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The Way We Sleep

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"Where will she sleep?" Alana asks, looking around his small house. He was finishing vacuuming in preparation for Abigail, and now Alana is standing on the rug, frowning, charged with all this skepticism.

"I made up the other room, put a twin bed in there and--" he starts to tell her, but she sighs and goes to look. Peeks into the small room off his bathroom.

"Will, wasn't that a closet before?"

"We won't need much space," he mutters.

She turns to him, hands on her hips. Looks him over. He feels awkward, wearing an old, dirty teeshirt and sweats. He glances down at himself once, sees the lump at the front of his crotch. He's not hard, but the threadbare material clings to him and he's been at it all afternoon, working up a sweat.

She sighs. "Do you really think this is appropriate?"

"I think she needs somewhere to live? How could giving Abigail a home be inappropriate?"

She just looks at him, for a long time. And then says "Ok. Ok, Will. Just...keep me in the loop? If you need anything, I'm here?"

He smiles at her, that crooked, shaky smile. And says "Of course. We'll have you over for dinner as soon as she's settled in."

 

He rubs his hands together, eager to show her in, introduce her to the dogs, but the first thing she does is drop her rucksack on the floor in the living room, ignore the dogs that clamor to sniff at her feet, and frowns. "You don't have a tv?"

He looks around, surprised. He never even thought of having a tv.

She sighs exasperatedly, a long, suffering sound.

"We can get one?" he says but she's on to the next thing.

"What happened to your fireplace?" she touches the rock where it's jagged in places, where he put it back together wrong.

"I...it's a long story," and then he watches her go and sit on his bed, bounce on it. "...um-"

"Is this--?" she pauses mid-bounce, looks down.

"It's my bed," he tells her and she hops up in surprise. She hugs herself defensively, steps away. It makes the skin at the back of his neck burn in embarrassment.

He jumps in to dispel the awkwardness, says "your bedroom is in here," and gestures. She walks past him, shoulder hunching a little away from him like she doesn't want to accidentally brush against him as she passes and it makes his throat go tight. Is she afraid of him? Does she feel threatened?

He's considering, confused as the dogs rush by him to follow her to her room. And in there, she says "Is this a closet?"

"N-no?" he calls back to her.

 

Having her there is exhilarating. He finds himself waking up with the sun to get the fire started and make her breakfast. He whistles a little while he's at the stove and when she joins him, rubbing her eyes, he makes a little show of flipping a pancake.

She wears a tank top and a pair of sleep shorts with little colorful hearts on them. It's chilly in the house, the fire just beginning to catch, so he goes to his bed, grabs the top wool blanket and while she's hunched at the kitchen table and yawning, he drapes it over her back and arms.

She looks up in surprise and then takes it from him, wraps herself up in it.

He finishes cooking while she cat naps at the table in his blanket.

"Do you have coffee?" she asks when he sets the food in front of her. He pours her a mug and she dips her little finger in the warmed syrup. "Do you have the fake kind? I like it better," she says, but he doesn't.

He sits across from her and pours his syrup slowly, relishing the way she eats his food, how she plays with the bacon and then eats it quietly, staring out at the grey morning.

"It smells like you," she says off-handedly, leaning her face for a moment into the wool blanket.

"Oh," he says, caught off-guard.

"The whole house smells like you," she tells him, eyebrows rising. "Cause your bedroom is in the living room."

He blushes then, confused. Nods a few times to himself.

When he looks up again, she's looking at him with a little cynical smile on her face. She snorts and looks away.

 

It doesn't go exactly as planned.

"Hey, uh. Hey," he says and when he tries to lay a friendly hand on her shoulder, she rolls it off and turns to look at him with all this annoyance on her face. So he puts his hands, which tremble a little in anxiety, into his pockets. "Uh. You want to maybe take a walk with me and the boys?"

The boys are what he calls the dogs, though Margo is a bitch. She's one of the boys anyhow.

"Um, I'm reading?" she says, and holds up the psychiatric text Hannibal lent her.

"Yeah, but you can take a break from that?" he says, chuckling a little, trying to warm her into the idea.

She stares at him for a long, unblinking moment and then says "Yeah, but I don't want to."

And then she turns around and flips the book open again, gives him her shoulder. Ignores him.

"Okay," he says to himself, under his breath when he's out on the porch. The dogs bark at a partridge in the field. He puts his gloves on and walks with them to the river and back, pacing slowly, frowning to himself.

 

That night is the first night she climbs into his bed.

He awakens to the sound of her crying softly in the room with him, just a heartbeat before he feels the bed dip under her weight.

"Abigail?" he asks, confused. Voice sleepy and unused.

"Uh-huh," she says, making a strange, swallowing sound.

"What is it?" he asks her, and when he goes to find her with his hands, he gets an armful of her. She buries her face in his shoulder, then rolls it and presses it deep under his arm like she's hiding there.

He doesn't know what to say for a long time. He can feel her wetting his teeshirt sleeve with quiet tears.

After a while, he strokes her hair, just a little, running a few strands of it between his fingers. "Abby?" he whispers, a nickname he's called her in his head before, never out loud.

After a while, she turns her head and takes a big, shaky breath. When she exhales, it tickles the hair under his arm. "I had a bad dream," she tells him.

"Okay," he says, and hugs her lightly to him.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry. For being weird," she chokes.

"It's not weird," he tells her softly, realizing that he's gone warm everywhere, his whole body pleased at the intimacy. "I have bad dreams all the time. Sometimes I wake up and the bed's all wet--"

"Gross," she says, snorting a little laugh.

"No, n-not," he stammers. "I mean, I sweat a lot--"

"Gross," she says again, but she's burrowing closer, getting comfortable. He sighs and strokes her hair still. It's long and soft in his fingers.

"Can I--?" she half-asks, like she's afraid of what he'll say.

"Course you can," he tells her and she squirms a little, wedges right up along side his hip. Lets one of her legs drape over his own leg. He stills at the feeling of her falling back asleep.

After a while, he sleeps too.

 

She doesn't talk about it in the morning. He wakes to her sitting up in the cold light, her hair sticking up like a messy haystack. Her eyes look dazed, like she doesn't know where she is. He tries to reach for her, but she looks at him in the daylight, her eyes widen and she clamors out of his bed.

She walks quickly out of the room and closes herself into the bathroom.

He lets his hand drift back, drape over his abdomen. He listens to her start the shower and after a while, gets up to put on his robe and let the dogs out.

 

He can't get her to come fishing with him. He has a small, women's fishing vest that he bought for her, a little set of pretty lures that he made for her. But when he thinks about them, hidden away in the closet, he winces to himself. He remembers the critical face she made when he asked her to come, the way she said "I don't fish, I hunt." The small eyeroll she made when he put on his own vest, not even trying to hide it from him.

He goes hot in his clothes, skin prickling when she looks at him, when her eyes take him apart. When she ignores him and goes to her room and shuts the door. Always reading. Always reading books Hannibal gave her.

He tried to share that with her too. He knocks and lets himself into her little room one night while she's up reading with the lamp on. He feels like a over-large intruder in her small space. He has a stack of books that she looks at with a little cut to her brow.

"Uh. T-these were just...some of my favorites," he says, already regretting his decision to bother her. "Um. C.S. Forester. Louis L'Amour. Madeleine L'Engle." He passes her the small stack.

"Uh. Thanks?" she says, making a face. She looks at them in her hands for a moment and then sighs, puts them on the bedstand beside her. Then she goes back to reading the textbook Hannibal gave her, ignoring him.

He stands there for a long time, palming the back of his neck. And then he lets himself out.

He goes onto the porch in the winter dark feeling like a criminal when he calls Alana.

"Hi," she says, "I was wondering when you'd call."

"It's just..." he tries, frustrated that the words lodge in his throat. "It's just--"

"I know," Alana says. "She's a teenage girl, Will."

"Yes," he says, exasperated. "I didn't. I didn't realize it'd be so...so--"

"Hard? Frustrating? The worst?" she sounds amused.

"Yes," he palms his forehead, which is all sweaty with anxiety from talking to the girl.

"Some of it is defensiveness. She thinks you want to replace her father. It'll take time, but she'll come around," Alana tells him.

He swallows guiltily, looks back into the lit house at the dogs wagging, wanting to get out with him. "Yeah," he says, feeling aimless and adrift.

 

She climbs in with him again, this time waking him only when she accidentally knees him in the abdomen. "Uhnnnf!" he says, waking in surprise.

"Sorry, sorry," she whispers, and then is quiet.

And then she giggles while he rubs his hurt stomach, wakes fully.

He can see her in the dark, curled up between him and the wall, her face a pale moon. She smiles and bites her lip. Gets under his covers.

"Abigail, maybe you should--"

"I want to sleep here," she says firmly. And then she's taking his arm and hugging it to her chest tightly. "It's cold in there. And too small. I feel like I'm in...in a coffin."

He lets her have his arm, though it makes him uncomfortable feeling her small, soft breasts under her teeshirt, pressed to him.

"Can I just...sleep here from now on?" she asks, voice cracking.

"We can trade--?" he tries but she shakes her head, tugs him closer by the arm until she's got it buried under her.

"I don't want to be alone," she murmurs into his pillow.

"Abby," he says softly.

"I like...I like when you call me that."

The words catch him so off guard that he can't even react when he feels her small breasts crush closer to him.

"Please, Will," she begs him.

"Ok," he soothes, and reaches with his free hand to touch at the hair in her face. To rub his thumb along the round line of her cheek.

And just lightly, barely there, she presses a little kiss to his shirt-covered shoulder blade.

But he feels it for a long time, even as she drifts off, burning and awake where her lips touched.

 

She ignores him during the day. Never thanks him for the meals he makes, the tuna fish sandwiches she loves and he hates. She disappears with Winston while he's distracted, goes for long walks without telling him where, comes back and ignores his gentle questioning. Huffs and sits on the couch by the fire with Hannibal's books. Sometimes takes his phone and goes into her room, makes mysterious phone calls. Drinks all the milk and then puts the empty carton back in the fridge so he can find it later and sigh.

But at night, he gets ready for bed in the bathroom and comes in to find her in his bed. Her pillow has migrated in too. And she looks up from where she's reading by lamplight to smile shakily at him.

So he smiles shakily back and she blushes as he settles the dogs, banks the fire and then awkwardly, trying not to jog his knee into hers, climbs into bed with her.

The bed isn't really big enough for this, for two people who are trying not to touch each other, sitting together and reading. He pages through an old Louis L'Amour, ends up with his back to her, lying on his side while she sits and reads quietly.

And the worst is always when he tries to judge if he's ready to turn out the light. She'll put her book down and he'll glance over his shoulder at her and say "Are you done? I can turn it off--?"

And she'll say "No, it's ok. Um. If you're still reading?"

And he'll say "No, no. It's fine. I was done anyway."

And then he'll put down his book and turn off the light and they'll lie next to each other like planks of wood, stiff and silent.

When the fire finally burns lower and the room darkens, she softens, turns towards him and wraps an arm around him, spoons him a little.

It relaxes him. He sometimes takes her small hand between his own and cups it. And then they both fall asleep.

 

Things break between them then. She'll get ready to walk the dogs with him without him even asking, though she won't talk much, will just gaze off at the river with a thoughtful look on her face.

She finds the fishing vest that he bought her and while he fists up his hands to stop himself from tearing it out of her grip, she looks it over and smiles a little and then looks at him and laughs.

Her laugh makes him feel like she can see right into him, know him. And that what she finds is funny, silly. He tries to pull it away but they end up in a tug of war in the closet until she finally puts her hand to his shoulder and holds him back. He lets go instantly and she looks at him while she puts it on. It fits just right.

"Do you like?" she asks him, doing a little spin and then putting her hand on her hip and flourishing her arm like a model. His jaw works and he looks away, grumbles "I didn't know you'd hate it so much."

And then he startles a little when she touches his jaw, says "Stop. It's not terrible. I just...don't fish."

He nods, swallowing. Her hand still on his jaw. And she looks a him like she's looking at him close up for the first time. And then her thumb moves, grazes over the hair there.

His mouth falls open in confusion just as the doorbell rings.

He turns to see Hannibal gazing in, witnessing. That. Whatever that was.

Abigail pulls off the vest, drops it and bounds past him. The dogs bark in pleasure as Hannibal comes in, a doting smile on his face.

She throws her arms around him and they hug briskly, like there is no awkwardness between them, no confusion, no distrust and dislike.

Will meets Hannibal's eyes over her shoulder.

And then he picks up the vest on the floor and rehangs it, puts it way back in the closet where it's forgotten once more.

 

Hannibal stays for dinner and Abigail spends it talking animatedly about the books she's read and listening, awestruck to his stories. Will just serves them and sits in silence, eating.

After he leaves late, Abigail goes to her room and closes the door and Will gets ready for bed, frowning to himself. Thinking that he shouldn't care, but it bothers him that she won't sleep with him tonight, after Hannibal was here.

He turns off the lamp and gets into bed, is drifting a few minutes later when her door opens and wakes him again.

"You shut off the light," she pouts.

"S-sorry," he says, and reaches to turn it on for her.

She's wearing a sleeveless nightgown, looking pretty in the warm light. He swallows and she comes quickly across the room and climbs into bed.

He has to reach around her to turn off the light again and when he does, she captures his arm and hugs it to her front, buries her face against it.

He tries to angle a little so she can keep his arm and he can be comfortable, but as he's trying to find that space, he feels her breath on his mouth and then suddenly, a soft, small kiss.

Her mouth is smaller than his, but her lips are plumper, riper. They touch his and then cling just a tiny bit before she pulls away again.

He can't breathe. He freezes up beside her, mouth parted the way she left it.

And then she's making a little sound in her throat and her lips are back, this time bolder, more curious.

He screws up his eyes at the bewildered heat that floods through him, and then he feels her mouth try to open his and he jerks away, breaking their kiss.

Her breathing's a mess as she clings to his arm, says "W-what?"

"Abby, Jesus," he says, not angry but harsh with confusion. He wipes his mouth off with the back of his wrist.

"I'm sorry. Oh. Oh, god Will. Don't send me back--" she starts in, frantic, and he calms at her distress, says "Shhhhh, no no no no no. Oh god, I'm not going to do that. We just...you can't do that."

She nods hastily in agreement, her forehead rubbing on his shoulder. "Sorrysorrysorry--" she keeps saying.

"Ssshhhh, it's ok. You're just..." he doesn't even know what she is. "Confused."

She's making upset sounds so he hugs her, plays with her hair which always seems to soothe her. Sweeps it back over and over while he says "It's ok. You were just confused. It's confusing to lose the people you love and try to...find someone to trust. To lean on. You can lean on me."

She does then, buries herself close to him again, shaking arms around him. He holds her tight too and then cling to each other, his face in her hair, smelling her.

He realizes then, that he loves her. That he wants to be what she needs. That he wants to be the father she needs.

It makes him warm, to love her. Makes him smile a little, even though she's still making these hitching, sad noises against his throat and leaving his skin all damp.

 

She holds his hand when they go walking by the river now, and they do it aimlessly, smiling and joking while the dogs snuffle around and bark at each other. When she laughs at his jokes and pulls faces, it makes him grin, makes him feel good.

They have Alana over, and she watches them, looks impressed at Will when he gets Abigail to help him wash dishes without any attitude. When they knock shoulders together and smile in the kitchen.

When she leaves, she touches his hand and gives him a look of approval while she squeezes, and he feels puffed up like a proud bird, has to look away while he grins, embarrassed.

That night, Abigail burrows her hand under his shirt and opens her palm on the hot skin of his back, holds him.

 

"What's that?" she asks.

They're at the library and he's downstairs in the reading room in one of the soft chairs. She doesn't even ask, just squishes her way in to sit with him. He tries to move over a little, but they're all pressed up tight at the hip and he has to put an arm around the back of the chair, around her to make it work.

He shows her the book on small-farm gardening. She makes a face.

"Hey, like you won't love the little tomatoes I grow you," he teases and she fake-punches him in the gut. He grins and she drifts her head onto his shoulder so her crown is touching his chin. He goes back to reading while she reads along, touching her finger at the parts she wants him to pay attention to, like the paragraph about making a small compost heap. "Mmm-hm," he says in agreement.

When they leave, Abby is on his arm and the young librarian smiles at them indulgently. He smiles back, proud of his daughter and the easy relationship they have.

 

He wakes to small movements, the mattress trembling a little. He blinks, feels Abigail squirming at his back.

So he gets up on an elbow, looks over his shoulder just in time to catch her small, wracking orgasm.

Her nightgown is up by her thighs, her right hand buried between her legs, moving. Her eyes find his and she gasps. They close and a high, feminine groan slips out of her mouth, a kind that he's heard once or twice, enough to know exactly what it means.

He stares at her, shocked as she comes. As her body gets caught in these little, jerking spasms.

Then he's scrambling out of bed.

"Will, wait--" she says throatily. But he locks himself in the bathroom.

 

She knocks. "Please, come out."

He doesn't answer. He's sitting on the closed toilet lid, his head in his hands.

"Please," she says, and sounds so plaintive, he reaches, unlocks the door.

She opens it and comes in in a flurry, takes his head in her hands, fingers deep in his curls and drags his face to her stomach, hugs him this way to her, awkward and needy.

"I'm so sorry! I was half-asleep. I was dreaming. I didn't...It just happened. I only really woke up when you...when you looked."

He wraps loose arms around her and hugs her back, sighs. Puts his face deep into her shivering stomach.

"Will, please please don't hate me for that."

He has to pull himself together and really make an effort when he says "D-don't be sorry. It was an accident. You...you're young and you have...feelings."

His face burns at the words and he presses deeper into her stomach. Her fingers start to play anxiously with his curls.

"I don't hate you," he tells her.

I love you.

"I didn't mean to," she promises him and they stay like that for a while, just hugging awkwardly until he finally stands, wipes his eyes off on the back of his hand and says "lets go back to bed."

She nods but then pauses at the sink, washes her hands.

Knowing why she needs to, where her hands have been, and how they were playing with his hair makes him bite his lip. Makes his cock suddenly fatten up a little, helplessly.

He gets into bed close to the wall, facing it so when she climbs in, she won't disturb him.

 

He comes in from the cold and she's made lunch. She brandishes a knife and waves it lightly, says "Ta-da!"

He lets out a chuckle, looks at the spread, pleased. There's toasted bread, lunch meat on a plate, cheese slices, washed lettuce and sliced tomato.

"It's not a lot, I know. I was thinking of making some eggs but I didn't want to blow your house up or something," she says, tucking her hair behind her ear and he grins says "You wouldn't blow my house up. And this is perfect."

She bites her lip and settles across from him, watching him make a sandwich before she makes her own. And then they eat together in comfortable silence, watching the dogs roughhouse in front of the low fire.

 

One night, he wakes up to her drifting soft, small kisses on his bared shoulder, his shirt collar loose. He makes a groaning, waking noise and she pauses, then gives him another, this one wetter, her tongue touching the skin.

He rolls towards her with a sleepy sigh and takes her face in his hands. "Abby--" he murmurs and she kisses his mouth.

They kiss for a long time, deep but chaste.

And then he breaks the kiss and strokes her hair, listens to the sounds she makes, all girlish pleasure.

"We can't do that," he tells her softly, but then he kisses her again and her hands find his shirt and tug him closer.

He rests his chest over hers, presses her into the bed but he won't move so his hips are against her. And they kiss until his lips feel funny, puffy, worked over.

When she tries to use her small, sweet tongue he shies away.

"Please," she breathes.

So he dips in once more, just for a moment, lets their tongues meet for the first time. Just a small kiss between them, a little stroke that makes her fingers claw.

Then he breaks it up and says "No more."

"Kay," she says. "But I can kiss you? Like before?"

He nods and she drags him down again, kisses his mouth with all this eagerness.

He settles beside her and ends up letting her use his mouth, his lips pouted while he drifts off again. He chuckles a few times when her ardor wakes him.

It's pale light when she does it again, and he wakes enough to press his sore mouth back to hers, to return the kiss.

She gets out of bed then, startling him all the way awake. "You ok?" he asks and he hears her bare feet on the wood floor, her quick "Fine--"

She closes herself in her bedroom.

He gets up and puts on a sweater, notices that it's snowed deep in the night.

He's shoveling when it dawns on him, why she ran away in the morning, to be alone in her bedroom.

It makes his mouth feel strange, still tingly from being used so much.

 

She doesn't talk about it. Just sits on the couch by the fire, ignoring him.

He makes her cocoa at one point and she screws up her face at the sight of it, which confuses him because he thought that's what kids liked on snowy days.

He sits quietly at the table cleaning out his fishing box, thinking about going sledding with her. But his fantasy always changes at the end. How they laugh in a pile after flipping their sled. And how she takes his face in her little mittened hands and kisses him.

 

That night, she rolls over and clings to him. He has his mouth ready for her, but she ignores it. Just clings tightly, his knee caught between her own.

So he settles awkwardly into her arms, lets her have whatever she needs. He closes his eyes and tries to find sleep, but then suddenly her knees are squeezing at his, and she's scooching closer, closer still.

He doesn't know why, it's all instinct when he presses his knee up between her legs.

Her fingers are sharp points in his arm as she gives off this blustery sigh and rolls her hips.

He puts his face into his pillow, lip in his teeth as she starts slowly, fumblingly rubbing off on his thigh.

It takes her a while. She stops a few times to catch her breath, to shiver. To second-guess herself. But he runs a hand over her back and she starts grinding again, the space right between her legs extra-hot and feverish on him, even through their clothes.

"Wait wait wait," she says at one point and he freezes where he's been sort of...rubbing his own knee in a circle, offering a counter-rhythm to her work. She frees him and he takes a gulping breath and realizes she's not done, she's just pulling her nightgown up.

She catches his thigh again and wedges it between her legs and he gasps at the shock of the heat, so much hotter. Burning like a coal that wants to set them on fire.

She circles and swivels her hips and then bucks, rubs this way while he ignores how his cock is ready for her. How he's responded to her need with his cock getting all fat for her pleasure. Her movements quicken and he tries to spur her on, reaches down to spread his palm over her lower back and it just makes her hiss, rip herself away from his leg again.

He jerks his hand off her like he burned her but she is grasping his pajama pants, tugging the leg frantically. "Get these off. Please--" she begs and he nods, shoves them down and off, feels her find his bare knee now with her small hands, pull it in between her legs.

"Oh god," he groans, because the crotch of her underwear, all mashed and rucked between them, is sopping. Slick. He bites his lip and his cock jumps, taps and stretches at the tight front of his boxers impatiently.

She goes back to humping his leg, but this time with her small, hot hands holding it tightly in place as she rubs. Her underwear rolls around, sometimes enough that he gasps at the feel of wet, private hair and then the slippery kiss of bare skin.

She whines as her hips pump, roll. As her fingernails hurt him.

She's moving frantically, shaking. And then says "Just--" and reaches between them to tug her underwear crotch aside.

"Yes--" he grits out as her naked, delicate little cunt mouths his skin and then she's jerking, her whole body caught in these violent spasms. He can feel her cunt flex-flex-flex, a flicker, a contraction of internal movement that makes him claw at her squeezing knees, his cock jerking in sympathy.

After, her knees slowly unlock and free him and he reaches down and yanks his pants back up.

Then he stumbles out of bed, goes to the bathroom and locks himself in.

He beats off excitedly, coming prematurely with the feel of her wet drying on his leg.

 

The next day he can't...ignore it.

He follows her with his eyes, can't look away. Watches her do some stretches in the living room. And the way she plays with his dogs.

Stares with his mouth partially agape, eyes heavy-lidded.

She meets his eye a few times and then glances away. Her face gets pink at the edges, the tips of her ears, high on her cheekbones. Her mouth curls a little and she tries not to make eye contact with him.

He knows he's making her uncomfortable, somewhere inside him, but he can't not look at her.

 

That night, he slowly dresses for bed. She comes out in her nightgown, pauses as he looks at her and puts his shirt on.

"Wait!" she says suddenly, and he stops, shirt half-on. "Don't."

He swallows, takes it off again. Then climbs into bed without it, pajama bottoms riding low on his hips.

She gnaws at her lower lip, climbs in too. He makes room for her in his arms.

She hides her face against his bare chest and he ducks down, smiles a little and kisses her head.

He drifts off to her still hiding from him, and that night they just sleep like that, curled together, his chest warm at her cheek.

 

Alana comes over for lunch the next day, walks with him to the river. He finds himself hyper-aware of Abigail, where she is, what she's doing, what her expression looks like. When Alana touches his hand and then holds it for a moment in fondness, Abigail's brow gets all cranky and lined with annoyance.

When Alana plays with Winston, Abigail crosses her arms over her chest and glares like an irritable child.

"Stop," Will tells her, under his breath. She gives him an angry look, says "You stop."

He raises a brow and she ignores him, walks back to the house alone.

"She's angry at me," Alana says, confused.

"Nah, she's just trying to find her footing. We're just getting comfortable together. And then you come over and the whole dynamic is off."

"Hmmm," Alana says. "I won't stay for dinner."

He shrugs, but walks her to the car.

 

That night, Abigail is insatiable. Climbs onto him with her mouth fastened to his, her hips nudging into his and he breaks the kiss to grab her hips with a hiss, lift her off him.

"You won't have to get inside me. I just...want to feel you--" she promises, angling down against his hold, trying to press into his growing cock again. "please--"

He groans long and hurt as her hips find him, as she rubs her cunt up his thickening cock, teasing it awake, making it lift for her.

They kiss and he finds himself stroking her back, holding her shoulders, helping her move on him, tease his cock. He knocks his head back in the pillow when she moves just right, all the way along the rigid bump of him.

Her mouth follows, hot, and when they kiss this time, it's all open, tongues glossing together. He groans again as she drinks at him, takes his thicker tongue into her small mouth and suckles eagerly.

"W-what are we--?" he tries to ask but she's pulling up her nightgown and she's bare underneath, bare and there's just his pajamas and boxers between them, stopping him being inside her body. It makes his cock spurt wetly, dampening the way.

"Please, these, get these--" she begs and tugs at his waistband and he almost hyperventilates as she bares his hip and uses it to rub her hungry little cunt against.

"I can't get inside you, I can't--" he tells her, even as he's dragging his clothes out of the way. She throws off her nightgown too and his body prickles with all this stinging heat at the sight of her small, sweet breasts. She climbs over him again, her eyes wide and blue and wild and she says "I just want to use it--" and settles her cunt right on the stiff bar of his erection.

They both jolt at the feeling, the tender little heart of her parting over his cock, soaking him. He takes her hips in his hands and seethes, teeth shown, the muscles in his arms clenching and releasing.

They're naked, her hands on his bare shoulders, her cunt on his cock as she starts rolling her hips and this is sex. He could pretend before that it wasn't, that it wasn't something wrong, but his stomach rolls over in nausea at how aroused he is, at how his Abby is using his cock to crush her small, swollen clit against.

"Abby," he moans, and she finds a good rhythm that runs her up the rail of him over and over, the stretch so tight that the little mouth at the tip of his cockhead gapes and pinches at the exertion.

He rolls his hips to join her movement, but he wants to be inside her. He wants to make the space inside her stretch all sore for him.

And she wants it too. She looks down at him between her loose hair, face full of pain, breathes the secret "I want you--"

He takes her hair, her head in his hands and brings her mouth to his. Kisses her with his warm lips, his giving tongue, his teeth. And she raises too high and his cock follows, twitching and when she sinks down again, his eager cockhead half-buries inside her.

"Oh Abby, wait," he groans, freezing and she's holding herself up and off of him with her hands gripping his shoulders, scrambling.

Her eyes stare into his and his mouth works and she says "--can't," and then strokes the rest of the way down on him.

He arcs, mouth a silent cry. His cock is coerced deep into her cunt where she's so warm and wanting, where her body hugs him and welcomes him. Needs him.

"Will. Yes there, Will," she moans, wincing, biting her lip at the stretch. She arches on him, her pretty breasts twitching.

He stares at her in shock, eyes wide when she starts to move, trying to rub her cunt up and down the length of him, get what she needs. After a few, uncertain moments, she lets out a frustrated huff, corkscrews up his length and he almost slips out of her before she jerks down again with a little whine of irritation.

He can't stand to see her wanting, so he clenches his jaw tight, takes her small hips in his hands and rocks her.

He watches, sweaty curls in his eyes, jaw still tight in frustration as he makes sure that she rocks back enough to rub her little clit from the inside. It makes her cry out, scratch up his shoulders.

"T-take it," he tells her, teeth bared. "Come on, Abby. Get off on me--"

He keeps moving her in tight circles, punctuating it with a little stab of his own hips, ass flexing beneath him to get deep in her, to tap her cervix. The pressure and the swivel and the way her little clit gets all kissed and rubbed at from inside makes her whine deep in her throat over and over until she starts begging "More. Please. Will--" So he gasps, puts his thick thumb to her clit from the outside while he nudges from the inside and her cunt starts to go hard-walled inside, like it's poising to really let go, snap, go off.

"God, I want to make you come," he grits, rubbing his thumb harder, impatient and her eyes go agonized as she finally does, her cunt flickering all elastic and greedy around him. He falls heavily beneath her, hips jerking in offering as he comes too with a strangled cry, his cock snug in her deep, flexing come against her soft insides.

 

They make love in the morning again, him moving over her slowly at first, their eyes locked, and then he buries his face in her hair and fucks her strongly, making the bed shake and clatter into the wall.

The dogs whine from the floor, worried about the commotion.

 

He's had her for three days. They can't seem to get out of bed for long before their starving for each other and he's putting her down on her back again.

And then on the fourth day, he's getting out of the shower and hears voices in the living room.

He opens the door a crack, peers out.

Hannibal is sitting on the bed with her, on the sex-strewn sheets which have to be fragrant with their lovemaking and sweat by now. And he's patting at Abigail's hair as she leans into him, soothing her.

They're talking quietly and it strikes Will then, that this is what Abigail looks like with a father.