Rated NC-17 for graphic m/m sex. Disclaimer: All things due South belong to Alliance/Atlantis not me, to my unending sorrow. I'm just borrowing them. Not makin' a dime. Pretty much schmoopy PWP here. Bail if you're diabetic.

Thanks to my eggers-on/betae, Betty, Beth, Journey, Judi, & Denise.

Soundtrack: Jann Arden: Taste of This. Lifehouse: Everything. Enigma: Gravity of Love. Sting: Desert Rose. (Yeah, I know those last two don't really fit, but my daughter had them on repeat while I was writing so they snuck in.)

Due Consideration
© 2001 Kellie Matthews

I sit in the parking lot for a while, too tired to get out of the car. Finally I decide it'd be a lot more comfortable inside, so I get out. The plastic dry-cleaning bag I scammed from the cleaner across from where I'd parked gets out with me, stuck to my wet, dirty clothes. It takes about ten minutes to get up the stairs. I have to stop and think about taking each riser. Finally I make it to the apartment, unlock it, and stagger inside. For a minute I stand swaying just inside the doorway, then the couch calls to me seductively and I go over to it and let myself sink down.

Got no idea how long it's been, but I'm still sitting on my couch, head against the back, or, well, against the plastic bag. Probably a good thing the bag had come with, since otherwise I'd have a hell of an upholstery cleaning bill. I stare at the ceiling, unable to summon the energy to go shower off the day. I'm half-dozing, half waiting. Mostly just blank, and trying not to think, when I hear the lock click. I somehow make my head turn toward the door, hoping like hell it's my partner because if it's a burglar I'm just going to sit here and watch him take stuff. I don't think I could lift my gun even if I managed to stand up and go get it.

The door swings open and the light snaps on, making me realize I forgot to turn it on when I came in. My day brightens immediately. Literally, between the light, and that fire-engine red uniform. How the hell did he get home without getting soaked? But more than that, too. When I see him, I feel some of the weight on my shoulders ease, as if he'd reached over and physically lifted it. I think maybe I could move now.

He's looking down at Dief as he comes in, talking, as usual. I used to think he was crazy, talking to the wolf. Now I know he is, but that's okay. I've started talking to the wolf too. We're compatible that way. Of course, Dief talks to us about different things. He gets philosophical with Fraser. With me, he's more into food and sports. His idea of sports is kind of different from mine, though, with the exception of baseball. I don't care how much Canadian-ness I've absorbed, I'm still not crazy about curling.

Fraser looks up finally, sees me, and his face lights up in a megawatt smile, which almost instantly fades into a look of concern.

"Ray? My God! What on earth?"

God, he can move fast when he wants to. His hands are on me, searching, probing, inadvertently tickling. I twist away, which makes my sore muscles protest and I wince. I grab his hands. "It's okay, don't worry. Just tired, wet, and dirty."

He stares into my eyes, checking to see if I'm lying. I'm not. Stopped doing that a long time back when I realized I can't lie to him and make him believe it. Satisfied, he sits back on his haunches, one hand still resting on my knee, and there's a faint line between his eyebrows as he tries to figure things out. I know he will, so I put a hand over his and squeeze a little as he puts two and two together.

"You were at the school?" he asks finally.

I nod. "Yeah. I've only been home about twenty minutes."

"I had no idea. I heard about it, but you were off today, and it's not even in the 27th's jurisdiction."

"No it's not, but it's in my neighborhood. Went over as soon as I heard. Figured I could help."

He smiles a little as he nods. "Ah."

"Don't say it. I know I'm a masochist."

"No, Ray, you're good man," he corrects gently. "I imagine it was . . . difficult."

I open my mouth to try and say something flippant, and realize that all that's going to come out is some awful choke, so I nod instead. I swallow the lump in my throat and cough up a little smoke-flavored phlegm.

He nods. "I heard on the news that there were some injuries?"

I nod "Yeah, a few. But nobody died, and all the injuries were minor. A broken arm, some cuts and bruises, minor burns. We got lucky. Could've been. . . bad." I shiver a little, and not from the wet clothes.

He nods solemnly, then he's reaching for me, pulling me forward into his arms. I push at him. "Stop, you'll mess up the uniform!"

"Fuck the uniform," he growls, then moves his mouth to mine.

For a second I'm too stunned to respond, but he's kissing me kind of hard and my lips are chapped from spending all day in the rain and muck from backed-up storm sewers so it hurts a little and that makes me flinch. He pulls back then, touches my mouth briefly with a fingertip, then scowls.

"You're a mess," he announces, as if this is some great revelation to me.

"Now you notice? Yeah." I stick out a foot and look at my soaked, muddy boot. "Pretty sure the boots are totaled."

He looks, and frowns, then reaches down to cup my heel in his hand. "Perhaps not. I'll see what I can do with them," he says, tugging a little, sliding the wet boot, and incidentally, my sock, from my foot.

"I can do that myself," I say, a little irritably, as he reaches for the other one.

He looks up at me with that look that makes me feel like I just yelled at my grandmother, and says. "I know that, Ray."

I sigh and stick my foot out for him, giving him an apologetic smile. "Sorry. Just tired. Cranky."

He pulls off the second boot, strips off my sock, and then takes my damp, cold foot in his hand and starts rubbing. I let my head fall back and moan in pleasure as his strong, warm fingers map the sore spots, digging just hard enough to almost-but-not-quite hurt. I never knew how fantastic it could feel to have someone rub your feet. I mean. . . feet. They're just what you walk on. Who'd have thought? It's kind of weird, how good it feels, a sort of itchy, painful pleasure. I groan a little as his thumb hits a particularly good spot, and the groan is echoed by my stomach, a long, low gurgle.

"Did you eat anything today?" Fraser asks, switching to my other foot.

"Uhhhunnnn. . . ." I mumble, curling my toes involuntarily, too far gone with foot-ecstasy to talk.


He won't rest until I tell him, so I do. "Grabbed some coffee and a handful of cheese-crackers on the way out this morning."

He sighs. Deeply. His hands stop moving on my foot so I wiggle my toes until he starts again, but he stops all too soon, and sits back again.

"I'll see what we have in the refrigerator," he announces.

"Should have the leftovers from last night," I remind him.

He nods, and gets smoothly to his feet. It's amazing how he can do that without losing his balance or having to push himself up with his hands or anything. He's got great quads under those funky pants. He strips off his tunic as he goes into the kitchen, washes up, and then I hear the fridge open, hear the clank of a glass baking dish, know he's got last night's casserole. Mom's recipe, one she brought back from Arizona. Enchilada casserole. Corn tortillas, chicken breasts, green chilies, onions, and cheese, layered in a dish with enchilada sauce. Fraser insists on putting whole-kernel corn in there too, so we get our veggies. I thought I'd hate that, but it's not half bad. I hear the microwave beeping as he sets it and turns it on.

While the microwave is going, I hear him feed Dief, with admonitions that the stuff he's getting is far better for him than the hot-dogs he wanted on the way home. I hear him getting out dishes. Hear the refrigerator open and close again. I think for a moment that I really ought to get up and go help. But when the 'get up' nerve impulses hit my legs and I tighten them to obey, I'm reminded of how much my legs ache, and I settle again. Mud has got to be the worst thing in the world to try to walk in.

For once I'm going to just let him do his Benton Fraser thing. Tonight I'm too beat to grouse about it. And it's sort of nice not to have to do anything. The microwave beeps, I hear the scrape of silverware on dishes, and next thing I know he's there next to me, setting a plate in my lap, and . . . check the temperature in Hell, handing me a beer.

"Bless you, Benton Fraser," I say, lifting the bottle, chugging until I have to breathe. I switch the bottle to my left hand and reach for the fork, only to have him pull the plate away, frowning.

"Ray, your hands."

I look, grimace a little. Can't believe for a minute I forgot what I've been mucking around in all day. "Yeah. Guess I should wash up first," I sigh. "Unfortunately that means getting up."

He looks at me, down at the plate, then back at me. "Well, there is another way."

I frown. "What?"

He shifts the plate onto the coffee table and picks up the fork, cuts off a chunk of casserole, and scoops it onto the fork, then lifts it toward me. I look at him, frowning.

"I'm not a three year-old, Fraser."

"No, but I'm not letting you near food with those hands. Hepatitis is the least of what you might get. And keep your hands well away from the lip of your beer."

I weigh the options. Get up and go hose off, or let Fraser feed me. I think about the coffee and crackers I had for breakfast about ten hours ago, look at the food steaming on the plate, think about how long it will take to decontaminate myself, and sigh. "Fine. But don't even think about making airplane noises."

He looks very puzzled as he lifts the fork again, not trying to put it in my mouth, letting me go to it. Probably smart, I'm less likely to end up with the food in my lap that way. I catch the bite, chew, and the spicy wonderfulness of it nearly makes me whimper as I swallow. I chase the bite with a gulp of Dojlidy Herbowe. Life doesn't get much better. Food. Beer. And nobody got killed or even seriously hurt today. I take another swallow. Fraser clears his throat. I look at him, eyebrows lifted.

"That beer is twelve-point-five percent alcohol, Ray."

I check the label. "Sure is, Fraser," I agree.

"Perhaps you ought to eat more before drinking more," he suggests.

"Why? I'm not driving anyplace," I ask, tipping the bottle again.

He smiles. "True."

When I take the bottle down, he's got another bite ready. Still, I finish the beer before I finish the food. Feeling a lot better. Looser. A warm glow spreading through me. He feeds me the last three bites, then takes the plate back to the kitchen. A moment later he's back with more. I start to tell him I'm full when he starts to eat dinner himself, and I feel kind of stupid, but glad I didn't actually get the words out. After he finishes his first bite he looks over at me.

"What happened?"

I sigh. "Not sure, completely, yet. They're still investigating. I mean, yeah, Chicago floods a lot, but it's usually no big deal, just pumping out the occasional basement. I guess they think what with all the rain we've had, the storm sewer backed up into the school boiler room, and a piece of floating crap broke the gas-line to the water heater. Nobody knew about it, because the janitor who's usually in and out of that room all day was home sick yesterday. So the gas built up for a while, until something, who knows what, set it off."

Fraser nodded. "Ah. Yes, that would explain it."

"So, you got backed up sewer, you got fire, you got a couple hundred kids, and you got a damaged stairway -- your basic recipe for calamity. Which turned out to be not a calamity after all. I'm not much into religion, but if I was, I'd think somebody was watching out for those kids today."

"Someone was watching out for them. You."

I feel my face getting hot, and hope it's too dirty for him to notice. "Yeah, well. Me and a bunch of other people. A whole fire-station full."

He nods, and takes another bite. This time when he finishes he looks at me curiously. "I'm surprised it took all day to get everyone out. Couldn't they have brought in a 'cherry picker' to take them out from the upper floor?"

I nod, stifling a yawn. The beer's starting to hit a little. My joints are loosening up. "Yeah. An' they did. But after they got 'em out, they did a head-count and there was four kids and a janitor missing. S'we all wen. . . went in and started lookin'." Tongue's getting a little loose too. Or should that be thick? This time the yawn can't be stifled.

Fraser stops eating to look at me intently, frowning a little. I smile and lift the empty bottle, and he nods.

"Did three sweeps. One on each floor. Finally found the janitor, he had a broken arm, but he had three kids with him, found 'em in the basement bathroom." I grin. "He had them all on top of the toilets to keep 'em out of the water. Turned out the last kid was playing hock . . ." I catch myself and shake my head, laughing a little. "I mean hookey, so everybody was okay."

He puts down his plate decisively. "All right. Enough."

I look at his plate, half his meal untouched. "That all you're eating?"

"Yes. Up."


"Stand up."


"Because, we're going to go get you cleaned up, and put to bed."


"We," he says, sternly, holding out a hand.

Guess this is more of the Benton Fraser treatment. It is sort of sweet, in a weird, annoying way. I take his hand and let him brace me to my feet. He bullies me into the bathroom and makes me strip. He picks up all my clothes and takes them out to the washer. I start the water, and step over the rim of the tub, managing to whack my toes on the raised metal track for the shower-doors. Ouch. I get the other leg in without incident, slide the door closed, and stand in the pouring water. It feels almost scaldingly hot, but that's probably just because I was cold all day.

Through the frosted glass I see Fraser stripping down, and can't help but smile. Ordinarily the idea of getting naked and in the shower with him would be a little more exciting, but I know this time he's not planning to jump my bones. Even though I know I'm only going to get clean here, a little buzz goes through me. I see him open the medicine chest and rummage. . . what the hell is he doing in there? Finally he seems to find what he was looking for and slides the shower door open, from the back. I roll my eyes and point at the front, stepping to the back myself. Nothing worse than getting in on the wrong side of the shower and only getting little spits of water on you. When you first get in, you want all of it.

He closes the door and goes to the front, opens it there and steps in. Makes a little sound of contentment as the water hits him. For all his 'raised in the North, don't need any creature-comforts' demeanor, he's a sucker for a hot shower. He reaches up to set something on the the soap-shelf. I squint, and realize it's bottle of Betadine the hospital sent home with us last time we were there for a little visit. That must've been what he was after out there.

"What's that for? I'm not hurt," I ask, after he finally gets his head out from under the spray.

He turns around, blocking the spray, pushes his hair back, and reaches for the bottle. "No, but you typically bite your nails, which tends to lead to small tears in the cuticle through which bacteria can enter your system. Fortunately your immunizations are up to date, but there's no point in taking chances. Hold out your hands."

I hold them out, because it's easier than arguing. Whatever bacteria I have on my hands has already had plenty of time to get into my system. Funny, I never knew he'd noticed I bite my nails. Never said anything before. He lathers my hands up with the reddish-brown stuff, rinses them, then repeats the process. After the second rinse he reaches up and takes something else off the shelf. His toothbrush? Weird. He squirts Betadine on the brush and goes after my nails.

"Not quite as effective as a nail brush, but it will do, I think," he says as he scrubs.

"Just don't expect me to kiss you if you ever put it in your mouth again," I mutter.

"I hadn't planned to. I do have some discrimination."

I snort, and he smiles wryly, and finishes my hands. It's kind of weird to have him washing me, even as tired as I am, so when he turns to put the toothbrush back on the shelf, I grab my shampoo and do my own hair. Next thing I know his hands are on my back, soap-slippery. They work their way down, scrubbing, and despite everything my cock twitches a little, because usually that's where this game leads. This time, though, his hands just slide down my flanks as he washes my legs. Disappointing.

He does my feet, then starts back up, hands in front this time. I sway my hips forward as he gets to my thighs, hoping . . . but no, he bypasses again and goes for my chest. Which is pretty good anyway, strong, slick fingers rubbing circles, yeah. I let my head go back against his shoulder, push my ass into his groin, and hear his breath catch. His hands go still, splayed against my chest.

"Ray," he says, his tone somewhere between reproachful and amused.

I reach back and put a shampoo-covered hand on his ass. "Fraser."

"Have you forgotten you're so tired you can barely form a coherent sentence?"



"Don't need to talk to fuck," I say sensibly.

He laughs, and I feel him shake his head. "Ray, Ray, Ray. If you can't even find the energy to talk, what makes you think you'll have enough to . . . fuck?"

"Figured you could do all the work," I say, pushing my ass against him again, lifting my other hand to his, pulling it down my body to my half-hard cock. "You missed a spot."

"You're incorrigible," he says, trying to sound stern. Not managing it. The boner poking me in the ass is a dead giveaway.

"Is that good?" I ask hopefully.

"It. . . can be. On occasion," he says, and starts to wash.

Or at least I'm sure that's what he tells himself he's doing. It's sort of more like stroking. A lot more like stroking. Not enough like stroking to really be stroking, though. Feels good though. Kind of a lazy, abstract pleasure. After a bit he slips his hands away and turns us, pushing me gently under the shower spray again. I tip my head back and rinse my hair, then my body, putting a foot on the side of the tub to get the soap off of everywhere he put it. I'm not taking any chances. He's soaping down while I do that, and then it's his turn to rinse, and then finally he shuts off the shower.

I open the doors and snag the towels, hand him one and use the other on my hair first, then my body. Step out of the shower and, damn, whang my toes on the door-track again. Geez. Graceful much, Kowalski? I rub my toes with my other foot and stand there for a second while Fraser dries off and gets out, too. His pale skin is all pink from the heat of the shower, his hair nearly as experimental as mine, thick, dark curls going every-which way. I always wonder if he has some kind of post-hypnotic control over it, because tomorrow morning when he walks out to go to work, it will be as orderly as you please, no hint of the mess it is now.

He runs a brush through his hair, then looks at me and nods toward our bedroom as he gets the toothpaste and starts to finger-brush his teeth. I grin. Oh yeah. Definitely. I head for the bed, and pull back the covers on both sides, then get in, settling back to wait. A minute later he comes in, goes to the closet, and gets out a pair of sweats. I frown, puzzled.

"What're you doing?"

"Getting dressed."

That is definitely not in the program. "What for?"

"I need to go clean up dinner, move your clothes to the dryer, and see what I can do about your boots. Don't worry, I'll close the door and be quiet. You should be able to sleep."

I feel my frown become a scowl. I think about sulking. Decide that's not fair. He knows damned well I'm interested. He's not stupid. And if he doesn't want to, he doesn't want to. No means no. "Okay, 'night," I say, trying not to sound disappointed. Or pissy. I turn over, facing away from the light, and pull up the covers, and close my eyes. After a minute or so, the bed gives a little, and his hand settles, warm, on my shoulder.


Oh jeez. Either fuck me or don't, but please don't lets sit here and talk about it. "What?" I ask, without turning over.

"I. . . ah. . . it occurs to me that I may be acting foolishly."

"Yeah? Really? How'd you figure that?" Okay, so refraining from sarcasm is not my strong suit.

"I want you. You appear to want me. Yet I was about to walk out and let you go to sleep, just because you've had a tiring day. After due consideration, that seems foolish. One might even say stupid."

He's smiling. I can hear it. Picture it in my head. It's just a little smile. A hint around the corners of his mouth. "Hunh. You know, that does seem kind of foolish, now that you mention it. You think you might have a smarter idea?"

"Mmmhmm," he says, leaning down to rake the back of my neck lightly with his teeth, making me shiver before he pulls back a little. "I could take your eminently practical suggestion."

"What. . . um. . . suggestion was that?" I manage, as his hand slides downward from my shoulder, caressing, cupping my ass. My cock starts to perk up again.

"I can do all the work."

I turn over, finally, look at him. "Hey, that was a joke. That wouldn't be fair."

He smiles, for real, and stretches out beside me, leaning on one elbow. "Was it? I thought it sounded quite fair. You've worked hard today. I can work . . . hard. . . tonight."

I snicker, and his eyes crinkle at the corners, their gray-blue seeming to darken a little. I know what's coming next, and lean forward to meet him halfway. Took me a while to get used to his mouth. It's not like kissing Stella at all. His mouth is wide, and mobile, and his tongue. . . God. I open for it, and he licks, with surprising delicacy, into my mouth. I lick back. Our tongues touch and slide. He tastes like toothpaste. And heaven.

Next thing I know, I'm on my back under him, and he's got a knee between mine and is using it to push my legs apart. Like he needs to. I shift a little and spread for him. He makes a satisfied sound into my mouth, then lifts his head to watch as he slides a hand down my torso, stopping momentarily to tease a nipple before moving on down between my legs. Between the beer and the fatigue, I'm still not all the way hard, but it feels so good as he wraps his hand around me and strokes, for real this time.

I arch my back, pushing into his hand, and reach up to tangle my fingers in his still-damp hair, bringing his mouth back to mine for a kiss that starts harsh and needy, but quickly turns tender as he softens it, slicking his tongue across my lower lip, drawing back, only to close again, over and over, with soft, gentle touches of mouth to mouth, until finally I hold him still, hold him to me, exchanging breath, the way it all started.

When I finally let him go, we're both dizzy, panting. His hand is still on me, stroking. I reach down and put my hand on his, loosening his fingers, moving them down, even as I shift my hips upward. His breath catches, and he cups my balls gently, caressing, then his fingers ease away, and go where I want them, circling, massaging. Against my hip, I can feel his cock, hard and wet, as he rubs unconsciously. I reach down, curl my fingers around the thick, heavy shaft, stroking him, rubbing my thumb across the head. He shudders.

"Ray," he says, his voice almost hoarse. "Don't."

That tells me he's on the edge. And I want him there. Want to take him over it. "Now," I say, putting a thumb below the head of his cock, squeezing a little.

He shudders again, differently this time, and sighs, relaxing a little. I know what works on him. I stretch, reach for the lube on the nightstand, and snag it. He holds out his hand. I open the lube and drizzle it onto his fingers, then close the bottle and put it back. He kisses me again, a slow, sweet kiss, and reaches down, but I catch his hand before he gets there, and reluctantly take my mouth from his. "Hang on," I say, and shift, turning over.

"I'd rather see your face," he says, leaning to kiss the side of my mouth.

I turn my head enough to kiss him back, and then grin. "So would I, but I'm pretty sure my legs would rather we do it this way."

He frowns for a moment, then he gets it. "Ah. Well, then, I guess we'll manage."

Oh yeah. We'll manage. He strokes my back with his left hand as his right moves into place, slick fingers teasing, testing. The tease is killing me. I want him. Need him. Want that burn, need to feel him in me. God, even after all this time, sometimes it still surprises how damned good it is, with him. I never thought my sex-life was lacking. I was wrong.

"Come on!" I hiss, shifting my thighs wider. He reaches, pulls a pillow down and pushes it under my hips. I grin into the sheets; he thinks of everything. Just as I'm wiggling myself into a comfortable position, his fingers shift, and one presses for entry. Feels like the middle one, 'cause I can feel fingers on either side, and because it's pretty far up into me. Can't help an involuntary little sigh. Feels so good. He strokes a few times. I feel myself opening up for him. He probes, knowingly, finds, and my sigh turns to a moan as I clutch air.

He curls in close to me, still working me with that finger as he kisses my shoulders, my neck, my ear. That gets a little tongue, which makes me hump the pillow. Who knew my ears were an erogenous zone? Well, he did, apparently. He keeps that stuff up for a long time, every once in a while rubbing his cock against my hip, because he just can't help it.

I reach over to play with him a little and he grabs my hand with his free one, and moves it away. Okay. Guess he really does want to do all the work. He goes back to kissing and licking, and finger-fucking me until I'm nearly out of my mind with wanting more. I'm making little moans and groans that sound like something out of a skin-flick, but I can't say I care, and the neighbors have to be used to it by now.

His occasional thrusts against my hip get more regular, and finally he whispers my name roughly, and I turn my head back, opening my mouth, our tongues glide and tangle for a moment. The pillow under my hips is getting wet from all the leaking I'm doing. I always get this way when he does me. It's funny, because I don't leak near this much when I top. I give his mouth one last lick, and then lift my eyebrows at him.

"Waiting for an engraved invitation?" I ask, my voice sounding like sandpaper.

He licks his lower lip, a slow slide of his tongue across it. His eyes are a little dazed. "I just want to be sure you're prepared."

"If I got any more prepared it'd be over, Benton. Come on!"

The dazed look disappears. Yeah. Oh yeah. Love that look. The one he gets when he's going to do me. Focused. Intent. Hot. He twists a little and reaches for the lube and a condom. He adds enough lube to what I've already got on me to get me sloppy. I'd object, but I know why he's doing it. Less friction means he lasts longer. I like that idea.

He pushes my thighs together and straddles them, rubs his cock in the leftover slick between my cheeks, then the sound of the packet ripping open nearly makes me come. I hold my breath, waiting, and . . . there. I can feel him, pushing in, pulling back, pushing in again. God. If I didn't know he had a pretty normal sized cock, I'd swear from the way it feels that he ought to be doing porn videos. Well, he probably should anyway but I'm not telling him that.

I shift my hips a little, take some of my weight on my knees, and push a little. Let myself relax, and open up, and . . . yeah, oh yeah. That's it. God. Feel that thickness slide up into me, slow and easy, barely a twinge of burn. I'm panting a little, shaking, as I feel his balls and the rough crush of his pubic hair against my ass. He's in all the way. I can feel him shaking too, and I know he's waiting for me to get used to him. He doesn't need to.

I rock back at him. He covers me, his arms burrowing under me to hold me close, his chest hot and sweaty against my back, his thighs tight around mine, holding me close, all over. I can feel his heartbeat, thudding against my spine. My own tries to match beats. He pulls back a little, eases forward. I moan.

His lips caress my neck, "Sweet," he whispers against my ear, his hips starting a slow, languid rocking, not really thrusting, just kind of shifting his cock a little inside me. Feels great, feels wonderful. It's not nearly enough.

"C'mon. Come on. Fuck me, damn it."

"Nuh-uh," he mutters into my neck, though his rocking gets a little harder, if no faster.

I push back against him the next time he rocks. I see his hand flex tight against the bed. Yeah. Almost got him. He tries to go back to slow and easy, and I push again. He grunts explosively as we connect hard, then his teeth close gently on the back of my neck. He growls, shudders once, and then he's gone, pumping hard, and fast, and oh God that's what I needed.

Each thrust rubs me up against the pillow under my hips, into that warm, wet little hollow I've dug there, sends flashes of pure pleasure through me, inside and out. I know I'm going to beat him to the finish line. Then he stops, just stops, and I'm about to yell things I'll regret later when he uncurls himself from around me, pulls my hips up and back so I'm on my knees with my ass in the air and my head on the bed, and just drills me, hard and deep.

I make it to a four-count. That's it. I bite my hand to keep from screaming, because it wouldn't be polite to freak out the neighbors. I feel the spasms start inside, where he's buried inside me and I just go boneless under him as ecstasy steals what little energy I'd come up with. He rocks into me just a little, each time I spurt, and on the last one he pulls back, punches in, and makes a deep, harsh sound, almost a sob, and goes still on me, the only movement either of us makes is the rapid rise and fall of our chests, and the twitch of his cock inside me.

I'm half asleep when he finally sighs, and slips away. I grumble a little, missing him, but don't move. He strips off the condom and drops it in the trash, then gropes for one of the washcloths we keep on the nightstand and wipes me down, backside first, then he rolls me over and does the front. He looks ruefully at the come-soaked pillow and starts to open his mouth. Knowing he's about to apologize, I grab the pillow and toss it over the side of the bed to the floor.

"I'll buy a new one tomorrow. That one's now officially our fucking-on pillow."

He closes his mouth, drops the mucky washcloth over the side, and reaches for me, pulling me in close, brushes his lips against my cheek. I hug him back, find his mouth for a sleepy kiss, and grab the other pillow, pulling it so it's under both our heads. We share everything else. Why not that? He yawns, big and pink-tongued, like a puppy. White teeth. Teeth. I think, as sleep descends, that I need to buy him a new toothbrush. Tomorrow. Tonight's for sleeping, safe and warm.

* * * Fin * * *

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