Chapter Text
Pretty Eyes
Coruscant, Level 1313
Rafa’s Oh-So-Fresh Laundromat
*twenty-one hours after the Mount Tantiss liberation*
“Hey! What the kark is this?”
Rafa glares at the two beings wheeling a massive canvas-sided hamper through the front door of the Oh-So-Fresh laundromat.
“Read the sign, numbnuts,” pointing overhead.
No commercial drop-offs without prior estimate and contract.
For emphasis, she taps the line stating, See attendant for pricing.
“Some beings!” she huffs, not quite under her breath.
One of the cloaked figures lifts their hood just enough for her to recognize the wearer.
Hunter. Even more haggard than usual, the skull-like blackwork stark against his ashen skin.
“Please, Rafa,” a murmur from the other being. Rex.
Funny how she’s learned to identify so many clones by voice alone.
“Well, okay.” In a grudging tone. “C’mon back. Let me see what you got.” Motioning them to a room behind the counter, shooting a glance to Eitorek, her assistant. A crease in the Besalisk’s neck wattle constitutes a nod of understanding.
With a grunt the two men get the hamper moving again. Whatever is inside must be heavy, or maybe it’s playacting for the other customers. Which are few enough at the moment: Five Ugnaughts stripped down to their basics and seated in a row, watching as the sonic washer containing their clothes goes through all its cycles. In the far corner, by the UV dryers, a lone G’ambherin plays vigorous air drums, rocking out to a tune in their head.
You see it all in a laundromat.
“We can talk here,” opening the door to the back room. She sweeps for surveillance nodes twice a day.
With the door closed, Rex flips open the lid. Sprawled inside is—Rafa jerks back, heart twisting.
Wrecker.
“Bloody hell! Did you … bring me a corpse?”
The initial charge of shock fades. He’s breathing, shallow but definitely alive. Out of his armor, with face and body slack in unconsciousness, the hulking figure appears so … broken, fragile even. The black and red stuffed tooka doll tucked under his chin heightens the air of vulnerability.
Rex explains, “The Batch’s last mission was … successful, but—.”
“But with hell to pay,” Hunter cuts in, his voice heavy.
“I heard.” A brief message on a comm chip left in the credit drawer of her till. “I’ve already done some, uh, sorting and folding.”
Processing runaway clones and other beings is her main occupation these days.
“So, why’s he here?” Nodding at the hamper.
“The Batch has to split up for the time being. Go different directions, planet hop, confuse the trail. Wrecker is in no shape for that.” Hunter pulls aside the blanket draped across the still form and opens his jacket.
Rafa’s not the squeamish type but she stumbles back a step. The man’s a mass of livid injuries, bacta patches and bruises, areas shining from dermal regeneration. Raw stripes around the wrists indicate that he’s struggled against restraints, a thought that sickens her. A huge gash across the broad chest and shoulder makes her want to turn her face away, but she doesn’t.
“Shouldn’t he be in a bacta tank?”
“Yeah. He should.”
Dumb question. If they could take him to a med center, they wouldn’t be here.
Rex clears his throat and sets a sack of credits (not a large one, she observes) on the table.
“I know it’s a big ask, Rafa, but can you keep him here for a while, just until he heals up some? It seems bad—”
“Oh, y’think?”
“—but he’s got the clone constitution in his favor. He’ll recover quickly.”
Shards. If this is what the big guy looks like now, after nearly a rotation of such marvelous clone healing … Rafa turns her mind from speculation.
“Okay … I guess.” Not wanting to be a pushover—she has a reputation to uphold—but how could she refuse? Not that she would have. Not Wrecker.
The men hoist him to a semi seated position within the hamper, huffing under the unwieldy dead weight.
“Hey, is he going to be able to walk? I can’t—.”
“Yeah, yeah, not a problem. We just doped him up for the journey, in case he got fractious.”
“Great. A commando the size of a kriffing mudhorn who gets fractious. This should be fun.” Grumbling to cover her concern.
Hunter slaps two stims to one side of the massive neck, hesitates, then applies another. Wrecker’s lids begin to twitch slowly opening to the three beings clustered around him.
“Wha’thefek?” Eye moving from face to face, confused but with a muzzy recognition dawning.
“Hey, I know you.” His voice is so raspy that Rafa must lean in to hear. “Pretty eyes.” He lists toward her with a stoned smile and adds, “Nice tatas,” oblivious to the other members of the group.
“Hrumph,” Hunter clears his throat. “Must be the, uh, the morpha. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
Rafa just shrugs. “I’ve had worse things said to me,” although her cheeks grow warm. And her nipples tingle. Silly mynock.
Rex cuts in, “We better get him settled.” He moves a tall rack of laundry supplies which glides silently on well-greased wheels. A press of Rafa’s hand opens a door disguised as a plain wall panel.
She leads the party through a passage too narrow to go three abreast. The men turn Wrecker sideways, one leading, the other supporting from behind, grunts and mutters and stifled exclamations as they stumble along.
A short walk, a few turns, and Rafa palms open another concealed door.
Hunter turns, taking in the details of the hidden room. Mismatched bunks lining the walls, a center table and benches. An attached basic refresher. Over the door, some transient had scrawled the words Fort Defiance. Rafa likes the feeling the tag gives her, pride and resolve, that her efforts have meaning, so she left it.
“Where are we?”
“Behind Trace’s garage,” Rafa replies. “Her place fronts on another byway around the corner from the Oh-So-Fresh. I came across it by accident one day.”
Not the whole truth—she’d been tapping walls, searching for hiding spots in her short career as a smuggler.
“It’s kind of a dead space that doesn’t show on the city plans.”
“Handy,” Hunter addresses Rex, who in turn nods at Rafa.
“This is all her doing. My organization owes her a lot.”
Rafa is proud of what she’s accomplished, using her street smarts and connections to aid the fugitives sent her way. She’s established a network of safe houses, knows where to acquire a forged chain code, can arrange off-the-books employment. The shadowy warrens of Coruscant’s deep levels could have been purpose made for her operation—right under the nose of the Empire.
She can feel Hunter reassessing her.
As the three of them get Wrecker crammed into a lower bunk, comes the question, “How do you two know each other anyway?”
Rex and Rafa freeze momentarily. “A … mutual friend.” A lip curl suggests the sergeant isn’t satisfied, but lets it go.
Ushering them out, she overhears Hunter murmuring, “I told you she had a soft spot for him.” He remembered then, her and Wrecker, from the time on Corellia. Not that there was anything much to it.
And Wrecker remembers too.
~*~*~*~*~
*Previously, on Corellia*
Her blood was up from the thrill of the mission, the race to acquire the target, the firefight at the decom facility—and especially the sudden entrance of the armored giant in a fright helmet who leapt into the fracas, roaring and laying down blaster rounds like … like a legendary monster out of the forbidden levels on Coruscant.
Made a hell of an impression, that one.
Then they were all crowded onto the Silver Angel, hurling recriminations and counter claims at each other, until the kid jumped into the middle, shouting, “Everybody shut the fek up! Now!”
The grumpy clone, the leader, rapped out a warning, “Omega! Language!”
“It worked, didn’t it?” with the impudent grin of a child who knows she won’t be punished.
“Take it easy, Hunter,” from the giant, with a snort. “Who do you think she learned it from?”
All sights were on the kid as she walked up to Trace and held out her hand, saying, “I’m Omega, thank you for saving me back there.”
One by one, the strangers took off their helmets and gave their names. Rafa responded with only partial attention, awareness focused on the man looming at the back of the group. None of the clones were what you’d call petite, but that guy stood a good half head taller than the rest, armored shoulders so broad he had to sidle through the corridors of Trace’s rebuilt freighter.
A whole lotta man.
How many times had his nose been broken? What caused the frightful scaring on the left side of his head? And the milky eye which seemed to have its own level of sight, different from the fierce brown one. His gaze moved around the group, an expression of amused tolerance as they all talked over one another, the higher tones of Trace and the kid mingling with the deeper clone accents.
He caught her studying him.
A current of attraction crackled across the crowded compartment, hitting her solar plexus like a physical blow, an eruption of heat and adrenaline bursting throughout her body.
The good eye winked. A corner of his mouth quirked up, rippling the massive scar, as if they shared a secret.
Maybe they did.
With the others absorbed in the tumble of questions and explanations, Rafa drifted away to the galley, pretending an interest in the caf brewer until she felt his presence behind her, noiseless as a shadow.
“Nice to meet a dame, I mean, a lady, who knows her way around a blaster.”
She turned, looking up. Way up, over the expanse of battered plastoid plates. The barrier only heightened her awareness of the man beneath.
“Since you just met me, I’ll let that ‘lady’ dosh slide. This time.”
They both laughed as if it was genuinely witty.
Rafa motioned him towards the cramped seating area. Set a mug in front of him—not that she was into any of that servile crap—and pushed the sweetener jar his way.
His knees pressed against hers under the tabletop. He made no effort to move them. Neither did she, even though contact with the leg armor was kind of uncomfortable.
Unable to grip through the mug’s handle, Wrecker began working off a glove, loosening each finger with care before peeling it all away. Rafa watched in fascination as the flesh was revealed. Was he doing this on purpose?
There was a thing some beings said, about a correlation between fingers and the size of a man’s junk. She knew it wasn’t true, but once a thought like that got started, it was hard to let it go.
The clones she’d been with in the past, before the galaxy changed, were as alike in that respect as every other—the template being had been nicely endowed. This guy was far from a regulation model though …. Intriguing.
“You’ve got pretty eyes.” He broke the silence.
“So do you.”
A happy guffaw. “Good one!”
“You’re not like the others,” trying to figure him out. “They take themselves so seriously, while you ….” Her voice trailed away, her usually brash nature suddenly unsure how far she could push.
“Yeah, maybe.” He considered the idea. “I guess … it comes from dealin’ with explosives so much.” An ironic twist to the carved lips made her heart flutter.
Actually, it wasn’t her heart. The flutter was a lot lower down.
“Do tell.”
“It could happen any minute. B-BOOOM!” The big hands, one gloved, the other naked, described a detonation in the air.
“And I’d rather go out laughin’ than long faced.” For an instant, his features fell into the dour lines of the sergeant, Hunter.
“So you’re a philosopher as well as a demo expert?”
“Me?” a scoff. “Naw. I’m just a guy who likes to blow stuff up.” Another grin as he sipped his heavily sweetened caf. “Great way to relieve tension.”
A hard man, a weapon of war—but … not a brute. There was a lot more to him than brawn and blaster bolts.
Rafa liked ‘em rough and tough—so long as they knew who was in charge.
Before she could muster a quip in reply, Hunter came in, casting a suspicious stare at her then at Wrecker.
Had he thought she’d jump his brother in the tiny galley, take advantage of the poor wee lad? Or maybe he was just pissy over the telling off she’d given him about not knowing their employer. Self-righteous wanker.
“We’re coming up on the Marauder, time to go.” He stood there, waiting, impatience and disapproval in his stance.
She and Wrecker extricated themselves from the table. He took her hand.
His clasp was warm and dry, vitality spreading up her arm.
“I hope we meet again, Rafa.” The brown eye held the gleam of a man who liked what he saw.
“If you’re lucky,” allowing a spark of promise into her smile.
“I’m a lucky kinda guy.”
Rafa aimed a pointed glance at the scars over his head and face. “How do you reckon that?”
“I still got all my fingers.” He waggled the bare digits suggestively.
Damn. Had he known what she’d been thinking?
A grim throat clearing from the sergeant cut off the exchange.
As the men exited the ship, she overheard Wrecker’s grumble, “Thanks for bustin’ my balls back there.”
“Get over yourself, lover boy.”
~*~*~*~*~
All the next rotation, Wrecker is mired in a sleep of pure exhaustion, groaning awake when she comes in to tend his wounds, chomp down a few ration bars, then out again.
Beyond the energy required to heal the extensive injuries, Rafa suspects the depth of his weariness is the result of months—years—of hardship and over-exertion. Of loss and unresolved grief. Even engineered stamina is bound to have limits.
The second rotation, he’s more alert, greeting her with a cheeky, “Come to have your way with me again?” which thrills her more than it ought to.
He’s in no shape to act on such an innuendo but improving noticeably. The contusions are fading, the blaster burns responding well to the bacta patches, the bone stabilizer over his right-side ribs falls off as its work is done.
The gash across the chest and left shoulder is the worst, deep and jagged, requiring repeated bacta swabs and use of the dermal regenerator. Rebuilding the ravaged tissue layer by layer. It must be awful, but the clone bears it with only an occasional hiss or wince.
“How did this happen?” Both from curiosity and to distract him, wishing her crash course as a field medic had been a bit more thorough.
“Huh. It was … a conflict of goals between me and a wild animal.”
“Goals?”
“Yeah. The barve wanted to kill me an’ I preferred to stay alive.”
“What kind of animal could cause this though?” Through the armor. Against such a man.
“Dunno. I wasn’t exactly motivated to stick around for a better look.”
He even jokes about a near fatal injury.
The wound bisects a tat of the menacing skull art from Wrecker’s helmet. A band reading omega~omega~omega chases around a bicep. A cartoon of the tooka doll decorates the other. The Cavalry Has Arrived! in gothic lettering arcs over his shoulder blades. There’s a detailed image of a huge vibroknife on his right calf. A black 99 is inscribed on the flat of his abdomen, about where his navel would be, if clones had navels.
Black steel barbells curve through his nipples; a light patch of hair is centered on his sternum. Her body grows warm with the impulse to touch, to tug, to lick. Struggling to restrain herself from molding her hands over the vast muscles, from tracing the sinews of his arms, from the urge to map his scars with her lips.
He is her patient. Sort of. Does it make her a perv?
Who the fek cares?
~*~*~*~*~
“You’ve made a conquest,” Eitorek observes. The Besalisk is Rafa’s right hand, or rather, hands, in both the laundry and the escape network, which includes tending the transients when Rafa is busy.
“Conquest?” she replies absently, frowning at the datapad in her hand. A 24-hour laundromat, where beings come and go at all hours, is the perfect front for her real operation, but it is a business in its own right, with its own demands.
“Yup. Your man back there asked where you were and kept watching the door, like you might come in at any minute.”
That gets Rafa’s attention.
“He’s not my man,” she scoffs, as a sudden warmth crackles in the pit of her belly. Is she blushing?
“If you say so. But … he could be. Just sayin’.” With a sly glance, Eitorek adds, “I’d tap that, if I was into human males.”
“Uh huh,” is all the answer Rafa offers, before setting down her ‘pad. “Um, I gotta go check on something.”
She manages to keep her pace casual until she’s out of sight, then scurries to her adjacent quarters for some privacy to rub one out. Again.
~*~*~*~*~
During her visits, she senses him watching her as she moves about the room, when she sits beside him on the bunk. Knows he’s studying her body as well, has similar thoughts running circles in his head.
Her skin is all alight under his regard, her lips fuller, breasts heavy and hypersensitive inside her clothes. Shimmering heat centers in her quim, a constant companion even when she’s elsewhere, attending to her business. The mental map of her life alters; its pinpoint is the drab little room hidden in the walls.
Rafa’s sexual past is extensive and varied; she believes a being should try everything at least once. Curiosity is healthy and why limit your choices? is her motto, pursuing beings of many species and any gender. One night she even hooked up with a pod of Dukaris, all in various stages of their species’ periodic transitioning …. Good times.
There’s just something about a clone, though.
In the old days, she and a gal pal could saunter into any of Coruscant’s numerous clone bars and find as much action as they wanted. The one-nighters suited her just fine: Have her fun and split, before things got complicated … or boring.
For constructs who are all identical physically, when it comes to performance, to actual skill as lovers, the clone soldiers vary as much as any species she’s encountered. Good, adequate, great, clod. There can be a lot of surprises once you get a being naked and in your bed.
Where would Wrecker be on that spectrum?
No. What will he be like?
Just like that, she’s admitted to herself that she is going to seduce him. And soon. The Bad Batch will be claiming him at some point.
Get it on, get off—and get him out of her system before he disappears with his brothers and sister.
Should be easy enough.
~*~*~*~*~
By rotation five, Wrecker is healed enough to be restless. Rafa enters the safe room to find him doing wall push-ups, clad only in his skin-hugging black lowers. She pauses in the doorway to take in the sight. The flex and bulge of his arm and shoulder muscles, the rippling of his back, the solid core. The power and control.
Her interest is not lost on him. Without missing a beat, he switches to a series of burpees. Thighs, arse, calves. Show off.
When the performance is over, he comes to stand before her, burnished with a faint sheen of sweat. The waist band of his blacks has ridden down, permitting a censored view of his happy trail.
An erotic vision.
With a silent curse at her trembling hand, Rafa performs a hasty examination of the chest wound. Feels his gaze on her face as she runs her fingertips over the fresh pink scar. Hears his intake of breath when her touch wanders to the adjacent healthy skin.
Now. The mission is a go.
“Gather your stuff.” A brisk order as she steps back. “You’re getting sprung from this hole.”
In spite of being the safe room’s only occupant, he peers around as if she can’t possibly be addressing him.
“Huh? I’m leaving? Already?” Dismayed at the news. “I dunno,” rotating the left shoulder with an unconvincing grimace. “I might need some more healin’.”
“This space is required for others.” True enough, though she has no idea when it will be.
“I-is Hunter coming for me?”
“Not yet. I’m … moving you to my apartment. You, uh, can have Trace’s room.” Next door to her own; unwilling to commit too much at this moment. What if she’s misread him?
“Where is Trace? I keep meanin’ to ask,” as he packs his kit with spare, efficient movements. Not that he has much, a datapad, his hygiene case, sidearms. The few items of clothing are mostly what she’s provided from the lost-and-found box at the laundromat.
“She’s off on her ship, doing jobs. And ever since she hooked up with Kaeden, that friend of Ahso—of a friend, I hardly see her.”
A sting of jealousy. It used to be the two of them, the Sisters Martez, taking on the risky off-world missions.
“Aw, she’s got a sweetheart. That’s good.” He tucks the tooka doll tenderly into the bag, giving it a little pat.
“Ready.” Standing at attention. Does he have a clue how hot that is?
“We’ll have to share the ‘fresher,” as she leads him along. “And I expect you to pick up after yourself.” A sudden pang of anxiety at letting him into her private space. It’s so … intimate. As a rule, she keeps her escapades separate from real life.
“Yessir, boss!”
Now, what to feed this giant? He consumes the vile looking packaged rations with gusto, but in fairness, she can’t eat a meal of fresh, natural food while he chums on dehydrated veg meat.
Rafa mainly lives off take out from the numerous cook stalls in the district—domesticity isn’t her thing—but buying four portions in place of her usual one would raise questions, not to mention the expense. So, she tosses everything she can think of into a stir-fry, adds some bottled sauce and dumps it on noodles.
She serves up two plates, trying to appear nonchalant. Wearing her favorite tee, a clingy one with a low scoop neck, bending over a bit more than necessary as she sets the dish in front of him. A smirk tells her he knows what she’s doing.
“Hey, this is good!” after an enthusiastic bite. Something no one’s ever said about her cooking, least of all her.
“Mmm,” followed by a noisy slurp to catch a dangling noodle. “Oh. Oops. Pardon me.”
There’s a tiny trail of sauce on his lower lip. Rafa’s hand twitches with the urge to dab it away.
“Naw, it’s okay,” she grins. “That’s the way to eat noodles.” Gives a mighty slurp herself.
They continue the meal as a contest of who can inhale the longest strand of pasta in one breath, can make the most repulsive sounds. Daring each other, laughing, talking dank.
It’s … fun. How long has it been since she had a silly good time?
Back before Mum and Dad were killed. Before she felt as if the weight of the four thousand levels overhead were all on her shoulders while she struggled to protect and support Trace. Before she had to turn hard.
At the finish of the meal, she holds up a hand for a high five, pretending to be bowled over by the slap of his palm on hers. The memory of the contact lingers in her flesh as she clears the table then offers him a beer and a seat on the sofa. The brown eye watches her like that of a curious bird as she sits in the chair to his right. Neither speaks. The atmosphere thickens as the silence lengthens.
Do it! she goads herself and asks, “Do you … like women, Wrecker? Human women?”
The words have to squeeze past the tightness in her throat. Why is she so kriking nervous?
“Sure, I like women.” A chortle. “A lot more’n like.” With an expression of admiration that says, as plain as words, I like you.
Then his face falls. The eye slides away. “But, uh, women don’t always like me.”
“Why ever not?” She truly can’t imagine.
“Cuz I’m so big and strong. And, uh, kinda beat up looking. Guess they’re afraid I’ll … be too rough, hurt ‘em maybe.” A world of unwarranted rejection in the admission.
“Then you must not have met the right kind of woman.” Her anxiety evaporates. She can take this guy—and she is so ready.
“And to be honest, Wrecker, a lot of men don’t like me either.”
“Oh, yeah?” He relaxes, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, into the game of words.
“Yeah. Guess they think I’ll be … trouble.”
“I happen to be good with trouble.” A hint of a growl that crinkles the down her spine.
The desire that’s been simmering in her belly these long days surges up and out, racing through her veins.
Rafa stands and takes the two short steps that separate them. With a foot, she nudges his sprawled legs closer together then sits, straddling his thighs, resting her wrists on either side of the muscled neck.
“You’re mighty sure of yourself.” Challenge and invitation in her eyes.
“It ain’t braggin’ if you can do it.”
Wrecker’s hands, firm and broad, start at her shoulder blades and smooth down her flanks, grazing the sides of her breasts. They cup under her shebs and scoot her forward until only a fingers width separates them. His face fills her vision, the lines and scars she’s studied and caressed with her eyes. Unbidden, her hand rises to trace the marks, the chiseled lips.
Yielding to the magnetism pulsing between them, her arms wrap around his neck, drawing him in … then he’s stealing her breath with kisses and she’s kissing back. Starved, ferocious kisses. Fierce pressure, hoarse gasps, the tangle of tongues and the tick of piercings. A rasping of beard, the clash of teeth, a hint of blood in her mouth. Moans and murmurs.
His lips glide to her throat and down, working along her collar bones. She arches back to allow him access. A brush of his hand bares her shoulder, a finger runs along the lacy edge of her breast band. He dips his head to nibble at the fold of her underarm, mouths her nipple through the sheer fabric of the band. Rafa pulls back against the circle of his arms, wriggling free to stand up.
“C’mon, let’s get more comfortable.” Even though she’s so hot for him she’d be down for parting whatever clothing is necessary and mounting up right there on the sofa. A thought that makes her woozy.
Leading him down the short corridor, she rolls the hem of her t-shirt up and over her head, flinging it off to land on the floor. At the door to her room, she halts at the brush of his fingers on her back, waiting as he deftly unhooks the breast band, guiding the straps down and away to join the shirt.
His hands roam her ribs and down to her belly, grazing under the waistband of her trousers. The combination of rough callouses and exploratory touch raises the fever building beneath her skin. With a muffled exclamation, Rafa molds his palms around her breasts, leaning back against him. Big and solid, with the iron ridge of his cock pressed into her back. She hums as he squeezes and fondles, plucking and pinching at her nipples.
“We gonna do this in the doorway?” with a chuckle as he stoops to kiss her neck.
“You’re distracting me,” she laughs back, anticipation shivering down her spine.
“Oh. Sorry … not.”
Rafa pries herself away and turns to face him. With his hands on her shoulders, he walks her backward into the room, stopping just short of the bed. Kissing, kissing, he peels her trousers down her hips and over her bum, lavishing strokes to her flesh, then steadies her as she steps out of them and kicks the pile of fabric away.
Standing before him naked while he’s still fully clothed makes her quim swell, needy and wet. The knowledge that he could easily overpower her—beyond easily, she’d be helpless if it’s what he wanted—streaks through her, a crackling shiver of arousal.
He removes his clothing with quick, neat moves. The isolated parts of him that she’s seen while tending his wounds didn’t really prepare her for the full view.
He’s magnificent. The only word she can muster. And yet … Rafa’s vision goes beneath the obvious attributes of strength, reflexes, the balanced proportions. It’s the scars, some of which she knows intimately now, that are the measure of the man. Badges of a life of service, of danger and courage, of inner strength, which she finds unexpectedly moving.
What the kark is up with her?
Who needs fekking poetry with so much tempting man flesh mere centimeters away? Eyeing his cock as it jerks subtly in time to his heartbeat.
Well, well. It is beyond the standard issue equipment package, for sure, but no more than she can handle. The lube bottle stands ready on the nightstand.
Unprompted, a finger reaches out to touch his nipple piercing, then Wrecker’s arms wrap around her, pulling her in.
That moment—the first searing instant of full length skin-to-skin contact. The zing of immediacy, of vitality, of want. He tightens the embrace, draws her up on tiptoe
Rafa’s world contracts. Reality is … the wall of hard muscle, warm breath, the scent of clone. His lips hover above hers by a millimeter, potent as any kiss. Struck again by the crazy dichotomy of his eyes—brown lit by desire, the white’s mysterious otherness, that somehow knows her secrets.
She rocks her hips side to side, rolling his hard length between them. Time to get things moving—and establish some boundaries.
Wresting an arm free, she points at the mattress. “On your back, soldier. Prepare for active duty.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The bedframe gives a squawk of protest as he lands. A fleeting hope that it holds together.
“I do love a man who can follow orders.”
Rafa clambers over him, standing on her knees astride his waist. Giving him a smirk full of promises as she slowly, deliberately, runs her hands down her throat and over her body, caressing her breasts, drawing circles around her nipples, his gaze glued to the movements. Wrecker groans and shifts beneath her. From behind, she feels the lift of his pelvis, led by his cock, nudging the back of her leg.
She ignores it, teasing, “Oh, you want some of this?” Stoking up her inner thighs, provocatively dabbling her fingers in the liquid softness coating her folds. A growl is the answer.
“How do you want it?” Lifting a glistening finger and sliding it into her mouth. Then out and in again.
“Get up here,” with a dark grin. His pointed tongue flickers meaningfully and her insides clench.
Dropping to all fours, she begins a sinuous crawl up his body, leaving a trail of nibbles and nips as she travels, angling her head to sweep his skin with the fall of her hair, watching his flesh quiver and contract in response. A wiggle of her tongue over the tiny barbell in his left nipple, a moment to worry at it with her teeth.
“Rafa!” A gasp, an order, a plea.
Kissing his throat, up and up, hovering her breasts over his face. Wrecker presses them together between his palms, planting hot open-mouthed kisses over the gathered flesh before burying his face in the crevice.
“Bbbrrrrrrrr.”
She shrieks a laugh which turns to a moan as he takes a nipple in his mouth and commences a steady, pulling suck. A spear of electric pleasure shoots from the point of contact straight to her clitoris. Her breath speeds up, panting, the other nipple aching for its share of attention. Which it gets, lavishly.
His face is flushed, the brown eye hazed as he disengages. “C’mon, I wanna make you feel good.”
The broad hands encompass her shebs, lifting her like a feather. Taking his time to set her in position, to weave arms and legs. And he’s plainly appreciating the view, eye dancing between her quim and her face, before he settles in with concentration.
For Rafa, queening is always a fun preamble, but she’s rarely able to climax like this. Too precarious, diverting her attention with balancing, to not smothering her partner, wondering how much weight—.
“I love this,” interrupting her doubts.
He does, she can tell. Gently rotating her hips to give himself better access, he seeks out her pleasure with a thorough exploration of each ripple and fold, flicking and circling her clit with his tongue. Firm lips fastening over the sensitive bud, sucking, giving an experimental graze of his teeth. Considering her reactions to every move, repeating, switching. Driving her mad.
With Wrecker’s steady grip splayed across her hips, her thighs fenced in by his solid arms, her head resting against the wall, she can … can …
… let go into the sensations. Consciousness funneling to his mouth, her quim, the connection flowing between them. Absorbing the rumbling hum of satisfaction he makes …
… the simmering heat in her belly rises, coalesces to form a swirling column of dark gold light … tightening, tightening …
… arching her back, forcing a cry as the column bursts, rays of heat shooting through her, popping under her skin.
Thankful again for his support, sagging in his embrace and against the wall as her heartrate slows, her breath evens.
On shaky legs, she creeps back the way she came, halting when her face is level with Wrecker’s. He’s grinning, very pleased with himself, as well he might, ostentatiously swiping a hand over his shining cheeks. She closes in for a kiss, rich with her scent and flavor, her joy.
“Your turn,” she almost sings. Her tongue stirs inside her mouth, anticipating, hungering for the taste of him.
Rafa sits up, groping for a pillow to place under his head.
“You’re going to want to see what I do to you.” He’s not the only one who enjoys going down.
Beginning the return journey down his body, another stop at the intriguing little barbells in his nipples, giving in to the temptation to thread her fingers through his chest hairs and tug.
Getting comfortable between his legs, wrapping her fingers around the hot, rock solid shaft, noting the throb of his pulse as she presses it to her cheek. She rolls her eyes up to his, the way men always like, a smile playing on her lips before she takes a long, flat lick from base to tip, with a swirl over the head. Repeat, repeat. The bead in her tongue clicks as it roams across and over his frenum piercing, coaxing a whole-body twitch from him. It pleases her, so she does it again.
A glance up to see a pained furrow forming between his brows, the straining cords of his neck, the rising tautness. From the corner of her eye, watching his hand knotting the coverlet. The other hand strokes her hair.
Her lids flutter shut as she leans into the task. The wet sounds as her saliva flows, nibbling at the little ridge of the retracted foreskin, the musky-salty mawkish taste of spunk. The scent she’ll never think of as clone again, only as … Wrecker.
A tap to her cheek. “Stop. Please.”
She complies—in her own time—applying a steady suction with lips firmly molding around him as she withdraws her mouth.
“Gimme a minute. Whew.” His face is flushed, the one pupil dilated. A few measured breaths to down regulate. He reaches for her.
“Rafa, if you’re ready, I wanna … be inside you.”
No arguments from her. With his words, an empty ache starts spinning in her quim—only one way to deal with that.
“How do you want me?” he asks.
“I like the way you think.”
Head cocked to the side, she pretends to consider, drawing the moment out.
“Sit up, back against the wall,” assisting by tucking the pillow behind him. Once again astride him on her knees, she grabs the lube bottle. They both look down as she applies a dollop to his cockhead and uses him like a paint brush to coat herself.
A deep breath in, slowly out, willing her vaginal muscles to relax, she positions him and begins the downward journey, glad to be in control. Rise up, sink down—again, again—progressing by increments, walls spreading wide, rejoicing in the stretch, the fullness, welcoming the advance. Wrecker has aroused her so thoroughly that she can accommodate him more readily than she’d thought.
A grunt from him, a murmur from her as he is completely seated within her. So close. Running her hands over the broad expanse of chest, glossed by sweat. His arms enfold her, her head tilts back to receive his kiss, nerve endings firing wildly over and throughout her.
Releasing his lips, she begins … rocking and rotating her hips, tantalizing them both. Angling forward to rub her pelvis along his for friction, led by the stretch and pull of her tender flesh, his hips rising to meet her. Her body demanding an increase of momentum, the pressure inside—.
She squeaks with frustration when the embrace tightens, immobilizing her.
“What are you doing? I’m so close—.’
“Use your hand. Like you did at the start.” There’s an edge to his voice, an urgency that thrills. “I want to see.”
One hand on his shoulder, her forehead against his, they both watch as her other hand glides into position. With fingers forked, she strokes his cock where it joins with her, eases her body all the way down his length, feeling the full press of his erection in the pit of her belly. Then the rhythm of her hand, the pattern, what her body needs, takes over.
She can feel rather than see the brown eye following her movements; being watched so intently adds a sharpness to the joy. Heartrate increasing, nipples tightening, heat flushing her throat, she’s-she’s at the precipice—
“Oh, ye-ah,” he breathes. “Oh, fek yeah!”
—and she’s over, sobbing as the ecstasy seizes her, wringing her whole being from the inside out ….
Before she knows it, she’s on her back, surprised by the easy swiftness from such a large being.
So much man. Bone, muscle, skin, overwhelming, saturating her senses, exhilarating her, more aware than ever of his size and strength.
She loves it.
The creaking of the bed, the sheets slipping and bunching beneath her. A maddened, all-absorbing gallop as they pound together. Cries and gasps. The slap of flesh against flesh.
Wrecker is holding back, barely, she can tell. More. She must have more of him and from him. Her legs wrap around his waist, her thrusts rise to meet his, smacking his back with her fist, wanting faster, deeper.
His control begins to crumble, his movements in and out are wilder, rougher. Rafa is caught in the vortex of sensation, whirling her to another climax, her fingers digging into his flesh.
His body goes rigid and still. A broken cry. She clasps him closer still. A couple of abbreviated thrusts, then the pulsing of his release deep within her, the gasping huffs in her ear. A soaring in her heart.
Clinging to one another, skin to skin, sealed with perspiration, her brow against his collar bone, hearts slowing gradually. The mutual sigh as their bodies slacken and fall away from one another. Wrecker flops onto his back beside her.
“Whoa!” followed by hoarse version of his happy har-har laugh. “You’re too much, lady!” He rolls to his side, head propped on his hand. His grin prompts an answering smile from her. She follows the outline of the skull tat with a fingertip.
“Haven’t you figured it out yet that I am no lady?”
Wrecker never does spend a night in Trace’s room.
~*~*~*~*~
More smexy, and serious, action to come! Chapter 2, Bright, will post soon.