Outside, the wind screams, snow piles, the house around them creaks with it. Wynonna knows they started at opposite ends of the small couch, but at some point during the bad spy movie they’d put on she’d ended up curled against Dolls. The sounds roaring and popping fire and the sensation of patterns being drawn softly on her shoulder are all incredibly soothing. That relative calm is shattered by the small chime of her phone from her pocket. Twisting to tug retrieve it without dislodging herself from his all too comfortable hold, she finally gets to answer, “Hey, where are you?”
“Um, Nicole’s—are you safe?” Waverly asks, voice tinny and a little static-y.
“Yeah, at the homestead now,” she answers distractedly. “You two gonna be okay?”
There’s a pause, and she checks that they haven’t been dropped, before she hears, “Yeah, I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“Mkay, make good choices,” she sings. “Use protection!”
The line goes dead.
She tries to watch the movie, but eventually she turns her head on Dolls’ shoulder. “This movie sucks,” she grumbles.
“You picked it,” he responds, warm but bewildered.
“The cover looked cool—it still sucks,” she chuckles. Sitting up, she stretches; his hand slides to her hip. “Can we skip Netflix and just get to the ‘chill’ part?”
It’s meant in part as a joke but the sudden fire in his eyes sends a spark through her.
Searching his face, at length she says, “Kiss me.”
He presses his lips against hers, slow and sweet and not at all what she expected. He twists so he can bring her closer, so she can press flush against him and straddle his lap, groans gently into her mouth as she scratches lightly at the back of his neck. He drags his teeth over her lip and she gasps, electricity coursing straight between her legs. She pulls back to press their foreheads together.
“Fuck,” she whispers as his hands stroke up her hips under her top, over her ribs and shoulder blades to keep her close. “Do you wanna move this party to the bedroom?” she asks, eyebrows waggling.
“Yes,” he answers quickly. “But—Wynonna, we don’t have to rush anything,” he continues, face inscrutable.
Something warm and a little frightening in its intensity grows beneath her ribs as she smacks a quick, hard kiss to his lips, promisling, “I know. We’ll take it slow.”
Dolls follows her into her bedroom where she kicks a bra under the bed, feeling suddenly hot and self-conscious and shy. She feels almost nervous, something strange fluttering up under her throat, an alien sensation. Slowly, he closes the distance between them and cups her face with both hands. For a long moment, he just looks at her and she doesn’t know what he’s searching for. Then, his mouth is back on hers and she sighs, hands splaying on his sides as she pulls him impossibly closer.
One hand slides down her neck, her breast, where her top feels simultaneously too thin and too thick and she lets out a shaky breath as he teases her nipple. She can feel his smile against her lips and she pulls back, just a little, to curse breathlessly.
He laughs, deep and rich in a way she’s never heard, in a way she never wants to stop hearing. “Get on the bed?” he asks. Nodding mutely, she backs up onto the bed, sliding back to allow enough room to him to climb on after her. “Okay?”
Running a hand up his arm, she nods and urges, “Great, get down here.”
He settles between her legs and kisses her, hungrier now. He moves quickly to her neck, first just under her ear where his teeth send shivers straight through her, then down, and between soft moans she murmurs, “You better not give me any hickeys.” His only response is a quick, almost playful nip to her collarbone, eliciting a sharp gasp.
As he slides down, he presses gentle, almost loving kisses down the line in the center of her chest. Her eyes slide shut as she sighs softly, and when his hands grasp her breasts she aches for more, hips pressing up against him. Hands on his shoulders, she pushes him (“Up, up, up!”) and he goes; she sits up with him and tugs her shirt up over her head and tosses it into some dark corner, bra following shortly. She falls back on her elbows, watching as Dolls gazes down at her. A moment later, he’s yanked his own shirt off and throws it over his shoulder. She reaches out, strokes her fingers down his belly, and hooks the hem of his jeans to reel him closer.
Hunched over her, he drags his fingers down her throat, her shoulders, her breasts, her belly—a sensation just short of ticklish. Even with her head tilted up, his lips are out of reach and she gives a frustrated little noise, grabs the back of his neck to pull him down for a hot kiss.
“Stop teasing,” she whines into his mouth when he pulls just a hair’s breadth away. Still propped on one arm, she pulls her hand down his chest, tugs on one nipple and drinks in his low moan.
“We were going slow,” he mumbles, breathless, even as he unbuttons her jeans, tugs them down over her hips, fiery everywhere he touches.
“I’ll go slow when I’m dead,” she answers nonsensically, transfixed as he sucks and bites his way down her inner thigh. “God,” she huffs, falling back onto the bed. He mirrors the line on her other thigh, coming so close and then moving on, nibbles the ridges of her hips, kisses a trail down the center of her belly.
Finally, finally, he moves to her throbbing clit, lips and tongue both too much and not enough all at once and she finds herself grasping the sheets. He alternates between quick, hard laps, gentle swirls, and slow, languid licks; her whole body is shaking, electric tremors coursing up her through her belly. He keeps her right at the edge, so close to climax, before switching tactics, over and over until she’s begging for it and she can’t register anything but her own arousal and desperate need.
When he does drive her over that edge, she swears she sees stars, a heady punch in the gut that knocks all the wind out of her. He holds her hips steady, easing her through the aftershocks like tiny explosions all through her until she’s gasping and whining and can’t take another touch.
For what feels like a long time, all she can do is lie there, sweat cooling on her flushed skin. She’s pretty sure she just came her brains out, holy shit.
“Fuck,” she finally breathes, dragging a hand through her hair and watching as Dolls climbs back up to flop down next to her. He’s looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Just—just give me a minute.”
“Take your time,” he replies, smug.
Without looking at him, she bats weakly in his direction, grunting, “Don’t be an ass.”
He grabs her hand and brushes his lips against her knuckles, whispering, “I’m sorry.” When all she does is cock an eyebrow, he continues, peppering kisses up the back of her hand, dragging her closer until she’s nestled against him. He makes his way up to her shoulder, his own hand smoothing down her back, over the curve of her ass.
“You’re so evil,” she says, smiling and scratching down his chest just to hear his sharp gasp. Wet and open, she kisses him hotly as her nails continue their slow descent and she can feel every quick breath against her lips. She drags her lips down his throat, stubble stinging her lips, as she strokes the flesh just under the hem of his jeans.
“Now who’s teasing?” he groans, throaty.
“Retaliation,” she says sweetly. Pushing up, she snags his belt and undoes it, stares down the line of his body before working open the button, easing down the zipper. He hisses a quick curse when she reaches under his jeans and strokes him with feather-light pressure.
“Wait,” he says quickly. “Condom?”
“Boy Scout like you not prepared?” she teases, rolling off of him to rummage around in her nightstand. When she crawls back to him, he’s shed his pants and is watching her. There’s a flood of heat through her, seeing him stretched out for her, and she bites her lip hard when he tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth.
She lets him slide it on before straddling his hips, lets his hands grip her hips, roam upward until one settles just under her ribs, the other cradling the back of her head to bring her down for a heated kiss.
“I want you,” he breathes into it, slicing her through with need.
“Well,” she coaxes, hips shifting, “I’m literally right here.”
There’s a glint in his eye like a challenge when he guides the head of his cock into her and she gives a low moan, rocking into him. He meets her with a slow thrust, and she has to suppress the needy sound that sticks in the back of her throat. Her back arches and she tries—really tries—to go slow, but every movement throws little jolts of pleasure up her spine. She can’t help but buck faster, drawing quick, punctuating groans out of him that she can’t help but love.
He doesn’t stop moving his hands, first they grip her thighs, then her hips, her waist; she grabs one and guides it to her breast, whining when he squeezes.
He gives her a soft keen when she digs her nails, just enough pressure to be there, into his shoulder and she pants, “Okay?”
“Yeah—don’t stop,” he moans.
She lets her eyes slide shut, chasing that, basking in the noises she’s drawing out of him, the quiet litany of fuck, fuck, fuck. He tugs her back down, kissing her deep, and this angle is good and she whimpers loudly. His thrusts start going erratic, quick and hard, and she can feel him getting close, can feel the moment he cums, and she’s not far behind, somehow more powerful than the first time. Her hips stutter and rock, riding wave after wave until she can’t help but slide off of him with a weak groan.
For a long time, the only sound is their heavy breathing.
“Okay,” she says to the ceiling once her breathing evens out. “That’s gotta happen again.”
Dolls lets out a full-belly laugh, shaking the bed, as he snags her hand in his.