She isn’t really sure why she’s driving around the desert at night. Other than that she can’t stay in that empty, echoing building stripped of everything she’s ever managed to accomplish with her life any longer. Particularly not with the reason she’s lost everything sitting silent in the seat beside her. But he’d only looked at her, his gaze oddly somber after their incredible talk on the roof of universe-spanning bridges and god-like technologies and fantastic knowledge he took for granted, and followed her to the truck when she went to it, suddenly restless, and climbed in beside her.
He had brought back her notebook, at least. Even if all of the readings and data and evidence she’d worked so hard to collect to back up her theory was gone.
Darcy still thinks he’s really some kind of escaped mental patient. Erik is just worried about her in general, especially now that SHIELD has taken her work. She has to acknowledge, her hands gripping the wheel tighter for a long moment, making the truck waver on the road a little, that that part of all this has her the most upset. All she has to show for being right is a man who claims to have been the living inspiration for a Norse God sitting beside her.
“Are you well, Jane?” comes his voice, deep and rich, from the dark. She has to stifle a little laugh. Well, at least he sounds like a god. And looks like one too. Oh does he. She glances his way briefly, catching him watching her steadily, – it’s a little daunting the intensity of his stare –, before forcing her eyes back to the road.
Remembering him without a shirt in the shop; barely able to wear Don’s oldest jeans low on his hips… but there had been the arrogance and the swagger and the callous disregard of their concerns too. Muted, now, after whatever happened to him in that SHIELD camp. But still part of him. How could the impending blow to her professional credibility mean anything to him? To a being who crossed the gaps between worlds like walking down the street? A being who knew what it was like to walk the stars…
“Not really,” she says, forcing the words out through the awe she doesn’t want to feel about him. “But I’ll get over it eventually, I guess. It’s only everything I’ve done for the last six years gone.”
The uneasy silence lasts through another milepost or two.
“Sitting in this coach is confining,” he says, “and the stars of Midgar are brilliant and many; I wish to see them clearly away from this blurred glass.”
Look at the stars? For a moment she thinks he’s mocking her. With a spurt of anger, she stomps on the brakes and pulls the truck to a jerking halt at the side of the highway. He mutters something under his breath and braces himself against the dash and the door. She kills the engine, plunging them into total darkness as the dash lights vanish, and leans forward, pressing her forehead to her hands where they are fisted on the steering wheel.
“You must really be from another planet,” she says with a small quiver in her voice that she can’t control. “Either that or you’re the second most insensitive jerk I’ve met lately. After that creep of a SHIELD guy.”
“My apologies, Jane,” he says after a moment of awkward silence. “My request was perhaps careless.”
She rolls her head to the side, still braced on her hands, and stares at him through the darkness. It’s never completely dark in the desert at night, but her eyes are still adjusting from headlights to starlight alone. He looks remorseful, she thinks, his mouth tight, his head bent. He’s been like this. Thoughtful. Quieter. Subdued. Ever since the SHIELD camp. She knows she should stay mad at him, but for some reason she just can’t.
“They are beautiful, aren’t they,” she says, suddenly realizing they won’t be the same patterns of stars he knows. He’s on another world, away from his home – banished – and she feels suddenly small and petty for worrying about her career when he really has lost everything. Home. Family. His place in the world. Which is the greater loss? Or is it just a matter of perspective? Neither one is less real or damaging, but hers is, at least, less immediate. She gives him a tentative smile, fighting back an unwelcome surge of guilt, and straightens up. “C’mon,” she says. “I’ll tell you our names for some of them.”
He gives her a thin smile, his gaze still faintly shadowed. She takes the keys from the ignition – city habits die hard - and flicks off the dome light before she opens her door. No sense destroying their night vision - or hers at least. She has no idea if it matters to his.
After she drops to the ground, she lets the driver’s door close with a thump and walks around the front of the truck to meet him on the graveled shoulder. He’s looking down at her, not up at the stars, as she slides down the small incline to the desert floor. It’s little more than scrub and cacti out here without even any of the ubiquitous barbed-wire fencing along the highway along this stretch to impede their progress across the dusty land. He falls into step with her, even though she knows he has to shorten his stride considerably to do it. It makes her feel a little less out of sorts that he makes the effort.
They would see any oncoming car from miles away by the headlights, and she’s glad there is nothing visible in either direction. It’s just the two of them here amid the stars and the coyotes.
She thinks that probably should worry her, but it doesn’t. He makes her feel safe, crazy as that sounds even in her own head. The night air is chilling rapidly but she has her thick sweater. Though she tucks her arms around herself for warmth when she finally stops on the edge of a dry wash. Then she tilts her head back, lifts her gaze to the familiar stars and, like usual, she instantly forgets the cold. He stops beside her, glances at her once, seems about to say something, but then just tilts his head back as well.
She lifts a hand and points out constellations and individual stars of note, galaxies and nebulae and their own sun’s planets. Wonders, even as she does so, if maybe he’s walked on any of the worlds that circle some of those distant stars. Wonders if his Asgard is among those they can see. Or if it is a place so far away that even the light of the sun he was born under hasn’t yet reached Earth.
That’s a very long way to be from home.
After a time she becomes aware that he’s not bothering to look up anymore, but is watching her instead. Her voice falters finally. Stills.
“Jane,” he says, and she thinks she does hear an ache in his voice then. Loneliness. Loss. Her eyes prickle with tears that don’t fall.
She puts her hand on his arm, leans into him. He’s warm like a furnace, after the chill of the desert night around them. Welcoming. Tempting. His other hand settles on her shoulder then, gentle and light. As if he’s afraid he’ll harm her somehow with his touch. She knows she’s small, but he’s almost ridiculously large. Like a god. She laughs softly at the thought and slides her arms around his waist under the open plaid shirt, presses her face to the tee shirt covering his chest.
“Something amuses you?” he says, the words a rumble beneath her ear. Both his hands are on her now, low and firm. He’s warm and solid against her, flesh and blood. She can feel his heartbeat. Hear his breathing. He seems human enough. But…
“I’m hugging a myth… or a god; it’s either laugh or cry at this point,” she says, closing her eyes and letting herself lean closer.
He gives a small laugh too. It sounds almost rueful. “That is not the usual reaction of maidens I take into my arms,” he says, his tone light.
“Lots of maidens throw themselves at you, I bet,” she says, laughing at herself now.
He’s silent then, but his arms don’t shift. One hand is warm on her waist, the other flat against her back. Then he leans down and with barely any effort lifts her high against him. Startled, she wraps her legs around his waist. Her hands find his shoulders, broad and firm. She grips them. Finds she’s staring down into his eyes, his gaze steady, his expression still.
“Jane, I would…” he begins, but she leans down and kisses him silent before he can tell her any pretty lies. Make promises he can’t keep. She had enough of that with Don. She wants him too. At this moment, that’s all that matters.
His mouth opens under hers. Warm and slow. His beard is surprisingly soft against her skin. He lets her take the lead, to her delight, her tongue exploring his mouth tentatively at first, then more eagerly. He tastes like the beer they drank around the fire earlier, and, after a breathless minute more, a little like fire too. Hot and searing.
He slips one arm under her thighs, holding her up, letting her loop her feet behind his waist without having to grip as she squirms closer to him. He feels like iron against her, his muscles hard and heavy. The other hand slides up her back to her neck, his fingertips warm beneath her hair, steady arm bracing her back.
She breaks for air, panting against his mouth. Lets her eyes flutter open after a moment to find his closed.
“Sweet,” he says, and his voice is soft, his expression relaxed, “as fresh-brewed mead.”
“What’s that taste like?” she asks, breathless. Watching a small smile curve his lips. She licks hers. Feels her need rise with each beat of her heart, of his.
“Like the finest honey,” he says, his eyes opening then, heavy and slow. The look in them is pure heat.
She gasps as he tips forward and catches her mouth this time, the hand on her neck sliding up into her hair, his whole hand cupping her head as he angles her mouth to his. Shapes her lips with his own. Firm and knowing and skilled. Then his tongue flickers into her mouth, exploring her as she had explored him. Gently, thoroughly.
She shudders against him, her arms tight around his neck, her breasts tingling, thighs aching. She knows she’s already wet. She hasn’t wanted anyone this badly since… well, forever. Feels like that’s how long she’s been wanting him. Wanting this. She cups his face, makes soft, greedy little sounds as she kisses him deeper. Needing more.
With a low groan, he starts walking, still kissing her, carrying her across the star-lit desert. She wonders only a little, at first, where he’s going, then realizes it’s probably back to the truck. He stumbles once, swaying away from the looming shadow of a cactus, and their mouths break apart. She clutches his neck tight, throwing her head back to suck in deep, much-needed breaths. Funny, she hadn’t missed air while he was kissing her, she thinks with giddy glee. She stares up at the stars as she rubs her cheek against his bearded one and grins wide, exhilaration making her blood race.
“Careful,” she says, tipping her face back down. He’s watching his steps closer now, but still darting glances at her as well. He starts to smile too, catching some of her glee. She bends down and cups his face with her hands again, presses her mouth to his cheekbone this time. Trails her lips slowly down to his ear. Nips at the lobe. He sucks in a sharp breath, walks faster now, his hand flexing against her back. As if he wants to touch her in return but won’t risk her falling. His care makes her heart race even faster.
He climbs the small slope to the road, slipping only a little in the loose gravel. She buries her hands in his long hair, shapes the back of his head as she strains close, flattening her breasts against his chest. Wants to feel the heat of his skin on hers now very badly.
He sucks in a sharp breath, the sound louder even than her soft whimpers. The hand leaves her neck to reach for the back doors of her truck. After a moment of fumbling with what’s probably an unfamiliar kind of latch, the one side opens with a creaking screech. He doesn’t bother with the other, putting his knee on the bumper and leaning forward quickly into the darkness of the rear cabin. He lets her slide out of his arms then, but his hand stays at her waist to steady her as her feet find the floor.
She takes an unsteady step back and a boot connects with something vaguely yielding. The rolled up ground tarp, she realizes after a startled moment. One of the few pieces of her field gear SHIELD left behind in their purge. In the way now.
“There’s a… oh,” she tries to warn, but he’s already climbing in after her, pressing her back, his arm slipping back around her waist. He practically has to bend in half, he’s so tall even on one knee, but that puts his mouth against the join of her neck and shoulder, inside the collar of her heavy sweater, as he pulls the door closed behind them. His breath is warm on her skin, making her shiver in anticipation but then she stumbles, feet slipping out from under her as her boot-heels tangle on the edge of the tarp. He catches her, but the motion lifts her up against his chest and her head bangs sharply against the roof.
“Ow!” she says, stars dancing in her eyes. And not from the sky this time. He’s still moving, shifting them both around in the dimness as her eyes water a little and she clutches at the top of her head; at least he doesn’t smack her head into the roof a second time.
“Jane,” His tone is concerned as he sets her in his lap. He cradles the back of her head beneath the hands she’s pressed to the sore spot on the crown and draws her close. “A thousand apologies, my lady,” he says into her hair, gruffly.
She has to laugh even as the sting fades. Most of it was shock, she hopes, though her scalp does throb a little. “It’s okay. Tight quarters here.”
“No doubt. This feels quite tight enough,” he murmurs as a hand drifts down and gives her ass a slight squeeze. She can hear a touch of smugness in his voice and is startled for a moment by the crude joke.
“Watch it, buddy, or you won’t find out,” she says as she shifts herself on his lap. She feels a little caged now. His thighs are thick and strong against one hip, his knees bent due to the encroachment of the cabinets attached to the other wall of the truck. He tenses slightly at the edge to her tone, but her hands are already creeping back around his neck. Her fingers tangling in his hair and drawing him down to her again.
He sighs against her mouth, but she can feel his lips quirking. “Very well, my lady. Shall I confine myself to odes to your eyes?”
“Oh please do,” she says, then kisses him quick and hard. Makes herself a little breathless. “I want to hear you rhyme brown at least twice.” She presses her mouth against his, tries not to laugh. Fails.
His answering chuckle is rich and deep, maybe even oddly relieved. But then his hands, broad and strong, stroke up her back, shaping her ribs with his thumbs until they cross the sides of her breasts, and her teasing mood falls away. She sucks in air as a gasp. Arches into his touch. Feels anxious and wanting and reckless all at once.
Her eyes have finally adjusted to the dimness of the truck cabin and she can see him watching her. His gaze is caught on the lines of her breasts under her tee shirt. Her nipples are taut, poking hard through the lace of her bra and the thin cloth of her shirt too. His thumbs smooth upwards again, over the curve, and she feels a deep pulse inside, her blood seeming to slow down and spread heat everywhere his hands have been.
“I am no poet; words are my brother’s strength, not mine,” he says softly, raising his gaze to hers. “But you are beautiful, Jane.”
His simple declaration hits her with the force of a blow, igniting a frenzy in her. She twists to straddle him, her knees thumping down hard on the scraped wood flooring of the truck, her hands deep in his hair, her mouth devouring his. And she can feel the heat of his erection, long and thick under his jeans, pressing against her belly.
Suddenly she’s daunted. It seems he’s god-like there too.
Her mind spins between heated urgency and wary concern. She’s never slept with anyone of that kind of size before. Hadn’t really believed, until this moment, that there was really all that much variation in the size of men’s penises. But the evidence is hard against her stomach, reaching to her belly button. For a moment she tries to do calculations on angle and depth in her head, but his mouth, hot and urgent on hers, scrambles her brains. His hands are stroking her shoulders, her arms, down over her hips and thighs, up her ribs again to shape the bottom of her breasts. Fingertips flutter higher, just brush over aching nipples, one side, then the other, then away. Restless. Eager. Exhilarating. They come up for air again and her mind spins harder.
He rocks her against him. She moans, clutching him close. His arms are around her. Holding her tight, but not crushing her. They kiss again, his mouth hot and hungry now, but still not rough or brutal. And she thinks maybe, maybe this can work after all, but still his erection starts to feel more and more like a steel bar against her, only less yielding.
Finally she twists her face away, cups his jaw to keep him from pursuing her. Strokes her thumbs across his faintly swollen lower lip. He nips gently at the flesh of one thumb, his gaze heavy and a little predatory now, and she shivers at the lightning-like sensations that shoot up her arm from that point and straight to her breasts. That look’s because of her… oh God… “I’m not sure about this… Thor, you’re really… really big,” she says in a rush, then her face burns. She can’t believe she actually said that out loud.
“Do not fear, my lady Jane,” he murmurs, his tone gentle. There’s a touch of amusement there, she can hear, but no mockery. No crudeness. “I follow your lead this night; command me and I shall do only as you desire.”
It’s a heady thing for a moment. To hear words said aloud that she’s always taken for granted. She shouldn’t need to hear them, she thinks frantically, but he’s so strong, so big, so… daunting. Yet he’s just given her the power to guide him. To be the one in charge.
But, “No pressure, huh?” she says, a nervous laugh escaping her. This is not how she’s used to sex going. She’s ashamed to realize, suddenly, that it had always just kind of happened between her and Don. A comfortable, kind of routine thing that was more tolerated than anticipated. It wasn’t anything like this clawing, heated need that she feels while touching Thor. She’s not quite sure what to do with the intensity of her own feelings now that she’s facing them. Or the fact that she’s pretty sure her panties are completely soaked and might even be making a good try on the crotch of her jeans too. It’s both embarrassing and exciting. She squirms a little on his lap and her breasts throb where they rub against his chest.
He makes a soothing sound, his touch gentle. “No, my lady. There is only us here together this night, and the promise of pleasure. But only as much as you wish.”
There’s something about the faintly archaic way he speaks. Maybe it’s all the ‘my lady’-ing he’s doing to her. But she feels powerful, suddenly, from wanting him. She leans close and looks into his eyes. They’re open all the way now, watching her with patience and concern… and heat. There’s no doubting he wants her. Not at all.
“I want all of you,” she says, her voice husky now, her throat tight with need and the bold way she’s talking. “But I don’t want to… to hurt myself either. I just don’t… I don’t know quite how to do that. Help me, please.”
“Ah, Jane,” he says, and his eyes close for a moment, his smile grows almost pained. “So beautiful.” Then he opens his eyes and lifts her up slowly, wary of the roof this time , and his mouth closes over the tip of one breast, catching the nipple through cloth and lace between his teeth gently. She cries out and throws her head back. Clutches at his head. He suckles her for a long, breathless moment – until she’s dizzy and gasping – then lowers her slowly back down, his hand slipping between them.
“I can smell you, my lady,” he whispers against the side of her face, near her ear. “Your scent is rich… enticing.”
“Oh God, oh God,” she says, vaguely embarrassed yet turned on even more all the same even as she feels him plucking at the snap of her jeans with one hand. His breath is warm on her throat. Before she thinks she drops one of her own down to help him. The zipper slides down slowly between his fingers, and she remembers, suddenly, his nearly child-like delight in them when they’d first given him a zip-up sweatshirt to wear. He’d nearly worn the thing out playing with it until Darcy slapped his hand and told him to stop before he broke it. He’d looked affronted and pouty and yet so damn cute… like a little boy denied a toy. Nothing like he looks now. Her mind snaps back to the present as his fingers drift inside her pants, find the line of narrow lace at top of her plain cotton panties and slide along it.
He spreads her opened jeans wide, wider, and she’s glad, suddenly that she doesn’t wear the kind of skin-tight fashion jeans that Darcy is always trying to get her to buy. Hers are loose and comfortable and give him just enough room now to slip them over her hipbones, his palms hot where they cup her.
He’s looking down at her, his gaze rapt, and so she glances down too, at where her tee shirt has bunched up around her waist, at the gaping front of her jeans, at the plain white cotton of her low-cut bikini panties barely covering the dark thatch of her pubic hair. Her gaze locks on his hands. They are big and strong and powerful. Spanning her hips completely, the thumbs that ride across the trembling curve of her belly nearly touching. And just beyond is the thick bulge of his erection beneath his own worn jeans. Waiting.
“This isn’t going to work,” she blurts out suddenly. His intent gaze shifts to hers, a frown drawing down his brows. “I don’t… I still have my boots on,” she finishes with a small gasp, blushing again.
“Is that of concern to you, my lady?” he says, lip curving slightly. He lifts his hands away from her hips and reaches beside them, pressing himself closer and catches first one boot by the heel, then the other, and, with a few sure tugs, gets them off, tossing them one after the other aside into the darkness. She grips his shoulders and closes her eyes at the feel of his mouth against her neck, the shift of his body against hers caused by his hands busy with their task.
Then he leans back again and draws her with him, spreads his legs slightly wider, and braces his feet against the cabinets on the far side of the truck. He pushes her back a little and her butt settles into the gap, her thighs tight against his sides, her body cradled by his thighs. Her stocking-covered toes curl against the cool truck wall behind him.
In that position he proceeds to undress her. Stripping off first her heavy sweater, then her tee shirt, leaving her, after a lingering pause, in just her lacy bra. She expects him to touch her then, but he doesn’t. Though his gaze does flare and linger on her breasts, on her peaked nipples dark and visible through the lacy cups of her bra; instead he lifts her bottom and tugs her pants away. Awkwardly, slowly, he works the heavy material down her thighs. The damp panties come with, of course, and suddenly she’s bare to him… and he’s right. She can smell herself now too. Musky and thick. She sucks in a breath almost like a sob, not sure if she’s mortified or inflamed by the realization that she’s that wet.
She grips his knees to brace herself and closes her eyes. Flushes as she can almost feel the intensity of his gaze on her skin. The pants come free of first the right leg, then the left. He lowers each foot gently to the ground, leaving her socks in place. Then he puts his broad hands on her knees and strokes slowly down her inner thighs, leaning forward until his hands bracket her, his mouth hovers over her own. She all but throbs in anticipation of his intimate touch, but he stays still, hands poised on her thighs. Her legs start to tremble. Her breath goes shallow. She feels like she’s on fire and drowning all the same time.
“Jane,” he says, his voice low. Deep. A rumble more than her name. Even the way he speaks sends a thrill through her.
“Please,” she begs, her throat tight now with anticipation, her body aching.
“I am unfamiliar with the ways of Midgard,” he says quietly, “but do you have a way to protect yourself from my seed?”
Her eyes flash open in shock and dismay. She forgot. Clean forgot about birth control. She’s virtually naked in his lap – except for her socks and bra – and now he asks…? She swallows hard, feeling suddenly like crying. There were all those legends about half-gods and such running around in that book of Erik’s too… so his people have to be close to human. Close enough to make it far too much of a risk…
“No, I-I’m not on the Pill… I mean, no, I can’t… I don’t have…” Any condoms handy either. Not that he’d probably know that word anyway. Or would know how to use one if she had one handy. Damn it! She’s curling her arms over her chest and trying to close her legs then, feels desire start to curdle and fade before the first stirrings of disappointment and humiliation. But his hands are holding her open, firm and determined. She whimpers a little, turning her face away, letting her hair fall forward over her flaming cheeks, feeling stupid and foolish now to be here like this with him. When she can’t even finish what she started...
“Hush, Jane,” he says, his voice low and soothing as he leans close and puts his lips against her temple. Kisses her gently. “Be at ease, we will simply content ourselves with other things this night.”
Then he strokes his thumbs down the crease of her thighs, along the very outside edge of her labia and she cries out in mingled surprise and resurging desire. The hair is wet. His thumbs slide easily along the swollen flesh, over her hair. Down to the bottom of her slit, then back up again, spreading her slightly. Briefly touching slick skin instead of hair with his rough, broad thumbs. She jerks and quivers at the sensation, her thighs shake.
“You must command me to stop, my lady, if anything I do offends you,” he says, his tone serious now. “But there are practices that involve mouths instead…”
She’d laugh if she wasn’t feeling so desperate. “Oh God, yes, oral sex. Yes, do it, do it!” she says breathlessly, letting her head sag back, her hair trailing ticklish down her back. All but gasping the words out as she lets her arms fall away from her chest to grip his knees, his thighs tight again. She can barely stop herself from bucking up against his hands. Wants more. Touch. More of him.
And then he’s lifting her up, his hands sliding under her backside to bring her to him, easily holding her secure. She arches, fights the urge to close her legs, even though she knows it’s useless against his strength and then it’s lips and tongue and the rough brush of his beard against her inner thighs. Then all heat and breath and the scrape of skin and oh god oh god his fingers are spreading her butt cheeks and tracing the crease, up and down. Slick and hot and forbidden. She’s never… but it… nerves don’t have time to grow as oh god he’s teasing at her asshole with a fingertip and to her surprise it makes her quiver harder instead of recoil even as his tongue drives deep into her, deep and firm, his nose brushing against the hood of her clit in a way that makes her cry out and dig her fingernails into his thighs and she’s too high already, she’s too close when she’s not used to being this hot and needy and eager and she cries out again, arching, clamping her thighs on him as something inside her breaks and shatters as he destroys her. Utterly and completely.
He holds her through the shaking, his tongue still inside of her, his breath coming quick and hot against her. Waits for her to go limp, to fill her lungs with deep, gasping breaths, then he does it all again. With fingers too this time. Thumbs spreading her slickness wide to let him delve deeper with his tongue, his mouth. She spreads herself as wide as she can to his touch too. Taking him in as she presses him even closer with urgent hands tangled in his hair. Her calves tremble after a while from the strain of balancing herself against his shoulders. Her thighs ache and clench.
She has no idea exactly when a slick finger pushes inside her anus, but all she feels is the added pressure, the partial filling of the aching emptiness sending her higher again. She wants him inside her now. Begs for him. Tells him that she wants him deep inside her in the kind of words she never thought she’d say, some part of her appalled by her lewdness, the abandon she’s shown him, but the rest meaning every word. So she can’t stop herself. Feels greedy for the long, hard length of him. But he just brings her off two, three, a million times more before he finally relents and lets her sag into his arms, limp and sated and exhausted.
She thinks she was asleep for a little while, cradled in his arms, protected by his warmth. How long she was out she can’t tell, but he’s still hard as iron against her side when she blinks her eyes open again, vaguely embarrassed. She’s not afraid of it now, but he’s left her nothing. No strength. No energy. She curls herself closer against his chest – how is he still wearing a shirt?— and tries not to cry despite the fact that she feels so good. So loose and relaxed as if nothing can ever go wrong again, except for the fact that he’s not done. He’s hard and waiting and if she wasn’t so wrecked she’d feel guilty. But he’s the one who wrecked her in the first place, seeing as she’s only human and he’s some kind of bloody god for christssake…
“Shh, Jane,” he says to her, stroking her hair, then along her face gently with a bent knuckle and she realizes she’s been muttering some of that aloud. “Your pleasure pleases me too.”
“Oh, that’s taking this godly-nobility thing too far,” she says and righteous outrage finally gives her enough strength to worm her way down in his lap, sliding herself back between his spread legs. There are advantages to her small size here. Even though the bed of the truck is hard and cold under her knees and her feet can’t get much purchase on the flooring in her socks to brace herself properly. But he’s trapped by the walls too, and once he recognizes her determination, he gives her enough pressure from his thighs to help hold her in place.
By then her hands have found the tight-stretched buttons of the jeans she gave to him to wear – and that’s an image she definitely wants to savor more later. She pulls each one free, marveling over the ingenuity and sheer genius of button-fly jeans. They practically pop open from the pressure.
She knows the stack of clothes she handed him included underwear of some sort, but he apparently didn’t bother with it. His erection jumps free at once, framed by pale blue denim and a nest of dark gold hair. He sucks in a hiss of breath as she closes her hand around it. It practically throbs in her hand, hot and thick and glorious. And that’s not a word she’s ever thought about a man’s penis before, but it fits his, now, in her uninhibited, sated, slightly delirious state. He’s glorious. With washboard abs and arms thicker than her thighs… and a gentle touch and a nimble mouth…
She looks up at him then, from between his legs, her hand holding him steady beneath her chin as she tries not to think about how few times she’s done this before. Hardly at all, actually. What if she bites him by accident? His eyes are narrowed, watching her, his mouth open slightly, his lips faintly swollen from the work he did on her. She thinks he finally looks like warrior to her now. His gaze gone dangerous and fierce, his body tense as he waits for her. A hand strokes the hair back from her face, gently. And a thumb – still smelling strongly of her oh god – swipes across her cheek, toward her mouth and before she can think or doubt further she closes her eyes, opens her mouth and takes him in.
He’s too much for her, unschooled at this as she is. Hot. Thick. Long. She takes him in as best she can anyway, closing her lips around him, curling her tongue beneath the head and gripping his shaft tight. His hand flexes on her back, the other slides into her hair, holding it back. So he can watch her, she finally realizes, even as she moans softly and tries to take in more of him. But he is big. And hard. And slick and salty and she curls her other hand tight around him beneath her working mouth, trying to touch more of him. He groans, his hips flexing, thighs shifting against her. He doesn’t thrust, but she can tell it’s a near thing.
Then he’s lifting her up, but one of her hands stays on him, buried beneath his own as he takes himself in hand. “Enough, brave lady,” he murmurs, raising her up enough to steal the breath she’s barely caught on a quick gasp with his mouth, his tongue filling her mouth again even as she can feel him stroke himself, tight and sure beneath her belly, stroking her hand over him with each pull too. Using a grip far tighter, harder than she was using. It’s only a few moments before he pulses beneath their combined grip, then, with a last hard upward surge of his hips, he’s splattering semen over her belly and thighs, hot and thick.
He brings his hand up and cups her face and she can feel the new slickness on his fingers, smell him this time instead of her, but his kiss is deep and savage and consuming, distracting her.
But then there’s something else distracting her. A bright light. Shining in the high back windows of the truck. Casting sharp shadows on the roof with its glare, stinging her half-lidded eyes. She pulls away from him with a sudden gasp, sitting up in his lap in shock. She’s naked, she remembers in a rush. And he’s mostly that way. And they’re stopped on the side of the highway in the middle of the desert in the middle of the night…
A radio crackles outside and her heart sinks even further at the sound of boots on gravel approaching the truck.
She tightens her hold on the suddenly wary alleged God of Thunder in her arms and wonders who she should be more worried for; him or the poor State Patrolman just doing his job tonight.