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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Almost grateful when he doesn't say anything more on the subject, Molly doesn't have the presence of mind to think about that for too long, either, his mouth easily distracting her from it. Even having asked for it, he feels fucking good, enough that she can't help the sound she makes, faint but needy, really fucking hoping he doesn't pull away too soon this time. As long as they both know how different this is, then what the fuck else is there to talk about? She'd rather stay lost in him, the best way she has of letting him know just how much this means to her (how much he means) without jeopardizing any of it by getting too serious. "Mm, Stephen," she murmurs, leg drawing him a little closer, eyes half-shut, though she can't fully look away from him. "God, you're so..."

Stephen smiles, almost laughs, against her skin. "I'm not sure I wanna hear the rest of that," he says, tongue dragging over her nipple again a moment later. The way she reacts, from the soft sound she makes to the way her body moves, is enough to put him a little more at ease again. That's the thing about her, though. Even before, when she was just a girl he liked, a girl it was fun to fuck, she made it so goddamn easy to get wrapped up in her. There's something magnetic about Molly, something that makes it impossible not to be drawn into her orbit. This time, it seems a little less urgent, his desire to coax more of the same from her less about guilt than how good it feels to hear her reactions. Sucking on her nipple, he runs a hand up the back of her thigh again, teasing slowly higher.

"No, no," Molly says on an exhale, though it isn't much of a protest, the meaning all but gone from the words themselves. "It's — only good things. You know, for now." There are plenty of horrible things she could say about him, things she believes no less strongly for everything that's happened tonight, but he's still not a bad guy. More importantly, at least for the moment, he really fucking knows what he's doing now, his mouth and his hands enough to drive her crazy in the best way. The breath she draws in again is shaky, her fingers curling with a little more certainty in his hair; it's all she can do to keep still, and even that, she mostly fails at, arching forward against him. She doesn't have it in her to mind. If nothing else, with all the baggage between them, she might as well make sure he knows just how much she fucking likes this. It's not why she's here, not really, but it's a damn good bonus. "Fuck. Really good."

"For now," Stephen echoes, teasing, kissing his way across the swell of her breast, dipping down, taking his time to make his way across. He's in no hurry, not yet, and certainly not when she's decided to be complimentary. Granted, for this, at least, he knows it's not entirely undeserved; there are a few things he knows how to get right most of the time. They may not be the things that should be anyone's priorities, but with some notable exceptions — Molly herself included — things have worked out pretty well for him. Tongue teasing her nipple, he slides his hand a little higher between her legs, fingers tracing lightly over her cunt as he sucks at her. This was all her idea, so it's hardly like she needs encouragement, but there's something stunning about getting her all worked up. It has an effect on him, to say the least, and with the way they're tangled together, it isn't as if it isn't more than apparent that he's getting hard again already, but it's not like he cares that she can tell. He'd have to be superhuman not to be turned on by her at a time like this, even so close on the heels of round one, and he's still in no hurry just yet.

It's probably incredibly fucking selfish of her, Molly knows that, to lie here and let him keep going, unable to do much in turn. She could if she chose to, drive him really fucking crazy like she's well aware she's capable of, make it payback for the way he teased everything out back on the couch, but for the time being, she can't quite bring herself to. This feels too good for that — not even just in a physical sense, though that certainly doesn't hurt, but the fact of it, having his full, undivided attention like this, making him work for it regardless of how easily (and obviously) he gets to her. She could get used to this. She shouldn't want to. (She does, though, fuck, she does, wants to make whatever this is between them last as long as she can, because it's all somehow easier when she's here with him, because they're just fucked up enough to deserve each other, because she thinks it might be as different for him as it is for her and she can't let go of that, even though it should send her running in the opposite direction.) "Like I said," she murmurs, shifting slightly, both to rub against his hand and press against the length of him. "You like this, too, huh?"

"What, is that a surprise?" Stephen asks, though his voice hitches briefly at the feeling of her against him. Just because the majority of what's going on right now, though, is about her doesn't mean that it isn't all a turn on. She's absurdly gorgeous and she knows it, and the opportunity to touch her, taste her, is hardly about have to have any other effect on him. There's no need for shame or self-consciousness when they're consenting adults. Sliding two fingers inside her, he raises his head to kiss her again, hips pressing against hers for just a little more. He's not just going to give and give without getting, but this is enjoyable for him, too, in its way (and not wholly selfless, too, when having her here suggests the possibility they'll be able to keep at this in future anyway, and it isn't even worth the effort to pretend he isn't interested in getting laid later. That he wants her more than the women he's met since he got here isn't a fact that bears sharing).

It isn't entirely unexpected, but Molly gasps anyway when his fingers press into her, a momentary interruption before she goes back to kissing him, unmistakably needy. Even now, she's perfectly capable of being patient, not seeing much of a reason to hurry, but he feels damn good, and she can't pretend otherwise, or that he doesn't drive her absolutely fucking crazy. She should hate him for it, for being able to do this to her even after everything, but she's too grateful for it to manage anything like that, at least right now. It's been a long fucking time since she felt this good, and the very fact of knowing she has the same sort of effect on him (though that's likewise unsurprising) only adds to that. "It's not," she murmurs, teeth catching on his lower lip, before she draws away just enough to lift her mouth to his ear, fingers tangled in his hair. Everything he's done for her thus far has really just made sense, she thinks, but she can't shake the thought now that she might owe him, too, for being this good to her, if nothing else. It's a favor she ought to return. "What do you want, Stephen?" she asks, voice low and rough, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Tell me."

Stephen closes his eyes, and though he doesn't let himself falter, fingers working slowly, he still finds himself caught off guard by the question, if only because there are too many answers. Even discarding those that have nothing to do with this moment, there's too much he wants for him to know how to answer immediately. She mixes him up, makes it too difficult to think straight, as she's proven time and again in a matter of days. If he could choose to turn all of this back to when it was just a simple fling and he didn't know a thing about what happened, he would, he'd pick that. For now, the best he can ask for is to push that out of his mind so he can pay attention to her, enjoy how she feels, her mouth against his ear, fingers in his hair, his own slick as he slides a third inside her.

"You," he says, kissing her neck, and it's too fucking honest, but he doesn't care, not right now. It's not like it isn't already incredibly apparent. He draws back, nose brushing hers as he searches her expression, calm in spite of how fucking bad he wants her. While he doesn't intend to hold back this time, to go so slow or sweet, this isn't just about him, and he likes being able to see, hear, feel the way she reacts to him. "I wanna fuck you so hard you forget what day it is. Haven't really figured out the specifics yet, but I'm open to ideas."

"That's all?" Molly asks, trying for a laugh, though her voice just comes out strained, faint surprise in it, unwarranted though that might be. She kisses him to try to cover it, teeth catching on his lower lip. The whole thing sounds a hell of a lot better than it should, not least when he's already gotten her off twice tonight, but she can't pretend that she doesn't like being the object of his desire like this, prompting him to say these things. What she can do is try to get more of it, to push him farther even before they've done much of anything this time around, to make him keep working even when what she wants is to make this good for him. "Sounds good, but you should aim a little higher with that, I'm already not sure what day it is."

That much is true, too, though it doesn't have so much do with him as the fact that there's been no reason to pay attention to that here, days blurring together and the dates not lining up anyway. She doesn't feel the need to clarify, instead just rocking hard against his hand again, drawing in a shaky breath when she does, her own fingers slipping down to curl against his shoulder as she smiles up at him, mostly teasing. "Jesus. Has anyone ever told you that your hands are fucking ridiculous?"

"What's so ridiculous about my hands?" Stephen asks, laughing, and leans in to kiss her again. He's pretty sure that's some kind of approval, at least, though that's hardly in contention with how she was earlier and when he already knows he knows what he's doing. For the moment, he keeps his movements slow, teasing this out, especially since he still has ideas, like he said, his thumb circling gently over her clit even so. "I didn't say I don't have high aims, I'm just still trying to decide what I want here. I mean, we have all kinds of options. You on top, against the wall, on the desk — it's hard to decide."

He lowers his head to kiss along her neck up to her ear, a teasing echo of her earlier actions. There's almost a giddy kind of relief to this, to getting her to laugh, to be playful the way he remembers, in spite of everything. At a time like this, he couldn't stop touching her if he wanted to. "Mostly, though, I just want to fuck you. And I don't think it's aiming high so much as just, you know, being honest to say I want your mouth on me."

As far as talking dirty goes, this barely even counts, not even with three of his ridiculous fingers inside her. It makes Molly shiver anyway, breathless, her smile pulling a little wider. No matter how accustomed she may be to being wanted, it's different here with him, because he means something, because she would never have expected he would see her this way again, because none of this was ever supposed to fucking happen and that makes her want it all the more. She can't think about it as what might have happened if he hadn't been too late, since there's no undoing the past and it hurts too much, but it feels like hope anyway. They won't save each other — it's too late for that, for both of them — but they can have this, something good, each other.

"Mm, okay," she says, a low murmur, nodding as best she can, though she doesn't want him to move away at all, every place his lips meet her skin sending sparks through her. It's good to have that to focus on, too, when no matter how good his hand feels, she doesn't want to get so far wound up that there's no coming down from it before they can fuck. He's gotten her off twice already, after all, and from the sound of it, there will be plenty more. "I think I can do that. It's only fair, right?" She shrugs. "Fuck me first, though. I'll blow you later."

She's not even sure how much more of a later there will be, but they have at least until tomorrow morning, and at some point, she knows, it'll be no hardship to return the favor he did for her earlier, something she'd have done anyway but is only more inclined to for his having said he wants it. Though it occurs to her to, she still doesn't ask what he has in mind beyond this, nor does she tell him that they don't have to make choices, that they can always do anything else another night. This isn't the time to invite rejection, and she's not certain enough of what he wants to take that chance yet.

What she is certain of is wanting him, a desperate if low-level need that seems to sink into her very bones, a sensation she means to make the most of. "And I'm up for anything you are. Besides, we have all night." She laughs, the sound warm, light, easy, at odds with the conversation and what they're doing. "Your hands, by the way, are, like, inhumanly enormous. Not that I'm complaining, it's a good thing."

"Oh, is it?" Stephen almost laughs, brow arching at that. It's one of the stranger compliments he's received, but he's appreciative all the same. Anything that makes her laugh like that has to be a good thing, though when he catches himself thinking that, he tries not to, fingers unfaltering all the same. It can't be ignored, though. She's beautiful, all the more so now, when she's at ease and in his bed. Even if she winds up not following through on the blowjob, he can't say it hasn't been more than worth it, and not just for the sex, though god knows she's fucking fantastic.

Though he wouldn't admit it aloud, if only because he doesn't want to discuss this shit right now, the sex is a far second. That she's here at all is what matters most — more even than that she's, if not forgiven him, willing to let what happened between them fall enough by the wayside that she'll stay the night, be with him like this. He's not enough of an idiot to think she's let it go completely, and he can't blame her for it in the least, but if she hadn't, he doesn't know what he would have done, her presence in the city a painful reminder of how badly he fucked up. At least now, he has a chance to do something right. "Well, as long as it's a good thing."

"It is," Molly assures him without meaning to, though she has no reason not to, the words coming out as an exhale. As far as she's concerned, it's a really fucking good thing. All of this is. Being here with him, knowing how much he wants her and that she doesn't have the reason to hate him she once did, getting to feel like herself again when she hasn't in so fucking long, a few weeks that seem more like a lifetime, it's more than good, it's incredible, just like the way he moves his fingers, making her bite back a moan, though she's far fucking past being anything like self-conscious around him. Holding back seems pointless when she'd much rather urge him on, not that it isn't already more than obvious that she wants him badly.

Tipping her head to kiss him, she shifts against his hand, restless and needy, past trying to stop him if he intends to keep going like this. It's not like it rules out everything else he's said, not least because she can still feel him hard against her, tangible evidence that she's not the only one of them so affected by the other. "Are you trying to get me off before you fuck me again?" she asks, breathless, though the set of her mouth is still amused more than anything else, crooked smile all but masking the sharp, inexplicable tenderness she feels when she looks at him. "Or do you just want to drive me fucking crazy?"

"Did you want me to stop?" Stephen asks, one corner of his mouth quirking higher. "I'm gonna stop." He's mostly messing with her, but she has a point, if only because he needs to stop if he's going to grab a condom. Shifting closer to kiss her before she can protest, he slows his pace, drawing his hand away after a few moments. Driving her crazy is incredibly tempting, but he wants to fuck her again (and alright, part of it is that it's a lot easier not to think about how they got here when he's inside her and she feels too good to allow for all that much thought to begin with, but it's not like they're about to start having a serious discussion about any of that if they stop having sex either). With another, briefer kiss, he pulls away, leaving the bed to find a condom. "Although, I mean, there's no reason I can't get you off, drive you crazy, and fuck you again. We're not really pressed for time here."

Edited 2012-04-14 18:01 (UTC)

"Oh, fuck you," Molly swears, though it doesn't come out half as heatedly as she'd like, and its effectiveness is probably lessened by the way she whimpers at the loss of his hand. It makes her look bad and she knows it, weaker, more desperate than she wants him to see her, but a part of her is long past caring, wanting him too much to pretend like she doesn't. Making him work for it is one thing, after all, but to feign indifference is another, a risk it might have been fun to take a long time ago but that wouldn't be worth it now, when this is still so fragile, if only in her own head. Whatever this is, and she hasn't got a clue, she doesn't want to lose it. If that means he has to see just how much he gets under her skin, then so fucking be it, because there's no way she could hide it now.

Slowly, she sits up some, gaze on him all the while, weight back on her palms. At least whatever sense of self-consciousness she felt after fucking him earlier is gone, a welcome relief when that's still something she can't make heads or tails of. She'd much rather be like this, knowing how good she looks and the effect it has on him, unable to help the accompanying feeling of self-satisfaction. That she's not the only one definitely helps, and if he's going to fuck around with her like this, then two can play at that game. "Besides, I thought you had all those ideas — did you ever even figure out what you wanted?" she asks, a teasing lilt to her voice, brow raising slightly. "Maybe we're not pressed for time, but if you just keep trying to wind me up like that, it's just less for you. And, you know, the longer you keep me waiting, the longer you have to wait before I can suck your cock."

Much as Stephen tries to play it off, it's not exactly easy to pretend hearing that doesn't get to him when he's walking around naked. There are some things an impassive expression doesn't actually cover up. "I'm not keeping you waiting," he says, heading back over to the bed, holding up the condom in one hand. "I just thought we might need this."

There's no might about it. He's always careful as it is, but with her, it's even more important. Neither of them wants what happened before to happen again. Neither wants to have to think about that, and he sure as hell doesn't want to be the guy that knocks her up again, even if he would, no matter how bad he can be, be such an asshole he'd just abandon her with the problem. It doesn't matter now. He has no intention of letting that ever become an issue. Leaning over the bed to kiss her again, he grins, free hand smoothing along her side. This, though, having her here, having her in his bed — this, he could get used to. Right now, that's more pleasant than worrying. In fact, the whole thing is. As badly as he wants her, and he really does, the second rounds feels far less urgent, more warmly indolent. They can take their time, and, at the same time, they can hurry, go hard and fast, not worry any longer if they have to drag it out to make it last when there's no need to worry about running out of time.

Smiling against his mouth, a little more pleased with herself than she probably ought to be, Molly lifts a hand to the back of his neck to try to draw him closer, the other reaching between them to wrap around him. Maybe he's decided not to drag this out too long after all, which, no matter how much she likes having his attention like that, she can't help being a little grateful for when she really fucking wants him, but that doesn't mean she's going to just sit back and wait. After all he did to her, it's really only fair that she get back at him a little, especially when he's gotten so much more out of her than she would have intended to show. She doesn't buy the way he tries to keep a straight face for a second, and she doesn't intend to let that go, either, wanting him to have to make it as apparent as she has, as if she didn't have evidence of how much she gets to him in her hand already.

"You thought right," she murmurs, not about to point out how fucking obvious a statement that is. She wouldn't let him get near her otherwise, but to say so would, she's all but certain, completely kill the mood, and she has no desire to do that or to dwell on her past right now. Like they've already established, it was a long time ago, and he's the one who's here now, the only person she's remotely capable of thinking about. "Though I don't know what you were thinking, keeping those so far away. It's pretty inconvenient." He should do something to change that, but she doesn't want to say so. For all she knows, this is the only time she'll be in his bed, and God help her, but she won't make things easier for the next girl who's here. She doesn't care, but she won't. "So does that mean you want to do this here?"

What he was thinking is that he wouldn't be needing them anytime soon, but Stephen keeps that part to himself. He wanted to be ready on the off chance something happened, but it isn't like he's been looking. Pressing into her hand, he stifles a sound against her mouth, one leg raised to rest on the bed so he can get closer, though he's yet to climb all the way into bed. What he wants is to do this. The where and the how don't matter quite so much. Still, he shakes his head, hand skimming up her side to cup her breast.

"No, not here," he says. How the fuck he's supposed to think when she's touching him, he doesn't know, but he's trying all the same to look unfazed. "Come on, how's the desk for you?" He still doesn't know who gave them these apartments and he hates not knowing, but he can't complain about the fact they came furnished. It's pretty fucking convenient, particularly at a time like this.

Humming in agreement, Molly nods as best she can without pulling away, hand moving around him in slow, light strokes, teasing more than anything else. It's a good idea, though, and she can't pretend otherwise, even if she's sure it's for completely different reasons. She told him once, or told his voicemail, at least, that she wasn't going away, and though everything's different here, she means to stand by that. Maybe they'll never do this again, maybe, come morning, he'll decide it's too much and not want to see her, or fuck, maybe she will, but that doesn't mean she can't stay, leave some kind of a presence. The couch, the bed, now the desk — the more places he'll have to remember her when she's not here, the fucking better. When they can't change what happens, this is the least she can get in return.

"Works for me," she murmurs, pushing up onto her knees so they're closer to eye level, even if they won't be staying here for long. Beyond all of that, she really doesn't care where they do this, anyway. She just wants him, so much more than she should, more than she has any intention of saying. If the desk is where he wants her, it's just as well. They'll have all night to move back here, anyway. "And I think I remember something about how hard I forget what day it is, right?"

Stephen leans in to kiss her, hands finding the small of her back, even as he laughs against her mouth. "Harder," he says. "You already don't know what day it is." That's pretty fair, though. He only knows because he's been keeping track, watching it on his phone and on the computer that was waiting here for him, devoid of his files or any recognizable aspects. It doesn't match up with what he remembers, but he'd worry more about the lost time if it weren't for the number of people who likewise don't seem to be from the same time.

Reluctant though he is to make her stop, he reaches down to wrap his fingers around her wrist, resisting the urge to guide her to go a little faster and pushing her hand gently away instead as he gets to his feet. "Come on." He's aching to fuck her, all the more for the way she's been touching him, and he doesn't want to wait any longer, not when he knows she wants it, too.

She'd never admit to it, but Molly would be hard-pressed to even try to deny him at a time like this, nodding as she gets to her feet in turn. Regardless of how appealing it would probably be to get back at him for how he teased her before, she just can't. She wants him too much for that, the only reason she's remotely willing to attribute to it, even in her own head. When he says things like that, though, why fucking bother wasting time? Much as she might have needed how slow they went before, this is different now, and she can't think of anything better, not least because there's a lot more than what day it is she would like to forget.

"I'm right here," she tells him, stifling a laugh, her other hand trailing from his shoulder down his arm, though she drops it to her own side again when she reaches his wrist. The desk isn't far, and she can't bring herself to let her hand fall into his. Instead, she just grins at him over her shoulder as she heads in that direction, wanting to see him watch her. "And I have to say, I like the sound of that."

Walking isn't exactly the easiest thing in the world right now, not least when Stephen can't take his eyes off of her. She knows it, he knows she does, looking at him with that smug little expression of hers, but fuck it, he doesn't care. Who could blame him? She's beautiful, naked, here with him, and as he walks, he starts working at the condom wrapper to get it open. The desk in the corner of the room has the advantage, at least, of not being terribly far from the bed when they inevitably wind up crashing later in the night, but he doesn't anticipate that being all that soon.

"Good," he says, catching up, slipping an arm around her. He ducks his head to kiss her shoulder, stifling a sound as he brushes against her, pressing close. She's enthralling, and he hates her a little for it, for how easy she makes it to get all wound up in her. She clouds his judgment, and it's not like he can say much for that these days as it is. "You need a hand up there?"

"I'm fine," Molly says with a slight shake of her head, lifting one hand to run through his hair. It's startling, almost unsettling, the way he kisses her shoulder, though it's far from the most affectionate thing he's done tonight, but managing not to focus on that is easy enough when she can feel how hard he is, when she wants him so bad she can barely wrap her head around it. Though it isn't fucking fair, she couldn't be more grateful for it, for him, and how goddamn alive she feels in his arms. He was good before, but it wasn't like this. She doesn't know what that means, and right now, she doesn't care enough to try to figure it out.

Drawing away from him only when they've reached the desk, she uses her hands to hoist herself up, smiling at him as she does. It's not like it's the first time she's ever done this, but she doesn't want to point that out, not wanting to think about anyone else right now, or for him to think about that, either. Her history with other people has caused them trouble enough anyway. "Here," she murmurs, reaching for him, legs apart. "God, Stephen, I fucking want you."

What Stephen wants more than anything is to get started, wants her so bad it's hard to exercise self-control, but he does, holding back enough to slide the condom into place as he kisses her. "I know," he murmurs against her mouth, though the words don't mean much of anything, almost an effort at reassurance though there's no reason for that. It's evident that she does, but that isn't the point. It's commiseration. They're a mess, a terrible idea, but they're in it together, and somehow, that feels good. "I know, Molly, fuck, I want you, too."

Hands moving to her waist as she steps closer, he kisses her again, reaching down to slide himself slowly into her. He can't suppress a groan at how good it feels, absently thinking how he wishes they could just stay like this, never have to worry about what happens in the morning when now is nearly perfect.

Molly isn't sure what the sound she makes is, half-muffled against his mouth, but she couldn't hold it back even if she wanted to, and she doesn't think she would. They're past that. Anyway, it's not like she's the only one, the way he groans nearly as satisfying in its own right as the way he feels inside her, so fucking good she almost hates him for it, except hating him is too difficult at a time like this. It was exhausting even when she thought she wouldn't see him again; now, it would take more effort than she could muster, though she's still not sure it would be entirely unwarranted. That doesn't matter. Nothing else does, really, not here, not now. However wrong it might be, they have each other, however temporarily, and that's too good to ignore or to cheapen with too much of the past.

"Fuck," she says, a heavy exhale, though she only pulls away when she needs to breathe in the first place. Legs wrapped around his waist, she rocks forward against him, too hungry for more, for what he promised, to keep still. She won't let him completely call the shots, anyway. "Stephen."

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