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Whisper only reaches out to him in the deepest part of the night, when her half-dreaming, half-awakened mind takes possession of her real world body. Deacon thinks she’s a ghost at times, except ghosts don’t touch a person like she touches him. Sometimes she asks nicely, other times she doesn’t ask at all. It doesn’t matter. For her, the answer is always yes.
This time, she props herself up on one elbow and slowly reaches a hand out to touch his chest. She simply lets her hand rest over his heart, comforting herself with the steady, sure beat. Whisper knows he carries her in there, just as she does him. Certain things don’t need to be said; but then again, they’ve been partners long enough to know what the other is thinking.
Perhaps they are both afraid of what will happen if these particular words are said. For now, they are content with what they are: together. Everything they can’t allow themselves to feel and think and say during the day will wait and build up for these rare nights together.
Deacon can’t see her eyes in the inky darkness, only the shadowed hollow of her cheek and the curve of her deep bottom lip where they’re bisected by a thin slice of moonlight. Sleepily, he lifts his arm up, inviting Whisper to press herself against his side. She does so immediately, tucking her head into the hollow of his shoulder and sliding the hand on his chest protectively around his sleep warmed ribcage. He had a close call with a raider that afternoon… He wraps both arms around her when he feels her shudder and pulls her even closer. Her hair smells like the soap she washed with earlier that evening.
They lay entwined like that for some time, feeling their breathing and heartbeats gradually synchronizing. Inevitably, the contact is just not enough. Whisper breaks first this time, shifting against him. She slides one of her long legs between his restlessly. Deacon can hear her breathing quicken and if he listens hard enough, he imagines he can almost hear the pulse accelerating in her throat. Her need for him is suddenly tangible and acute.
Whisper smoothes her hand up his chest, slowly stroking her fingers between each of his ribs and kneading the planes of overlying muscle. The cloth of his t-shirt is an annoying barrier between her touch and his bare skin, but for now, she’ll let it be. There are other parts of him she wants to explore this night. As she lingers for a long moment near his fourth rib, he inhales with a soft hiss. Whisper smiles into his shoulder, the sort of satisfied smile that he would call feline had he been able to see it. She’s memorized exactly where to touch to make him wild. There’ll be plenty more of that to follow.
Her hands continue their meandering way across, up, over his torso. The tiny flick of a fingernail here, a soothing caress there, little nibbles interspersed in between. Deacon tilts his head to allow her access to the sensitive skin of his throat, which she takes full, immediate advantage of. The first thing he feels is the cool silky slide of her hair tickling his neck, making him catch his breath quickly once again in anticipation. Then… a puff of warm breath and the barest tip of her tongue resting against his carotid artery. Whisper hmms in delight as she feels his pulse ratchet up another notch.
His hand moves on its own volition up her back and across her shoulders. Playfully, she chides him, “Nope. Hands to yourself.” He feels her words wash over his skin when she speaks. He can afford patience, however reluctant it may be – at some point he knows she’ll be pleading for him to touch her “yes, THERE.” Hell, he’ll be doing the same thing. She sometimes does things to him with her mouth that make him beg shamelessly.
Whisper resumes with his neck, leading off with a slow lick over his pulse point. A soft bite where his neck joins the shoulder. Gentle butterfly kisses in a row back up his jaw, then a teasing scrape of teeth over the slight indentation on his chin. His unshaven face is like sandpaper under her lips and tongue. She shifts back onto her elbow and cups his cheek in her palm tenderly, tracing his cheekbone with her thumb. This man is HERS.
Now it’s Deacon’s turn to shift restlessly; it’s been too long since they last touched like this. He’s already hard and aching for her. Whisper’s sleep tousled curls tickle his face as she slowly dips her head to press her soft lips against his. He feels her sigh contentedly against his mouth; she loves kissing more than anyone he’s ever met in his life. Ever. Unhurriedly, she starts to drop chaste kisses on his face and mouth, eyes, forehead, wherever she pleases. With iron control, he patiently allows her to take her time, allows the pleasure to build for both of them. It’ll be well worth it in the end.
This time when Deacon slides his hand up her back and starts playing with her hair, she is too intent on kissing underneath the other side of his jaw to notice. This woman, when she was focused on something… He has zero complaints though, negative zero, absolute zero. His hand slips underneath the timeworn fabric of her loose t-shirt to smooth over her bare skin, trailing up and down her spine, circling each bump of vertebrae he finds. He feels goosebumps form in a wake under his hand as he skims lower down her back and over the beautiful curve of her ass.
She’s had enough of this self-discipline business, however. Whisper nibbles and sucks on his lower lip coaxingly, humming into his mouth as he yields and lets her in. Deacon pulls her flush against him and glides his tongue against hers, swirling and stroking, hot and slow and lush. Just the way she needs it, and God, does she need it. Briefly, she wonders if she could eventually come just from the feel of his mouth on hers. Right. As if either of them could even last that long without combusting. Whisper knots her hands in the fabric of his t-shirt convulsively and tugs, hard. It’s gotta go. Now.
She maneuvers herself on top of him, reluctantly disengaging her mouth from his, and slips her fingers underneath the hem of his t-shirt. Whisper stops for a moment to savor the feel of the hard ridge of his erection beneath her, sighing as he rotates against her lazily. Inch by assiduous inch she works his shirt up over his stomach and chest. Exploring fingers tickle his flat belly and pause here and there along his sides, making him twitch. Deacon is ticklish with a capital T, something she’s totally not adverse to exploiting.
“Up,” she orders. He doesn’t move fast enough to suit her so she tickles his ribs until he squirms.
Deacon captures her wrists in his hands and complains, “You are incredibly bossy, you know that?” He feels obligated to give her at least a little shit. Not too much, though. Whisper might get huffy and call this seduction of hers off. Definitely can’t have that.
She intones in a fruity deep voice, “Hear and obey, slave.” Unfortunately for her, the muffled laugh at the end ruined the effect she was going for. Better luck next time.
“Slave? Slave. Huh.” Obediently he curls his shoulders off the mattress so she can tug his shirt over his head. Hers quickly and shamelessly follows suit, only to land in his face. Ok, so he deserved that.
She planned on touching and teasing him more but... With a suddenness that makes her squeak out his name in surprise, he deftly flips her onto her back. His turn to explore, to caress, to make her utter the sexy little whimpers he so loved to hear. The chilly pre-dawn air makes her shiver against him. Or maybe it’s from the feel of his hot bare skin pressed against her side?
“My turn now. Whatever shall I do with you?” her murmurs against her shoulder just before biting it. It’s an unnecessary rhetorical question. Deacon knows exactly what he’s about when it comes to this woman. He knows what makes her hum, plead, moan out his name. Also smile, roll her eyes, and laugh. And, last but not least, chuck something at his head in irritation. Can’t win ‘em all, but he’d die trying.
He traces a lazy finger over her cheek, down the contour of her throat, dipping into the depression of her collarbone. Whisper’s breath catches in her throat as that same finger continues along the velvety contours of her breast in increasingly smaller circles until he finds one taut peak. There is another to attend to, so he does, alternating between them until she... Yeah, there’s the first whimper. And another for good measure.
Deacon knows he can coax more sounds out of her, many more. For someone who doesn’t have very much to say at other times, she’s very vocal when it counts, his Whisper. And right now? This counts. His mouth follows the same path his finger just took, ending with a slow, hard suck of her nipple that makes her croon and dig her fingernails into his arms. Whisper is so responsive to his touch; he likes to – needs to – think nobody else could make her come apart like this. Not that he would let anybody else near her.
Deacon feels her yield herself to him completely, molding her body pliantly against his, urging him on with hands and tiny murmurs of pleasure. Whisper twitches against him as he draws her deeper into his mouth, biting ever so gently, making her moan low in her throat. The rock solid control she normally has is starting to slip, disappearing little by little in the jerky movements she makes against him. It’s Deacon’s turn to grin in the darkness. She’s mine. My Wanderer.
Whisper feels a hand on her belly, then two as Deacon works the button of her jeans, hooking fingers under the waistband and tugging gently when it releases. “Lift your hips, sweetheart,” he murmurs unnecessarily. She’s already doing so, urging him on with a breathless, “Hurry.” She hears the rasp of his zipper and the sound of his own pair hitting the floor. Deacon resettles next to her and lightly splays one hand on her belly, rubbing his thumb around her navel in small circles.
Whisper twines her arms around his neck and guides him back down to her mouth. She arches her back to press her bared breasts deliciously against his warm chest, shuddering at the feeling. She’s kissing him with all she has now, ardent and demanding. She can feel him pressed hot and hard against her hip; her need for him is intoxicating. His chest vibrates as he chuckles at her urgency, which turns into an outright laugh when she growls and snaps her teeth at him playfully.
Whisper’s head is swimming and she’s trembling; she needs to try to regain some semblance of control. She’s burning up too fast, too hot. She presses her damp palms against his bare chest and blows her breath out with a whoosh. God knows she will be losing all control soon, every last speck of it. Deacon would see to that.
But … he is just not willing to let her regain her composure. Nope, no way. He has her just where he wants. Two fingers stroke down her belly, tangling for a moment in her curls before gliding down to delicately explore further, making her cant her head back and abandon any attempts to slow things down. She’s slick and swollen and so ready for him. He knows she was already wet for him from the first moment she rolled over to lay her hand on his chest. Whisper was like that – all or nothing. “Baby, you’re ready for liftoff, aren’t you?” he murmurs appreciatively. All she can do is hum low in her throat – she’s too far gone for any decent conversation.
Well, then. Only one thing to do. Deacon nudges her knees apart and hovers a scant millimeter above her, guiding himself to her with one hand. Right at the crucial moment, he hesitates. He does each and every time, still incredulous that this exquisite woman desires him. Lets him do this to her. He doesn’t deserve her.
Whisper feels him pause and brushes her knuckles across his cheek in encouragement. Silly man. “What on earth are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?” she asks archly, rich amusement evident in her voice.
Sarcasm. At a time like this. Deacon works just the tip of himself into the hot, slick tightness of her, then sinks fully inside with one firm shove, knowing she’s more than ready for him. And she is. She gasps at the unexpected thoroughness of the invasion and her muscles clench around him sleekly, working to accommodate him. Whisper screws her eyes shut and pants against his throat at the incredible feeling of fullness. He worries for a split second that his entrance was too rough until she rolls her hips underneath him. More. Now.
Deacon knows it won’t take long for her to have her first orgasm, he can feel it in the way she responds to him. The little quivers in her thigh muscles, the fingers digging into his shoulder blades just a little too painfully, the way she clamps her legs around his hips. He’s right. With the first two full, heavy thrusts Whisper is jerking beneath him, by the fifth he can feel her inner muscles starting to ripple, and by the eighth she is convulsing around him, hands clutching at his shoulders, scrabbling at the headboard, the blanket, anything she can hold onto. Deacon keeps moving within her, nine through twelve send her flying higher and higher until she bucks helplessly and cries out his name, a low guttural sound that makes him groan in response.
Breathless, spent, she collapses limply back onto the bed. Deacon captures her mouth in a hard kiss; the room is now barely light enough with the approaching dawn to see him grinning down at her when she can finally open her eyes without her vision swimming. She can’t help but chuckle at the smug, pleased look on his face. “That was adequate, I suppose,” Whisper teases.
“Hmm, I think you have at least another one in you. Let me see if I can improve,” he drawls. So very cocky. So very Deacon.
“Nope. My turn.” She shoves him playfully until he rolls over, taking her neatly with. She makes a pleased sound in her throat when the maneuver is completed without him leaving her. She shifts slightly to reseat herself, sighing and closing her eyes as he slides even deeper than before.
He’s deep, God, so deep. Whisper can feel him pressing against her core. Swallowing hard, she braces one hand on his chest and starts moving on him slowly. She finds a measured cadence that causes both of them to moan, then slides her hands caressingly up over her belly and breasts as she rides him. Whisper knows he likes to watch her touch herself. It’s wicked and decadent and he’ll add his own hands … yeah, there they are.
God, she’s so beautiful. Deacon lets her fuck him, just watching the fascinating play of emotions across her face as she surges up and down. Her breathing is starting to hitch as she kneads herself with his large hands guiding hers. He withdraws one hand, placing the pad of his thumb just there, drawing some of her wetness out to rub against her. Whisper gasps and almost falls over at the unexpected touch. Her eyes fly open and Deacon groans and jerks involuntarily at the wild, unfocused look in her eyes. Oh yeah, she’s close. So is he. Ain’t nothing gonna stop them now. Mutie, raider attack, nuke – they’ll just have to wait until they finish.
Roughly, he pulls Whisper down on top of him and grips her hips in his hands. Instinctively she curves her back slightly, bracing herself against the mattress. Deacon shifts his hips to adjust his angle and starts thrusting into her, fast and hard and scorchingly carnal, grinning fiercely at the sensual “yesss” that hisses out of her. Fuck, she feels so good.
Whisper is as supple and agile as a reed – she gives back as good as she gets, clinging to him and slamming herself down on him with each stroke, head thrown back in bliss. Her fingernails dig deeply into the mattress as her mind goes white hot with pure pleasure. She starts keening, low and frantic, in the back of her throat with every intense stroke. Oh my God, oh mygodohmygod.
He’s saying something to her that she doesn’t comprehend. No. Why is he stopping? Whisper struggles to keep going but Deacon just won’t let her move. He’s holding onto her hips so tightly it hurts. She whimpers incoherently and looks down at him, dazed. “Deacon, no, don’t – “
“Say my name.”
“Deacon. Please,” she pleads What …?
“Say my name,” he urges again, fiercely.
Yes, of course… Frantically she begs him, “John, please– ”
That’s all it takes for him, he’s done. The instant he relaxes his grip she takes off again, slowly and deliberately rising up only to plunge back down on him, over and over. Her movements are disjointed and lacking in rhythm; the pleasure is too keen and too close to be anything but. Fuck, he’s so hard…
This time it flows over her like hot honey, slow and stinging and sweet. Whisper doesn’t realize she’s chanting his name, his real name, as she comes for him, but he’s aware of every breathless, broken syllable; they sink deeply into the marrow of his bones.
His clever, cool, formidable Whisper is shuddering and writhing on him helplessly; Deacon can feel his own orgasm rising in response to the way her body is pulsing around him, the pure pleasure on her face as she rides out the last of hers against him. He tugs her down to pin her tightly against his chest as he buries himself in her and comes, harder than he can ever remember, spending himself deep inside her until he can’t tell where he ends and she begins.
For a long heavenly moment, Whisper lays limply on him, rocking her hips gently and enjoying the fading aftershocks. She finally lifts her head from the damp crook of his neck and smiles radiantly down at him; the weak early morning sunlight gilds her face. Deacon gently tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. Damn it, I love this woman. He’d gladly wait another two centuries for her if he had to.
Soon – too soon – they’ll both tuck this back down inside themselves. But for now, she is his and he is hers and that’s all that matters. Once again their breath and heartbeats sync back up, beating the same unspoken rhythm … I love you, I love you.
Whisper runs a finger over one of his auburn eyebrows and studies his face. Deacon is always so relaxed and open after. She loves seeing him like this, no lies, no deflecting, no deliberate evasion. Just him, the real him. John. His cool blue eyes catch hers and he quirks an eyebrow at her. What’s next?
She reaches across him to the barrel serving as a nightstand, snags the earpiece of his Ray-Bans, and slides them on her own face. He’ll have to fight her to get them back. Deacon grins in anticipation. Challenge accepted.