Monroe tastes like sweat and dirt when Charlie licks the fragile skin covering his neck. Here she can feel his pulse jump when she just hints at using her teeth. Here she can feel how weak his body is even though they're both got tacky blood drying on their clothes, Patriots dead behind them. With his swords in his hands he's a strong as she is, but here he is hers and there's something even about him being just as stripped down as she is. That he can be just as less as she.
The brick wall is hard behind her back, scratching and catching at the worn cotton of her tank. One big hand cradles the base of her skull, keeping her from cracking her head open. If she moves her head she can catch the bright unnatural blue of his eyes as they watch her from heavy lidded slits.
"Charlotte," he says and it's so deep and guttural, the bob of his adam's apple as she bites his throat. His other hand is pulling her tank top down far enough to expose one breast, taking her bra with it. He thumbs her nipple in one quick movement.
She arches into it and licks his throat again. Her hips are restless, moving back and forth between the wall of the torn down building and his own hips. He's got callouses like she does. Knows how to use his fingers and pluck her nipple. Rolls the nub back and forth and pinches hard.
A stuttered yelp escapes from her lips, and she can feel his smile against the tangle of her hair.
"Come on," Charlie says and jerks her hips forward, feeling where he's hard inside his jeans.
He pulls his head back enough so he can look at her, and his eyes are too wild. Sometimes it's too much to have him look at her. She thinks he sees through her more these days than anyone else in their group.
Because he's just like her. Or maybe she's just like him.
Thoughts she doesn't want when her skin is itchy and tight and her cunt throbs for much needed friction.
A noise that sounds too much like a laugh falls from his mouth.
She cuts him off before he can say what she reads in his face. "If you tell me to be patient, I'll knock you out."
Monroe's mouth twists in a nasty smirk that only makes her want him more. "Then who would fuck you, Charlotte?"
"I've been just fine on my own." Her threat falls flat because she's reaching for the button of his jeans that's barely hanging on.
He catches her mouth and pinches her nipple hard, tilts his hips so she can shove his jeans out of the way. The hand holding her head he moves to her own pants. They're both jerking and fumbling to get stiff clothing out of the way.
"Charlie." Low and raspy, that voice that makes her skin prickle.
Her shortened name this time, and she's not sure she likes him using it. He's always called her Charlotte before now. But then he'd been someone else, not the person that now watched her back and kept returning instead of leaving. Once she'd wanted him dead more than anything else. Now he's the one thing that can muster any energy out of her these days.
Those calloused fingers spread her open, dipping inside to rub at her. He's good with his fingers here too. She doesn't want slow though.
Charlie won't beg and she won't ask and she'll never say please. Instead, she shifts her hips and can do the one thing that will make him move, she thinks. "Bass," his nickname foreign from her mouth but it works.
Those blue eyes skitter wide to find hers and his face freezes for one moment, facial muscles coiled and drawn taught. The line of his throat, marked by her teeth, works up and down. "Ah, Charlotte," he finally exhales.
But he's shifting and moving so he can press his cock into her, the hold he has on her hip bruising and tight. His thumb digs into her bone.
She drags him closer, pulling tight on his hair and sinking her fingers into the middle of his back through his worn shirt. The wall's hard behind her.
Monroe fucks her there against the wall with the blood drying on their clothes.
She can't look at him and those eyes. So she buries her face in that familiar tasting neck that she'll never unlearn now and lets him fill her, chasing that feeling while she can.