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“John, you’re insatiable!” you laugh as strong arms lock around your front and draw you back against him. A firm bulge presses against your backside roll your eyes. “The two times we went this morning not good enough for you?”
“Ain’t my fault you get me so damn worked up,” John mumbles, his hands roaming over your belly as he props his chin on your shoulder. “You been teasin’ me all day, missy.”
“You’re imagining things,” you say, glad he can’t see your smirk.
“You know exactly what you’re doin’,” he says knowingly, flexing his fingers on your hips. “Givin’ me those naughty eyes.”
“Was I?” you say airly, feigning innocence. Despite the heat, you shiver as a low growl rumbles against your ear.
“Just beggin’ me to come after you.”
“I came down here to wash up, John,” you say, covering his hands with your own. They’re broad, calloused and perpetually stained with something that might be oil or just plain dirt. They might be your favourite thing about him. “Doing chores all afternoon in this heat has me all sweaty.”
“I know,” John buries his nose in the nape of your neck and licks away a bead of sweat, dragging his tongue up in a wet stripe to your jaw. “I love it.”
You squirm in his hold and giggle as a thrill lances up your spine. “Control yourself, silly man.”
“C’mon,” he says, his hand pressing against your belly, pushing you back against his burgeoning arousal. As if it hadn’t already made itself insistently known, prodding against your ass as it was. “Let me get you real dirty then you can wash off.”
You’re tempted. More than tempted. Any moment not getting intimate with John Marston is a moment wasted in your eyes. But you’re all too aware of the sheen of sweat covering your body and the fact you probably reek after a day labouring over the washboard. Not that John would mind at all (he’d probably enjoy it even more, strange fellow that he is). Regardless, the man has the stamina of a jackrabbit and you take perhaps a little too much delight in delaying his gratification a smidgen.
He gets so deliciously worked up.
“S’too hot, John,” you heave a put-upon sigh, laying it on thick. It’s only partly a lie. It’s a sweltering day at Clemens Point, even by Lemoyne’s standards. The summer sun bakes the red earth of the secluded lakeside clearing you had secreted away to, very much counting on the safe bet that John would trail after you.
“I want to go for a dip.”
His teeth nip at the shell of your ear. “You’re a cruel woman.”
You turn around and loop your arms round his neck. “Join me,” you say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his downturned mouth.
He huffs. “Swimmin’ ain’t exactly my thing.”
While John would never openly admit he’s scared of deep water, you’ve been with him long enough to know that his aversion to it is not without reason. You don’t tease him about it, not like some of the others at camp. But you have on occasion tried to gently coax him into some shallow waters, always careful not to push him into doing anything he doesn’t want to do.
“Not swimming,” you say softly. “Just wading out a bit for a wash.”
John gets the most adorable little wrinkles on his nose when he frowns. You’d never draw his attention to it however, lest he become self-conscious of it and stop.
“I already washed the other day,” he says, not at all petulantly.
You bite your lip against a giggle at his expense and decide to spare him (another) lecture on the merits of adopting a regular schedule of maintaining one’s personal hygiene. Instead, you push a lock of hair back from his brow and kiss the tip of his bunched-up nose.
“Alright, handsome. I’ll be quick about it.” You pat him on the cheek lightly and turn to pick up the soap and you’d brought along, but a firm grasp around your wrist pulls you back against his chest.
“Can I stay and watch?” he asks, eyes wide and hopeful.
You regard him quizzically with a tilt of the head. “Watch me bathe?”
He nods eagerly and this time you cannot help but laugh.
“You’re an odd duck, John Martson,” you laugh, stroking your thumb over the scar on his lip. He leans into your touch and snakes his arms around your waist again, his hands coming to rest upon your ass.
“Oh, you have no idea, little lady.” He gives you a firm squeeze and you hesitate for just a moment before you extricate yourself from his hold.
“You can stick around only if you behave yourself,” you grin, stepping out of his reach.
“Well now…” he says, matching your steps backward. “I seem to recall a pretty lady once tellin’ me never to make a promise I couldn’t possibly keep.”
“Alas, he does listen.”
“More than you give me credit for.”
“Then listen to this,” you say, holding up a finger causing him to stop in his tracks. “You stay there like a good boy and let me wash up in peace. If you can behave, then maybe you’ll get a nice reward when I’m done.”
A crease appears in his brow and his nose bunches up again as he considers his options. You can almost see the cost-benefit analysis playing out in his narrowed eyes.
“Fine,” he grunts eventually, sitting down on the rocky shore with a sigh.
“What was that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, mouth twitching into a grin despite his attempt at sulking. “I’ll behave.”
“’Atta boy.”
He scoffs, as if he doesn’t adore receiving your praise. “You want me to sit on my hands too?”
“If that’s what it takes.” His self-satisfied grin begins to falter when you shed off your blouse and push down your skirt, leaving you in just your undergarments.
You absently hum a little melody to yourself as you step out of your skirt and busy yourself with untying the laces on your bodice. John splays his fingers out in the pebbles around him, his rapt attention fixed upon you.
“You, uh..” he swallows. “You need some help there?”
“I’m fine,” you say mildly, shucking off your underthings without ceremony. You stand before him naked as the day you were born. The sun beats down on your exposed skin. “Throw me that soap there, will you?”
John stares at you blankly, his eyes round and wide as saucers and his lips parted. After a few moments you clear your throat and he starts with a blink. “Oh—uh, sure,” he says, fumbling around himself for the elusive bar of soap. When he manages to tear his eyes off you for a beat, he finds it and throws it to you underhand. You catch it and start to walk backwards towards the water.
“You sure you don’t care to join me?” you ask, the water lapping at your toes.
John looks conflicted for a moment, like he might just throw caution to the wind and bound into the water after you. He chews on his lip then eventually shakes his head. “Nope,” he says. “Reckon I’ll hold out for that reward you so kindly promised.”
“Suit yourself,” you shrug before turning around to wade further out into the lake.
The water is cool as it laps against your clammy skin. You wade out further until you’re treading the water, then you dive underneath for a moment, relishing the coldness washing over you. Still clutching the soap, you swim a few yards out at a leisurely pace before circling back towards the shore until your toes touch the lakebed again.
You can see from the corner of your eye John is still sitting there as you wade back enough so the water reaches just below your navel. Not sparing him a glance, you sweep your hair back off your face and start working up a soapy lather between your hands before performing your ablutions.
You’re slow with it, dragging the soap bar in circular motions up your arms over your shoulder, inching closer to your breasts. John shifts on the shoreline and with a smirk to yourself you turn around so your back is facing him. You hear an exasperated groan behind you.
“Aw, c’mon!”
You give him a doe-eyed look over your shoulder. “What is it, darling?”
“You said I could watch,” John grumbles and it’s almost comical the way he’s sitting. This imposing, scarred-up gunslinger with his legs splayed out in front of him and his shoulders hunched over. His ass probably getting a might damp from where’s he’s sitting on the grimy pebbles, pouting like a sullen teen. With effort, you manage to keep a smirk from spreading across your face.
“Well, you’re watching me right now, aren’t you?” you say mildly.
“You’re hiding from me.”
“Maybe I’m shy.” You shrug, rinsing the suds off your arms.
He snorts. “Yeah, and I’m Her Royal Highness Queen Vic.”
You consider him with a raised eyebrow. “Is this you behaving, John Marston?”
He mouth draws into a tight line. “No..” he says sheepishly. “M’sorry.”
Maybe it’s John’s downtrodden expression, or maybe you’ve just gone entirely soft, because you take pity on the fool of a man sooner than you would like. At least he has the sense to look a little contrite.
With a grin you turn around and run the soap over the base of your neck. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” you say, tilting your head back as you work up a lather. “I know you only get like that because you want me so bad.”
“Uh huh,” he nods and from the strain in his voice it sounds like he just gulped. “I do. So bad.”
Humming with approval you run the soap down your body and begin massaging it over your breasts. “I just get so dirty, John.” you hiss as you rub over your stiffening nipples, sensitive as they are in the cool open breeze. “Sometimes I feel like I’ll never be clean.”
“O-oh.” John says.
He’s not known for being articulate at the best of times, but when the blood starts to drain from his head down to his cock, well… you’re lucky if you can coax half a coherent sentence out of him.
That’s how you know you’ve got him. Hook, line and sinker. That, coupled with the fact his hand is slowly drifting towards his groin, seemingly of its own accord. You allow it, occupying yourself instead with massaging your tits, slowly working the soap over your tender flesh.
Closing your eyes, you become acutely aware of the sensations around you. The sun beating down on your shoulders, the gentle breeze whipping through your hair, the cool waves splashing over the small of your back. You imagine it’s John’s hands roaming over you. Those strong, rough hands caressing you. His deft fingers plucking at your sensitive nipples. Your breath catches in your throat and a moan spills from your lips unbidden.
“John..” you breathe softly and the breeze must carry the sound over to him because you hear him make a noise that sounds more than a little distressed.
“Fuck…” he growls and you prize your eyes open long enough to see that he has buttons undone and his hand down the front of his jeans. The sight of him pleasuring himself thrills you and you drop the soap, heedless as it sinks away so you can dip your hands beneath the water and slip your fingers through your curls.
“Goddamn…” John’s eyes search for what he cannot see beneath the surface and when you breathe a sigh of bliss, he pushes himself up onto his knees and shuffles closer to the water’s edge.
The water is cool, but there is heat between your legs. Heat and a slickness different to the water surrounding you. You slide your fingers through your folds and begin massaging your clit, closing your eyes as a jolt of pleasure surges from your core right through you to the soles of your feet.
It’s too easy to imagine his hands upon you. When you slip your fingers inside yourself, you pretend they are his, and it is his tongue, not your fingers, which circle your clit in slow rhythmic motions.
“Oh, John…” you breathe, rolling your head back as simmering tension coils deep within you. “John, baby. I need you.”
“Oh, fuck this,” John says and he sounds angry. So much so, that when you open your eyes, you half-expect to see him storming off in a strop. To your pleasant surprise, he’s divesting himself of his clothing in a great hurry and most ungracefully.
His gun belt, which he normally treats with reverence that borders on insanity, is cast aside atop his crumpled shirt. He hops on one foot to pull off a boot and kicks the other off into the air, where it lands perilously close to the water. He then pushes down his jeans and drawers together and without hesitation stomps into the water stark naked, determination and a dark sort of promise written on his features.
“John,” you laugh, momentarily stunned by the display. “What’re you—”
“C’mere, trouble,” he growls and grabs you by the shoulders to draw you in for a bruising kiss. The heat of his body envelops you and you moan into his mouth when your nipples brush against the broad expanse of his chest.
His arms wind around your waist as his tongue slides into your mouth and you curl your fingers into his hair, balancing yourself on the tip of your toes on sandy lakebed below as you slowly walk backwards. John’s too occupied with plundering your mouth and sweeping his hands across your body to notice you’ve waded out far enough that the water is now over halfway up his torso. He’s submerged deeper than you’ve ever seen him before and a rush of pride swells in your chest.
“John,” you murmur against his mouth and when he chases your lips with his own you splay your fingers out between his pecs to lightly push him away. When he draws back his eyes are hazy and dark with lust. “John look.”
He blinks back into focus and seems to take stock of his surroundings for the first time. When he cranes his head around and sees how far away the shoreline is, you feel his hands reflexively twitch on your hips. “Uh—"
“You’re fine. You’re safe,” you reassure him gently. “Look at me. You did it, John.” Your fingers alight on his jaw and tilt his face back to meet your gaze. You smile and trace the jagged scar than runs along his jaw with your thumb. “My brave boy.”
His features relax and the concern in his eyes give way to something softer, something more like love. “I didn’t stay and watch like I was told,” he says, grasping the hand cradling his face and pressing a kiss to your fingers. “Does this mean I forfeit my reward?”
He smiles that crooked half-grin of his that crinkles the corners of his eyes and you find yourself once again overwhelmed by the depth of love you feel for this ridiculous man.
“Oh no, handsome,” you say fondly, looping your arms around his neck. “You behaved exactly as I expected you to.”
Carefully, you hoist yourself up and circle your legs around his hips, his hands grasping your buttocks beneath the water. Taking his face in your hands, you grind against stiff cock. A ragged groan spills from his mouth as it slides between the heat of your folds and you kiss him to swallow the sound before drawing back with a languid smile.
“For that, you most definitely deserve a reward.”