts herself off, affronted by the judgement now in his gaze, and grabs her water off the nightstand to keep her mouth too busy to say anything dumb. “I mean,” she shrugs, walking around the bed towards the en suite and handing him the glass as she goes, “Or you could just leave with your shirt covered in…” He doesn’t answer, so she lifts her shoulders again and goes to the bathroom--she can’t quite look at her own face in the mirror, giddy at the sight of her bruised lips and neck a little too soon after the event for her to be able to cope with--and she’s surprisingly clear-headed (if not sober ) as she rinses her hands before running a clean washcloth under the warm water.
In the bedroom, she finds the glass is empty and sitting on his chest with his hand curled loosely around the bottom, and his underwear is pulled up. His eyes are closed, but she knows--without knowing how exactly--that he’s not asleep. She takes a moment just to look at him, though, because every time feels like it’s the last time and she’s a little starved for it (whatever it is).
“Here,” she offers, taking the glass and handing him the cloth.
He cracks his eyes open but doesn’t say anything--she doesn’t expect a response and is really thirsty, so she saunters out of the room and into the kitchen. Still a little stoned, she spends a few minutes too long eyeing her snack choices before grabbing a box of Crunch ‘n Munch off the top shelf of the pantry and going back to her room, bouncing a little along the way because she feels good and she’s gonna milk that for what it’s worth. There are already very real issues pressing at the edges of her mind, too many things need her attention, but right now all she wants is to snack and lay in bed and pretend that there’s nothing else in the world that’s got to be prioritized over this.
Rio must’ve gotten up at some point while she was out because the front of his shirt is damp but the washcloth is nowhere in sight.
“So, that’s a no on washing your shirt?” she asks with a grin, settling against the headboard with the box of caramel-corn goodness between her knees.
With what looks like herculean effort, he pushes up and digs in the box, countering with a cocked brow, “You want me to stick around for another hour?”
Her eyes flick from his to his swollen lips to the hickey just under the right wing of his tattoo then back up to catch his again before she answers, “I can think of worse things.”
Thoughtfully, his tongue pokes out at the corner of his mouth, and he stares her down for a moment, but then his gaze falls and tracks from her throat to the neckline of her robe to where the hem has ridden up past her knee, and he says, “Aight, so I guess this is a thing we do.”
“It’s a thing we’re doing,” she replies archly.