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Just once (or maybe a thousand times)

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He bursts in through the door, eyes wild and fists clenching. Miles, Charlie thinks. Only Miles can do this to Monroe.

She stays at the table, even tries to read the magazine that Priscilla had shoved into her hands before heading back out with Aaron. Charlie has no idea why the woman was so excited - it was out of date even before the Blackout - and surely no one in their right mind cared that much about a fucking house. And orgasms, apparently. Looks like they were big on orgasms back then.

And … there's her cue to leave, because if there’s anything the last three months have taught her, it’s that thinking about sex with Sebastian Monroe in the room was a very bad idea. She’s worried it shows on her face, this unwelcome, inconvenient want that she carries around like a stone in her shoe.

Not that he’s thinking about anyone other than Miles, she acknowledges bitterly. Ranting, pacing, cursing … she shouldn’t, she needs to be elsewhere, but …

"You okay?"

Monroe levels her with a suspicious glance, as if her concern is something new. Maybe it is, she concedes. It’s not like she let anyone see what it did to her, watching him die. That completely unexpected tidal wave of sadness, and pain, and regret. Just once, she remembers sobbing. Just once, just once …

Don’t you dare finish that fucking sentence, she tells herself. Not while you’re looking at him.

“What’s he done this time?”

Monroe's eyes bulge with the enormity of it all. She'd walked away when the bickering started, no longer willing to listen them trying to tear each other apart, but this is something other than his usual sullen rage. He is positively vibrating with fury, body tense as a lightning rod, voice huskier than usual as he unleashes on her.

"You mean other than let your mother tie his balls so tight they’re practically dropping off? Get so far up his fucking ass that he doesn’t sound like Miles anymore? Turn into some weirdo pacifist schmuck that I don’t even recognise?"

"So you don’t like the plan, then?"

She knows just how much he hates that bored, long suffering tone (just like your fucking mother) so it’s no surprise when he stalks over to her to rage right into her face.

"No. Charlotte. I did not like their fucking plan. In fact, there is nothing on this earth that will allow me to consider that level of idiocy as anything approaching a plan. Better to call it exactly what it is - first exit on the fucking freeway to getting us all killed!"

The back wall of the shack shudders under her weight, and Charlie realises that at some point during his rant, he had seized her wrists, and pulled her in tight to his body. At some point, they’d begun to shuffle backwards. At some point, he’d brought his face down level to hers, until his hot breath was splashing over her face, and her mouth had no purpose other than to wait for the press of his.

Well, fuck that.

She twists her wrists free, then surges forward to sink her teeth into the ridge of muscle above his collar bone. He tastes of sweat and whiskey - no surprise, but not a taste she ever expected to like. But she’s ravenous, unable to stop her tongue from sliding up his neck, drinking him in all the way to his mouth. That’ll leave a mark, later, she thinks. Good.

"Charlie?" he bleats, and it doesn’t sound like Monroe at all, that tentative question. Doesn’t sound like the man who manacled her wrists in his rage, and backed her into a corner.

Her belly clenches at the thought, and she has to admit it. She wants that man back.

"Shut the fuck up and kiss me," she orders, and if she’d been paying more attention, she would have been surprised at how willing he was to obey. But she’s focusing on yanking his belt open, and working the button and zipper on his jeans. And that little yelp when she gets her hand inside?

Totally worth it.

He’s still talking, but he’s not trying to stop her anymore. And he’s not raving about Miles, either.

"God yes. How long? Jesus,that feels good," he purrs as his mouth explores the line of her throat, mirroring everything she’d done before. He raises his head just as his teeth slide onto her shoulder, and pins her with questioning blue eyes. "Tell me you’re sure, Charlie, before I blow a fucking gasket."

It should be easy, with her lips bruised from his kisses and his cock sliding through her hand. It’s not. It’s the scariest thing she’s done in a long time, a big fucking cliff that drops straight down.

"Not sure at all. But I want this," she hisses, because if nothing else, she’s a Matheson. Jumping off cliffs is kind of their speciality.

And that’s obviously quite enough for Monroe’s underactive conscience, because he’s pulling her jeans down even as he pushes her tanktop up to suck shamelessly at her nipple. She tries to form the words - bra, off - but the mad heat of it dissolves them into little puffs of nothing, mere punctuation in a series of increasingly desperate moans.

"You want me inside of you, little girl? Is that what you want?" Monroe asks, crude and mean and somehow more than every erotic dream she’s ever had, She moans her assent, telling herself right up until the very last minute that she refuses to beg, "please, Monroe. Please, yes. Inside me … please."

He laughs triumphantly and she wants to remind him that she started this, she was the one who has been wanting this for longer than he could possibly know, she, she, she ...

but fuck. He’s huge between her thighs and the angle fucking hurts and if he stops she is going to shred him to pieces because this. Fuck just once. This. She’s not even coming and she already wants to do it again, all the different ways, on the ground and in the woods and right here, right here with her back thumping their rhythm against the wall of a tumbledown shack into the middle of nowhere fucking Texas, and oh yeah. A war.

But this is the war she's been fighting too fucking long. Hello, surrender, she thinks, and starts to giggle, a mad tumble of sound as her body convulses around him, almost cramping with the unrelenting bliss. He strokes her through one, two, three aftershocks, then untangles her legs from around his hips to slide free of her body.

"We can’t …"

Charlie blinks at how regretful he sounds, as if knocking her up was ever on the table. She’ll think about it later, though, because his cock is pulsing in her hand, red and almost angry, and she wants, she wants …. to make him happy, dammit.

She reaches up to whisper in his ear as she leaves her hand to learn him by feel. ”Come on, General Monroe. You’re surrounded. Give it up.”

He shoots an incredulous glance her way, and maybe that’s what makes her sink to her knees.

Or maybe she’s had this fantasy too.

It’s not something she’s done a lot - only once or twice, and never particularly enjoyed it, if she’s honest - but … this is Monroe. His hands are cruel in her hair and his cock is surely too big for this to actually work, but she wants this, wants to make him come, wants him to …

Want will be the fucking end of her, Charlie thinks as she starts to cough. It’s acrid, and slimy, and does not taste good, but … he’s dropped down next to her, still clutching her to him, face buried in her hair.

Just once, she reminds herself, but he’s stretching out, pulling her into him, hands already roaming.

(Maybe a thousand times.)