SEVEN: Turning It Off

10/17/2010 Logan, Maine
4:09 AM

Jon drummed his fingers on the glass of the large picture window. He hadn't craved a cigarette this bad since he'd snapped his tendon in his calf. The house was eerily quiet--perfect to sleep, if you were normal. But he wasn't normal, and the situation was beyond fucked. Cam had gone into her room hours ago and it didn't take a genius to know she didn't want him anywhere around her. 

 

She made enough noise in there for him to know she was alive, but not enough to make him stop with the jumpy shit. He felt like his damn skin was going to peel right off. Raking his fingers through his hair for the 549th time, he tried to settle on the couch. It was a nap couch, made for curling in and sleeping away a rainy Sunday. Cam was almost his height, so it fit him without issue. Throws littered nearly every chair and couch and bench. He could curl under one of the half dozen quilts and just turn off.

 

If only he could turn off.

 

On a good day he needed half a bottle of wine to even think about relaxing. Now, he was wired beyond even a perfect show. He paced his way down the hall to her bedroom door and back. Making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, he forced himself to eat it. His gut was hungry, even if his nerves didn't want any part of food. Stopping outside her door one more time, he cursed himself but opened her door. She had to be sleeping at this point, and he had to just see for himself that she was fine. Long, skinny windows made three pale rectangles over the bed. She was at the center of a sea of blankets, only her face showing in the checked quilt cocoon. 

 

Easing the door shut, he stopped just before it latched. The soft keening cry sliced at him. He remembered that cry. A woman's weeping never quite left a man, especially when it sounded so helpless. He opened the door again, his hands balled into fists as he closed it behind him. He didn't want to scare her, but he didn't want to turn on a light either.  Slowly lowering himself next to her on the bed, he stroked her hair, hoping to ease her back into sleep. She curled tighter into herself and his heart ached.

 

Maybe it hadn't been a good idea to leave her alone up here all this time. But could he have really been able to stay away from her if he kept visiting? Even now, two years later, he felt that tangible connection as if there had been no time apart. How was it that she was so familiar and unfamiliar to him at the same time? Curling around her, he slowly wrapped her into his arms. She stayed in that protective ball, but her nose did brush his chest and he cursed the long sleeve shirt he wore. Every part of him wanted her against his skin.

 

Instead, he got as comfortable as possible and held her. As if her touch was a switch, he finally dropped into sleep.

 

 

~**~

 

 

He slowly woke, aware of her breath at his neck first. Sometime in the night they'd curled into a knot of arms and legs, the only barrier was her quilt. One long leg was between his, her cheek brushing his clavicle, her lips softly open and her whole body relaxed into him. Testing the tenuous trust, he smoothed his hand up her back and into her hair. He looked down, catching the slit of the dark blue of her iris, he held very still.

 

Slowly, realization dawned and she stiffened in his arms. "It's okay, you were dreaming last night. I couldn't stand to leave you alone."

 

She didn't say a word, just relaxed in his arms slowly. Her hand flattened on his chest. Tentatively she smoothed her hand over the tight, flat muscle of his belly and up to the curve of one pectoral muscle and slowly over to the other. He forced his breath to slow and his body to stop its usual morning reactions. Of course it didn't help that Cam only intensified a morning hard-on, but he tried to ignore that part of himself. He let her touch him, the almost innocent glide of her hands to learn his body was nearly his undoing. He wanted to take and to lose himself in all that repressed longing in her eyes.

 

He closed his eyes against that longing and focused on breathing through the want. When she touched her lips to his, he sucked in great gulps of air, but it was filled with the sea and Cameron. The kiss was slow and soft. Everything about it was unhurried and lightly curious. When the tip of her tongue slid along his lower lip, he caught the back of her head, his fingers as hopelessly tangled in her hair as the woman itself. Calling on any and all of the reserves inside of him, he let her kiss him.

 

"Am I not doing it right?" came her soft voice.

 

His eyes blinked open. "What?"

 

"I know it's been a very long time, but I do remember kissing being a two person sport."

 

The softness of the early morning light showed simple want in her eyes. Yes, she was still fragile, but nothing like last night. He sat up, dragging her against his chest, his mouth slanting across hers. She held onto him, her tongue hesitant until he sucked it into his mouth. She curled around him, straddling his lap as she curled her arms around his shoulders. The kiss was deep and thorough on his end. Everything he wanted to do to her he let himself do to her mouth. Long strokes followed by lazy strokes, and completely cognizant of the fact that she was on his lap and with only a few shifting bits of clothing he could be inside her. 

 

His fingers bunched in her oversized t-shirt, lifting until he felt the smooth skin of her back. She shuddered, her breath catching at the contact. He stopped. Was it uncertainty? Her long fingers cupped his cheek and he opened his eyes. "Don't stop," she said softly as her thumb traced his bottom lip. "Please, don't stop. Not yet." 

 

Her voice nearly broke him. Loving her would be nothing but confusing and amazing at the same time. Keeping his eyes open, he gently cupped her hips and brought her closer until the bulge of his erection lined up with the apex of her thighs. She moved slowly, uncertainty and need swirling in her eyes. He lifted her just enough to make sure he could rock her into an easy rhythm. When he saw pleasure start to push away the fear, he pulled her tighter. 

 

Agony didn't cover the raw need scratching inside him. Pleasure was the only thing he could give her right now and none of that included getting naked. Not yet. He stroked her back, letting her set the tempo, letting her take what she needed from him. When her lips parted, he pushed his hands under her shirt, never dragging it up. He could feel the scars. 

 

She stilled, the easy flow of her hips bumping against his aching hardness simply stopped. He caught her mouth in a full on tonsil diving kiss to distract her. His sensitive fingertips felt every ridge and pucker of her skin. He wanted to kiss all of it. To let her know that her scars didn't bother him, but she wasn't ready for that. Instead, he found her nipple and rolled one as his other hand flattened her harder to give her the maximum friction. Thankful for his jeans, he maximized the hard seams to find just the right spot. When she shuddered in his arms, he thanked all those nights as a teen when he'd learned to fool around just about anywhere. 

 

He wanted that slick wetness and heat hidden behind cotton against his hand, against his cock, against his mouth. But for now, he rolled his hips in time with her, learning the soft sounds she made. Learned that she liked a brush of his thumb along her nipple more than a tug. Circling one, then the other he could almost tell himself this would be enough. And when her head fell back and that strong, long column of her neck was the only skin he could reach, he took advantage. He dragged his teeth over the water soft skin, his tongue finding the silvering scar that trailed up to her ear. He held on as she drove against him, finding pleasure in him.

 

At least he could give her this.