Not A Fairytale
by Suz email@example.com
Disclaimer - MGM/Gekko/Double Secret own them.
Sequel to belief. Rated R, just in case.
He’s not happy.
It bothers her more than she thought it would, as she slips from the bed and he doesn’t look at her. Not her face, anyway. He stares at her body, her skin: either memorising or remembering.
But he won’t look at her face.
She places her body, her skin behind a robe, only because of the chill.
She says nothing. No idle conversation, nothing about the weather, if he wants anything to drink.
She doesn’t regret her decision, but she does wonder why he’s not happy.
The thought of another shower is unappealing; she’s missed every feeling, every scent and wants to live with them, at least for a while. Leaving the bedroom, she pauses as she passes the mirror.
There. Faint. Red.
Entering the kitchen, she makes coffee. If he wants any he can help himself; he’s definitely earned it. When she turns around with a mug lifted to her mouth she realises he’s standing in the doorway, still naked.
The mug shatters.
He asks her what happened. He asks her why he came to see her.
"Because I asked you to."
His presence should be having no effect on her. The fact that he’s pushing her against the counter should be having no effect on her – *she* invited *him*. But the feelings are still lingering; if he were capable already it wouldn’t take much...
It doesn’t take much. His hands are more than capable, moving, sliding, repeating what they discovered earlier.
She clutches onto his shoulders, urging him closer.
His touch is lighter, barely there. She swears.
Her stomach hardens, tightens. His free hand yanks down the robe as his mouth finds her breast.
Shuddering, gasping, rocking, giving what he wants, getting what she needs.
Breathing, living, muttering.
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