losttheright | I can't help feeling we could have had it all

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stephen meyers

I can't help feeling we could have had it all

At first, when she sees him, Molly is certain that her eyes are playing tricks on her.

It was one thing when she showed up here, after all, when the world went black and she came to having exchanged one city for another, except this isn't anywhere she's heard of and it's missing a few things a real city would have, like, for example, a way out. That part is just as well, though. Even if there were somewhere else to go, she isn't sure how she would get there or what she would do once she got there. She's dead, she knows she is, or was, or whatever verb could be used to describe someone dying and then waking up having been magically fucking transported to some other world or something. There doesn't need to be anything outside of this because there was never even supposed to be this. Someday, maybe, she might even be able to count herself lucky for that. For now, she's just taking it as she can, doing her best to settle into this completely implausible extension of the life she cut short, trying not to dwell too much on the circumstances that caused her to do so in the first place (though that much is easier said than done). She's far away from that now, from Mike Morris and the rest of his fucking campaign, no one she's spoken to having even heard his name before, at least as much as she's been able to tell.

That is, she was supposed to be. Everything having been uprooted, she actually thought she'd have been okay with that. None of the past was going to have followed her here; she wasn't going to have to be the intern who fucked the married presidential candidate and got an abortion (the latter only applying where getting herself to a doctor has been concerned), like she knows she'd have wound up being back home after the other side got a hold of the story, and she wasn't going to be the girl who killed herself, either, and not even the daughter of the chairman of the DNC. Daunting as some of that has been, the idea is kind of refreshing, too. After all, if there's one thing she's ever been good at — and okay, she's good at a lot of things, including but not limited to fucking and fucking up — it's making sure she seems alright when she's anything but, and that's been the case here. In her own head, she'll never get away from what she did, knowing full well that screwing a married man, getting an abortion and killing oneself is supposed to be a one-way ticket straight to whatever Hell is, but at least she hasn't had to let it define her.

One glimpse of Stephen Meyers, and suddenly, she isn't so sure that's going to remain the case. Whether he's a figment of her imagination or not, or just a face she caught from the wrong angle and jumped to the worst conclusion about, it's like a sign that everything has really followed her after all, making the smile she'd plastered on fade and her stomach drop. Of all people from home she'd have wanted to turn up, he isn't last on the hypothetical list (that would be Morris), but anything else that seeing him might make her feel — and it is him, she's sure of it now, more so with every passing second — gets easily buried by residual fury, the sound of his stupid goddamn voicemail message echoing through her head. Jaw set, she swallows hard, not certain yet if he's seen her. The bar's all but empty, but the corner booth she's inhabited isn't the most visible. Either way, she's not about to slink off into the night. She told him once that she wasn't going away, and whether he even listened to the fucking message or not, she isn't going to do so now, either.

Standing, she stares at him and shakes her head, her own voice almost jarring as it cuts through the relative quiet. "No fucking way."

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Stephen scoffs and shakes his head, like it's some kind of a joke. She doesn't look like she's kidding, but it doesn't make it any less of a joke. "When?" he asks. Even as he asks, he realizes he could give her a list of things he did, ways he tries to help, but that doesn't mean anything. It was for the campaign as much as for her. It was for his career as much as anything else. Just because he tried to help her doesn't mean she was the only person he wanted to benefit. He took risks for her, but he would have been risking a hell of a lot worse if he didn't do as much as he did, and it still wasn't enough. She still wound up dead and alone. He's still here, sitting about as far from her as he's been since the day she walked into his office with that little smile of hers and those jeans that fit like a second skin. He doesn't have to wonder anymore if he was different, but for once, he can't understand why he is.

Thumping his fist against his knee, he huffs out a slow breath, shakes his head again. "You're twenty years old," he says. "You're a — you got this second chance. When does that ever happen? Never, not like this, and you got a whole city full of guys who'll give you plenty of good reasons to like 'em. Guys who didn't — didn't use you to get a promotion before you were even in the ground." He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. They could both use that, a city full of people who don't know the first fucking thing about who they are except what they tell them. He can shape it and she can live in it, get out from under the thumb of the political machine. Being around him, though, makes that impossible. "You should like a guy you can trust. You can't trust me."

Molly smiles, small and sad but somehow bright, shaking her head in turn. He's not wrong about any of that in the slightest, except that she could tell him exactly when (too late, that's when. She may not have known it at the time, but he still came back for her, and that changes fucking everything), and yet somehow, hearing it from him is confirmation that she's not wrong. At least he isn't pretending to be something he's not anymore, or at least not to the same extent, and not like all the rest of them did. If he sat there and tried to act like this — whatever the fuck it is, she still doesn't know — made sense, or like it was a good idea, then she might be more inclined to just let it be, but he doesn't, and instead of unsettling, it's comforting. He's right, she should like someone else. She's here, though, and shit, she's as fucked up as he is. She could do better, but that would all be built on lies, and she could do a hell of a lot worse, too.

Ignoring the way her stomach turns at the mention of his promotion and her death, she swallows hard, then sets her glass down. "You're right," she says lightly, "I can't. And I don't." Shifting onto her knees, she leans towards him, propped up on one palm against the back of the couch to keep her steady. Her other hand lifts to his cheek, nothing but tender as she kisses him, soft but certain. She can't trust him, she doesn't trust him, and she's fairly sure that she never will, but this isn't about trust. It's something more than that, inexplicable but unshakable, stronger than it ever was back home for what she knows now. Trust is irrelevant as long as they both want it, and she thinks he'd have said if that weren't the case, not tried to talk her out of it.

It's automatic, instinctive, the way Stephen's hands find her waist, though the kiss shakes him in a way he didn't expect, or wouldn't have if he had expected it at all. If it had been rough or hungry or desperate or angry or any of a hundred other things, it would add up, because even if everything fell apart, they had their fun for a too-brief while. This, though, this gentleness — he can't understand or deserve it.

"It's like my mouth moves and you don't hear a word of it," he says, breaking away. This makes no sense at all, not in any world or time. There's no way it makes sense, but she's here, the curve of her waist under his palms, her skin warm through the fabric of her shirt and soft on his cheek, stinging like slap, and he can't ignore or deny that. He'd be lying if he pretended he learned any lesson about not just taking what he wants. Whatever's happened, he'd be lying if he said he didn't want her.

Fingers curling in her shirt, he draws her closer, shifting until he's got her in his lap, drawing her back into a kiss. He can't tell if it's a balm or a bruise, the slight weight of her body in his lap, the warmth of her lips soft as he sucks one between his own, the taste of her like a memory triggered. She's here and alive, and he wants so much to pretend none of it ever happened, no pause between this moment and the last time they kissed. He could do things better this time around, not fuck up all that shit with Paul and Duffy, save his job and the campaign both, save her. He would make it to the clinic on time. He'd take care of everything before that and be there. They could be in any hotel in America now, her hair as soft as ever as it slips between his fingers.

For the first time since she saw him in the bar, probably even earlier, there's nothing left to be uncertain about, and Molly couldn't be more relieved for it. The feeling's not one that's ever sat well with her, even when she could keep it so carefully hidden. Maybe someone else would be wondering what it means, being here with him now, but frankly, she doesn't care. Whatever it is, it's enough, familiar when she couldn't need that familiarity more. He knows how she feels, anyway, in that she feels something at all. He wouldn't be doing this if that were a problem, and she isn't looking for anything more than this, what they had before or what they could have, at least not as far as the two of them are concerned. His hands and mouth are warm and steadying, and the fabric of her jeans pulls tight against her thighs as she settles with one knee on either side of him, and these are all details she knows, that it's all too easy to get lost in. Right now, she doesn't have to be the dead girl, and he doesn't have to be the guy who fucked her over, or seemed to. He was different from everyone else, he still is, but he could be anyone, too, and she likes that, smiling against his mouth as she hums into the kiss, a slight, contented sound.

She didn't come here for this, she wants to tell him, just to make sure he knows, but that would require pulling away, so she doesn't. She wants, too, to make him hurt, to leave him with scratches and bruises, a physical reminder of the last words she left him, and for him to do the same to her. There's no redemption, no salvation, to be found in Stephen's arms or in his bed, so there's no sense in believing otherwise, and she knows he's got to still be angry, saw it in the way he first moved toward her when she mentioned Duffy. They could really make the most of that. What she wants more than that, though, is to feel secure, even if it's just pretending for a little while, to get away from what she did. Chances are, she's nothing like safe with him, but at least she isn't alone. That goes a long way on its own.

"Mm, maybe that's because I knew what better things you could be doing with your mouth," she murmurs, barely pulling back enough to speak, her other arm draping around his shoulders. This is the first time he's touched her at all, she realizes, in the past however long it's been, and that's startlingly relieving, too. She's not sure she could have taken much more of that distance. "Like this." Eyes half-shut, she kisses him again, a little deeper this time, because she can, because it helps, even if it doesn't fix anything.

If she wants to show him, Stephen's hardly going to protest, though he still doesn't know if he should encourage her or break away. He wants it, it would be ridiculous to pretend he doesn't when he's already pulling her closer, but this isn't just any fling, a one night stand with some girl from the bar or an irresistible intern. There's too much history with her, too much of her clouding his head, making him feel dangerously sentimental about all this, so that he has to fight the urge to be more careful with her than he usually would be or, maybe worse still, rougher, just to prove she's here, alive, whole, that she can take it. (She's tougher than she looks, but less so than he once thought.)

"Oh, like that," he echoes against her mouth, almost laughing. It's such a fucking relief. He has no idea if she's even begun to forgive his mistakes or if it even matters, but right now, it's irrelevant, because now, at least, he knows what he's doing. It's weird as fuck, the way it's almost like he's rebounding from her with her, though there was no relationship to speak of back on the campaign. She still meant something, though it's all tied up in how everything fell apart. In the time since then, though, he's been alone, too busy to screw around with anyone else, immersing himself in the work he bargained her away for. Hands skimming over her waist, he starts working her shirt up to take off her. There's too much room now for thought, and while he'd generally say that's a good thing, right now, it just isn't. He doesn't want to question this, he just wants to enjoy it. "Really? 'cause I can think of a few other things."

It probably shouldn't be so unexpected, this mutual interest, but Molly's glad for it anyway, and not just because it means he doesn't think as little of her as she thought he'd come to, though that certainly fucking helps. Important as a lot of it was, the reason she came up here in the first place, she's not sure she could have taken much more of talking about what happened to her, the series of events surrounding her death. All of that weighs on her heavily enough all the time as it is, and with what she knows now, that she was wrong, that it could have been okay, it's both more difficult to think about and easier to let herself be with Stephen, having much less reason to hate him than she believed. Besides, deep down, she thinks they might deserve each other, the two of them a fucked up pair of people if ever there were one. She's never been the self-conscious sort, too confident to be worried about rejection, but it had been a gamble, kissing him; his eagerness is the best response she could have hoped for, and now, maybe they can both forget about everything else for a little while, or at least let it not matter. She doubts it could ever really be the chance they should have gotten back home, too much baggage between them for that, but it's still something, a hell of a lot more than she was ever supposed to have again. She'll take it.

"Yeah?" she asks, one corner of her mouth quirking up higher as she lifts her arms overhead, the movement as instinctive as all the rest of this. A statement like that is promising in itself, the sort of thing she likes to hear. She doesn't know what she's doing with him, not really, but at the same time, she knows every step of this, a second nature that not even the trouble she got in once could rid her of, and that's what counts right now, not whatever comes after this. Later is exactly that, something they don't have to be bothered with when there are far more enjoyable things at hand. This is whatever it is, nothing she sees any need to overanalyze or put a name to as long as they both want it, which they clearly do. "And what might those be?"

This is the part he likes to remember, the part Stephen wishes he could recall without thinking of what he came after — her skin warm under his fingers, soft as he slides his hands up her back to unclasp her bra. He could take this slow, incredibly so, draw it out until she begs, and the idea is intensely appealing, but, unsure though he is about how to deal with so much of this, he's pretty sure she deserves gratification a little more immediate than that. At least, he owes her that much (more, a hell of a lot more, but this, at least, he fucking knows he can do).

Kissing her again, he delays his answer, reaching down to unbutton her jeans. He's in no hurry, not about to rush and fumble now, but he isn't going to wait either. Slow and sweet gives them too much time to think, to doubt, and there's every possibility this is a mistake for both of them. That doesn't make him any less hungry for her, a need in him that's more about her than it is about sex, relishing the fact of her beneath his fingers, the hard point of her nipple under his palm just more proof she's here. He can't take it all back, he can't rewind everything, he can't and doesn't want to live in the past, but he can get this much, more than he deserves, less than she does, a chance to feel time stop. Rolling her nipple between his fingers, he ducks his head to kiss her jaw. "Get out of those jeans and I'll show you."

Though there are any number of things Molly might be good at, she wouldn't hesitate to say that this easily tops the list, just one more reason why she's more than glad to go with it now instead of stopping to second-guess everything. It beats sitting around continuing to be maudlin, or trying to talk about feelings she doesn't know how to put into words, or thinking about what happened after the last time they fucked, how quickly and how thoroughly everything came crashing down around them (her, just her. She knows, deep down, that it couldn't have been easy for him, but he still wound up with a goddamn promotion because of her, his life going on when hers couldn't have, things she makes a point of pushing as far from her mind as possible). She'd much rather focus on the wonderfully familiar feeling of his hands on her skin, the implication in his words and the sharp, sudden surge of desire flooding through her, something she hasn't felt since she was with him before. Like this, it's easy to let everything else fade away, to pretend (one more thing she's always been damn good at) that everything's alright and that the two of them aren't horribly broken, fucked up people, nothing really what it was back then.

Arching forward into his hand, her bra discarded somewhere behind her on his floor, she has every intention of doing as he says, though she's only managed to get his shirt half-unbuttoned, leaving him far more clothed than she is. First, keeping herself steady with one hand on his shoulder, she rolls her hips deliberately forward against his, only then pushing up high enough onto her knees that she can start tugging her jeans down. There's nothing they can do like this, but that doesn't make her any less reluctant to pull away, both because she doesn't know what will happen when she does, if they'll both come to their senses or what, and because it feels fucking good to be close to him like this and know he wants her. She might be used to being wanted, but that doesn't mean she enjoys it any less, particularly where Stephen's concerned. "Mm, I like the sound of that," she says, breath hitching. Finally, she swings herself off his lap, though it isn't by much, shimmying the rest of the way out of her jeans and leaving those on the floor, too. One eyebrow raising, she shifts to kiss him again, teeth catching on his lower lip. "And?"

Molly's been a distraction from the start, he knows that, but Stephen's incredibly grateful for it right now, letting her fill up his focus so he doesn't have to think about her outside of this context, doesn't have to consider that this is one more thing he shouldn't be doing. There's no rule they're breaking, no reason they can't. It still doesn't make sense and he knows it. They have the chance for something new here, but there's no way they're going to find that with each other. If he goes with this now, after everything that's been said and done, what does it mean? That she wants to, that she's as willing as if nothing ever happened, that they can slip back to this so easily — is just a matter of forgetting or is it an inadvertent promise of something he can't give her? He's already proven that much. Fuck, he's proven he can barely even give her this.

The roll of her hips, the faint nip of her teeth, make it impossible to think too long or too much about that. This isn't the time for figuring things out or even thinking them through, not when he can kiss her instead, a hand sliding down to the curve of her ass. He's still all but dressed, having only managed to get his shirt off as he watched her move, but it's irrelevant; that's something he can deal with later, though god only knows how long he'll be able to ignore how she's getting to him. "And," he says against her mouth, working her underwear down over her hips, "lie back."

Half-drunk on wanting him, the effects of which are far more potent than the drink she had back at the bar and Stephen's scotch still lingering on her tongue, mingled now with the taste of him, Molly ignores the impulse to take charge, climb back on top of him and rid him of the rest of his clothes. For now, though it shouldn't come so easily to do so, she does as he's said, shifting away from his mouth and his hands to stretch out as best she can, looking up at him expectantly all the while. It's not like it's difficult to guess where this is going, the suspicion alone making her heart beat a little faster, but there's something startlingly vulnerable in being like this now, naked on his couch while he's still half-dressed, all too aware of what they aren't. She's been doing shit like this for years now, isn't self-conscious about it in the least, but this is different, and she doesn't know what it means and doesn't know if she wants to. For now — and nothing exists outside of this moment — it's more than enough. She just needs him to fucking do something to keep her from starting to fucking think too much, to let her stay lost in this again like she needs to be.

"Like this?" she asks, the tone of her voice making clear that she knows it's exactly what he means, her gaze unwavering. He looks even better than she remembered (mostly, she thinks, because she made a point of letting her memory of him do him a disservice before tonight, not wanting to remember any good when there seemed to be so much bad), and she can't help reaching up towards him, fingers trailing from his shoulder down over his bicep, partly to encourage him, partly because she can't not be doing something. "Come on, Stephen."

"Like you don't fucking know," Stephen answers, something of a laugh in his voice, fond in a way that surprises him. Whatever the reason, however it's even remotely possible, she's here and she's gorgeous and she knows that, too. He leans forward like she's got him on a string, one hand heavy on the couch as he bends down to kiss her, the other sliding down over her breast, her side, her hip. He would do this anyway, enjoy every second, but now he can't stop himself, intent on feeling her, fingers pressing into her thigh to remind himself this is happening — maybe, a little, to remind her, too.

It's hardly the easiest arrangement to handle, but it's not like he hasn't managed it before or as if he can be bothered to suggest moving yet. He moves back again, kissing the soft skin between her breasts, trailing slowly down. "Come on what?" he asks, close against her stomach. Getting her off first is the absolute least he can do, and probably about as close as he'll get to admitting as much tonight, not least because he doesn't want to think about it anymore. It's part of what he likes about her, though — how sure she is, how ready she is to keep moving and not look back, not yet. He used to be better at that, too, before her. He should kick her out for that alone, turning things on their head when they were fine the way they were.

"Like you don't fucking know," Molly parrots back at him, smile crooked, teasing, though she can't hide the unintentional sweetness in the way she sounds, or the way her breath catches as his lips trail lower against her skin. It's not like where this is going hasn't been apparent for the last however many seconds or minutes, but there's a difference between suspecting something and having him here on top of her now, his mouth and hands warm and familiar and wonderful, utterly intoxicating, nearly enough to drive what happened earlier and all the reasons they shouldn't be doing this from her mind. Nothing could accomplish that completely, but this is as close as it gets, and when this is already more than she should have gotten, more than she would have anywhere else, she'll be happy with that much. She didn't expect him to even kiss her back, let alone to get her undressed in practically record time, or to be where he is right now, close but not fucking nearly close enough.

She'd kiss him if she could, but unable to do so, she touches where she can instead, one hand skimming over his shoulder to his back, fingers splayed out over his shoulder blade, her head propped up against the couch's armrest. This isn't the most comfortable she's ever been, but it's far from uncomfortable, and it's easy not to think about that anyway, when where they are hardly matters (except that it does, his apartment a hell of a lot more personal than a hotel room, a couch different than a bed that a maid service will fix up later. This is still borderline obscene, but in the best way possible, and at least she doesn't feel so fucking exposed with him close above her). Legs shifting, outside foot dropping to the floor to give them as much room as possible, she doesn't once look away from him, relishing the place where his fingers press into her skin and wishing he'd do it harder. "What, you waiting for me to say please or something?"

"Well, it's the polite thing to say," Stephen says, hand running over her angled leg as he slides lower, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. Just because he has a plan, and an obvious one, doesn't mean he's about to hurry either. She might not have any intention of saying please, but he's going to make her want to, palm smoothing over her stomach, sucking at her skin without moving any closer. He can just about feel the heat coming off of her, the weight of her hand on his back borderline proprietary in a way that ought to piss him off but which he intends on just ignoring, mostly because it feels good. That's all he wants right now, to feel good, to taste her skin, to taste her, and put everything else aside.

He's heard her in his head since she died. Not like this, not anything like this, though — more often, a warning, bitter last words, dark chastisements he knows he scripted himself and shouldn't hold against her, even if they occurred in her voice or her glance. That, too, is his fault, and he reels against it, unwilling to accept that weight. He knows it, he does, but he can't carry it, and for now, he can tell himself that's alright. She's here and she doesn't need that now; he's here and he has too much else that needs his attention other than past crimes he can't undo. They've talked. There's nothing good that comes of dwelling on it all now. He'd rather focus on her, hand sliding higher to brush his thumb over her nipple again as his teeth scrape against her thigh, tongue swiping hard over it after, sucking a mark only she'll know about. It doesn't mean anything, being able to know for a fact he still gets to her, because it says jack shit about whether or not she'll ever forgive him, but he doesn't expect her to. He'd have to be an idiot for that, and despite plenty of evidence to the contrary, he's not that yet. He still enjoys it, the evidence he affects her anyway in far more preferable ways.

"Since when do you give a shit about polite?" Molly asks with a huff of a laugh, voice coming out more strained than she'd like, though she has every intention of ignoring that for now. She wants him, fuck, more than she thinks she ever did when they were back home. What that says about her, she hasn't got a clue, but she doesn't care enough to give it too much thought, letting that speak for itself in the way her breaths get shallower and her muscles grow taut, teeth pressing to her lower lip to hold back any further sound that might escape. She ought to just do it, give in and ask and get what she wants, but she's far too stubborn for that. He won't wear her down that easily, no matter how simple a task it might have been to get her like this, stretched out naked on his couch and entirely at his mercy, one situation she wouldn't have wanted to ever be again if she'd ever considered that it might be a possibility. Technically speaking, it can only end the same way, too, though she likes this definition of getting fucked a hell of a lot more than the other.

She nearly lets her eyes fall closed, but thinks better of it a moment later, not wanting to look away from Stephen. This isn't a game, there's no advantage to be had and he isn't her opponent, but that doesn't mean she has any intention of dropping her guard, even if all she can do now is prove a point. It seems unlikely that he could really make her wait too long when he's the one who prompted this in the first place, and she'll only go so far in resisting just for the sake of it. That doesn't change anything now, when she's halfway to desperate, only further wound up by the drag of his teeth against her skin, but not about to plead just yet, not while there's a chance she can get what she wants without having to do so. "I'm not sure any of this really counts as polite."

Sliding his fingers along her thigh to lift her leg a little higher, Stephen glance up at her with a sharp grin. "What are you talking about?" he asks. He might have to get off the couch to do this properly, he thinks, but he decides against doing so just yet. Up here is closer, up here is better. He doesn't know if he could bring himself to move away now, not with her watching him like that, the slight stretch of her body inviting, practically a plea in its own right. He kisses higher along her thigh, stopping just shy of giving her what she wants. "Ladies first, that's polite. I mean, that's what I was told. I could be wrong."

He only ever admits as much when he knows he'll hear different, and they both know it, but this once, it doesn't matter. He's just about dying to go for it, give in, lick her until she can't take it anymore, but even this, he figures, is a good thing for her; anticipation just makes things better. Mostly, though, mostly, he wants to see it, watch her betray how desperately she wants him whether she wants to or not, like it's proof something's okay. She doesn't have to trust him. They can still be okay.

He's got to be doing this on purpose, Molly knows it, trying to drive her crazy, just as determined to make her give in as she is to not be the first to break. She swears under her breath for it, and for the proximity of his mouth, just barely managing not to call him out for being a smug bastard. It would be absolutely true, but she has a feeling that it wouldn't put her any closer to getting what she wants, and what she wants is him, far more than she knows what to do with, more than she can even wrap her head around. Just a few moments ago, she was taking a risk in kissing him; now, it's like he's flipped a switch in her, sent her from zero to sixty in no time at all, desperate for him to do fucking something. It isn't fair that he should be able to get to her like this, and she wants to be angry with him for that, for making her want him, like him, when he's the one person in this place she should be staying far away from, but it's difficult to care that she hated him not all that long ago when he's between her legs, and when this feels far better than hating him ever did, maddening or not.

"Stephen..." Voice faltering, she trails off, swallowing back a whimper. She won't beg or plead, not yet, not with him, but no force of will could keep her eyes from doing so, still staring down at him as if doing so alone could make him move the little bit closer that's all it would take. (She knows it won't.) Drawing in a deep breath, more to make sure she can stay composed than anything else, she nods, a weak, absent movement. "Yeah, no," she says, light as she can, "I've heard the same thing. Not sure what they say about making one wait, though."

"Yeah?" Stephen can't stop watching her, every shift in her voice and body intoxicating as he slips back enough to sink onto the floor, crouching close. At least like this, he can free his hands to touch her, one arm hooked around her leg to press against her stomach, the other hand tracing nonsense patterns along the inside of her thigh. They both win like this, he's convinced of that. He can't help it if there's something both fun and arousing about getting her all worked up like this, and the electricity of it, inasmuch as he'll let himself think about it, reminds him vividly how alive they both are. "Know where I can find one?"

As gratifying as it would be to push her just enough to make her beg, he can still find other ways to get there or save that for another time, if there's ever going to be another time. The look on her face is enough, and he smiles as he leans in closer, nipping at her skin against before closing the distance, drawing his tongue slowly, lightly over her. It's a tease in its own right, avoiding her clit, hardly enough friction to do anything but wind her up more, but he's getting there. They have time now, more of it than he knows what to do with these days. No more hotels or morning meetings, no worrying about much of anything just at this moment except working her up until she's cursing his name for other reasons, enjoying every inch of her like nothing ever went wrong.

"Oh, fuck, fuck you," Molly swears, a rush of breath, somewhere between genuine, harsh frustration and a laugh, a response to both his question and what she knows has got to be an all too deliberate movement of his tongue. At least it's something, a minor victory (it's not a fight, she has to remind herself, except it feels a little like she has to win anyway); it's just impossible to tell if this means he's giving in or if this is a further attempt to get her to do so. Either way, the extent to which he can get to her is absolutely fucking unfair, something she wouldn't admit to if she were remotely capable of keeping it to herself, which she's not. It would speak for itself physically, anyway, and not just in how short of breath she is, chest visibly rising with every shallow inhale, her body all but shaking with tension and the effort it takes not to squirm.

It's probably more convenient, she'll admit, but he's farther away like this, and for a moment, that's almost disappointing, if only for the loss of further contact. Where her hand was at his shoulder, she curls it in his hair instead, tugging gently, more to urge him on than to apply any real pressure. (The time to get rough isn't now; it's when they're on an even playing field. Right here, like this, nothing would be accomplished by it, and she wants him so much she's dizzy with it, barely able to think straight, but she'd rather outlast him to get what she wants.) "Come on, Stephen," she says, a little more serious, about as close to pleading as she intends to get. His name falls too easily off her tongue; she doesn't let herself spare a second thought about it. "Just do it, come on."

Now, Stephen's well-aware that it probably would come across arrogant as fuck to say there's nothing quite like the sound of his own name, but he'd bet good money that just about anyone else would say the same, if they were being honest (he'd bet even more that most people wouldn't be). It's an instinct, something that strikes a chord deep down, that says this is personal, and even when he doesn't want to think about just what that means for them, it's still incredibly fucking hot, heady reassurance he's the only person in her head now. That, combined with the slight tug of her fingers, makes it impossible to ignore how hard she's already making him, but he pushes it aside for now. He can be patient, incredibly patient, and this is one of those things where the wait is worth the reward.

Besides, it's pretty fucking satisfying right where he is, too, the way she can't even begin to hide, try as she might, how badly she wants this, not least with his mouth already on her. Gently pushing her outer leg a little wider, he grins, giving her a brief upward glance and pressing a kiss against her. "Alright, alright," he says, but any further teasing or remarks go unsaid for the moment as he leans in, still working slowly, but harder now, tongue pressing into her, his hand firm against her thigh to keep her still. She'll get more when he's ready to give it, just barely able to steal looks at her now, as hot as she was that first night. Between memory and imagination and the taste of her heavy on his tongue, it's impossible not to think of fucking her already, but there's a part of him, at once quixotic and earnest and deeply buried, suggesting he ought to at least make a show of earning it after how thoroughly he fucked up. He may not have been the only one, but he's the one that made it through, and it's not like it's any hardship to get on his knees for her.

Try as she might, Molly can't help the sound she makes then, something between a gasp and a faint cry, her fingers tightening a little in his hair. It's not like this is anything new, nothing she hasn't done (or had done to her, as the case may be) any number of times in the past, but whatever the reason, it's different with him, maybe just because he's made such a point of winding her up beforehand (she knows it's not that, but she'd like to let herself think so anyway). Besides, she realizes only for the first time now with his tongue inside her, this is the first thing she's done since she showed up here, since she was supposed to be fucking dead, and somehow that heightens everything, a wonderful, torturous sensation. She's not sure she's ever felt this alive before, if only because she knows now what it's like to not be, to feel life slipping away, this about as stark a contrast to that as it's possible to get. She would thank him for it if it wouldn't be ridiculous to thank him for eating her out, and if she had any desire to stray back to that subject at all, which she doesn't. She'll just have to make it worth his while as soon as she gets the chance, not even this making her less interested in fucking him. If anything, that would be more comfortable, because it's more familiar, less vulnerable.

This is entirely too intimate, is the problem, inasmuch as she would call it problematic at all. It's incredible, too, the press of his tongue just making her desperate for more, but it's impossible to hide anything under focus this intent, and she almost hates him for being able to get under her skin like this. She can barely keep still, hips straining against his mouth in search of something, anything more, as much as she's able with the hold he's got on her. She hates him for that, too, for thinking he can hold her down like this, but it's a startlingly, inexplicably pleasant sensation, enough to keep her from actively trying to pull away from it (she doubts she could manage anyway, but she'd never admit that). Somehow, presumptuous or controlling or whatever else it might be, it's flattering in its way, making this feel more about her than just going through the motions of something, a dizzying feeling. Mouth gone dry, she swallows hard, finally letting her eyes slip shut, head leaning back against the couch. "Stephen," she sighs, only half-aware of doing so, the plea she wouldn't let herself make before, begging with the tone of her voice even if she still won't put it into words. "Oh, God, Stephen."

His heart just about jumps into his throat, the way it's racing, though Stephen tries to ignore that. It's not the first time he's heard her say his name like that, and he's got better things to think about. Hand sliding from her stomach back up to her breast, brushing against her arm on the way, he stifles a sound of his own, a quiet groan at the staggering way she occupies all his attention and senses. He wants to tell her to relax, he's going to get her there, but then he'd have to pull away from her, and neither of them wants that, not when she's warm and wet and sighing his name with a kind of gratifying need that makes him go a little faster.

He can't begin to make sense of the thoughts spinning around his own mind, trying instead to push them away, to do anything but think about the last time he did this to her or how he wants — needs — her to feel good, because she fucking deserves it after everything that happened, everything he did. She fucking deserved better. It's not because of what she went through that he's gentle, though it occurs to him maybe he ought to be before he tries to shrug that off, too; he's never going to earn her trust, but he can at least try and give her reason not to doubt him completely, and besides, there are times it pays to go slow. Hand slipping higher along her thigh, he doesn't touch her yet, though it's more than clear she wants more. He just drags his tongue over her clit instead before going back to working into her, rolling her nipple between his fingers. If she's going to do that to him inadvertently, be everywhere, so fucking hot, he's damn well going to do the same to her.

Even when they were together before, memories at once both hazy and too vivid, bound up now in what happened after that and how good he feels now, Molly doesn't think she ever really had his full attention, not like this. It's one more thing she can't fully make sense of, after how she wound up here in the first place, gone from a chaste kiss to desperate in all of a few moments, from hating him to wanting him more than she would ever say. There's got to be some reason for why he's here with her like this now, but whether it's to pity her or humor her, to try to make amends or make her forget, or simply because there's nothing here to draw his focus away, she doesn't know, and right now, she doesn't care. Giving it too much thought is bound to ruin it, especially when most of the options she can come up with are ones she'd be angry with him for; she's had enough of being angry for one night. Whatever it means, that isn't nearly enough to cancel out how attentive he is and how fucking much she's enjoying it. They can figure everything else out later, or decide not to. If they didn't need to define it before, she doesn't see why it would be necessary to do so now, if there will even be something to define in the first place when all's done. She wouldn't put it past him to get her off and then tell her to go, no amount of arousal making what she said before any less true, that she can't and doesn't trust him, and it's not like she came here looking for anything.

Back arching, she moans, soft and ragged, free hand lifting to brush against his wrist, just to do fucking something, touch him in some way, though the affection behind the slight contact surprises even her. It's as close as she'll get to thanking him while he's still what seems like so far away, a ridiculous thought with her fingers in his hair, his hand on her breast and his mouth between her legs. (She'll return the favor, she thinks, if she gets the chance, acknowledge whatever it is he's trying to do here without their having to talk about it, but now's not the time to be planning ahead. Plans can change, and for the time being, this is too fucking good to ruin that way.) "God, that feels good," she murmurs, not even stopping to think that she shouldn't. Stephen is probably the last person whose ego needs feeding, but she'd rather encourage him than let her think for a second that she doesn't appreciate this, when he could have just fucked her. "Just —"

Stephen nearly stops, less because of any need to ask her to fill in the gap there or the way she touches his wrist than the way the latter catches him off guard — not her, but him, and that makes it worse, that it's the sweetness in her touch that jolts him as deep as the way she sounds. He can't think about it, can't let himself wonder what it means, if it means anything. It's not like it fixes anything. He's an idiot for letting her be here, for being where he is, doing all he can to keep her feeling good. So she deserves it. A lot of people deserve shit they never get, and she turns his thoughts inside-out, puts everything on its head, and he hates her for it some. He can't put a name to whatever he feels about her, because it's too damn complex for a single word, but there's no getting around the fact she gets under his skin, and worse now for all that's happened. He can't have that in his life, can't let her hang around confusing the shit out of him, leaving him caught so he feels too fucking young and way too old all at the same time. Even here, there are things he needs to do, business that matters, and whether she'd ever believe him or not, he knows that's bigger than he is. Maybe he even needs it to be, though he'd never say as much, not to her or anyone else. Having her around only skews things and he doesn't know how to predict the outcome with her around to throw it off.

He wants to ask anyway. He doesn't, just stays where he is, silently urging her on, one constant note through the rest. How he could be expected to do anything else, he doesn't know, not when she's like this. All he can do is give her more, slipping two fingers into her as his lips close over her clit, switching approach without much warning. He likes being able to surprise her, keep her guessing, keep her moaning and writhing, as if it lets him regain lost ground, a potent reminder he actually knows what the fuck he's doing. More than that, though, there's something exhilarating about Molly, most of all at a time like this; it's like as if, once she starts to relax into it, giving in to the way she feels just makes her the one in control, so that the more her voice breaks and her breath leaves her, the more alive and whole she seems to be, losing herself in a way that makes her seem to fill the room.

"Oh, fuck," Molly gasps, head leaning back, hips bucking before she can even think to stop herself. It's blatantly fucking unfair, she thinks, not for the first time, that he can get her so wound up like this, feeling like a tightly coiled spring, pressure building, but it's kind of fantastic, too. It's one more way in which he's different from other guys she's been with, an intensity, a depth of feeling here that she never felt with them, and she doesn't want to think about that at all, but it also lets them be anyone. Even if this is his way of trying to make it up to her or some bullshit like that, as if going down on her could change the fact that he wasn't there when she needed him to be, while they're here, his mouth occupied and her head incapable of stringing anything like coherent thoughts together, the past doesn't matter. It doesn't have to. For this one long, perfectly drawn out moment, who they were before doesn't even need to enter into the equation. They're fucked up beyond belief, the pair of them, in their own ways, but right now, they don't have to be, and it makes everything almost alright. God knows it doesn't change how good his tongue, his lips, his fingers feel. If anything, it might make it mean all the more, that he's here now when he wasn't before, but she doesn't want to go there, either, not sure what that would mean or what she would even want it to. She never really had time back home to wonder what might have become of them if he hadn't answered her fucking cell phone that night, and didn't want to after she first showed up here, but it's not like that matters anyway. They can't undo the past. They can just make the most of what they have now.

Breaths still shaky, she opens her eyes again to glance down at him, groaning at the sight of him, something pleading, desperate in the sound even before she manages to speak again. "Stephen, Stephen, I can't — more, please, please, please, more." It's giving in, maybe, or it would have been moments ago, but it doesn't feel like it now. He's already given her what she wanted, really, so there seems less harm, less vulnerability, in letting herself beg. For all she knows, this will be their one shot at this, a goodbye they never got (the thought of that shouldn't be unsettling), so she might as well get everything out of it that she can, and let him know just how good he's made her feel. It doesn't do anything to balance what happened to her before, but she thinks maybe he might need that, the chance to know that he got something right with her.

It's a victory, but one he barely registers in that sense, caught between wanting to hear her keep that up and wanting to give her what she wants. Stephen's always been the kind to be good at whatever he does if he wants to be, if he puts his mind to it; that determination's never had any real boundaries, encompassing business and pleasure alike, though they haven't always been two different things. Here and now, with Molly shifting under his hand, pressing up against his mouth, there's no thoughts of the office, no consideration of what came before. She's her and he's him and there's nothing pure about it or simple, but then, he's pretty sure that's what they like or want or deserve or whatever, whichever ends with them like this.

He sucks hard on her clit, tongue circling, as he presses a third finger inside her, picking up speed. The way she tenses under his touch, he doesn't need to hear her to know he's getting this right, but it never hurts. In a way, he knows, it's all the same thing to him, that need to be the one setting the pace, calling the shots, herding everyone into place the way he wants them, the incalculable power of giving someone just what they want or making them think they want what he's giving them. With Molly, there's a heady shift in the balance, an uncertainty as to just who's asking for what that is, at the moment, intoxicating, at other times worrying. He crooks his fingers, stroking insistently. Whoever's in charge, whoever's giving or getting, it's his name she's saying again and again, and that's all he needs or wants to know for now.

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