"And now, I would like to show you something else that you can't do without me."
It takes a second for Michael to understand what she's said. It takes another second for him to realize that, yes, he does want what she's offering.
It's not that Michael has a particularly complex or intricate sexuality, but he does require a certain level of relaxation and happiness to be even interested in sex, let alone function.
Fi's been home for five days, and, though he's slept curled around her each night, until that moment he's not felt anything that could be classified as sexual desire. Too much stress, too much sorrow, and too much focus on everything else has left sex way, way down on his to-do list.
And she's been sensitive to that. She's known him long and well enough to know that he doesn't switch gears from work to sex very quickly. And though this is the first time in their relationship he's been in mourning, it's not a stretch to think that's another sort of issue he'd have a hard time switching out of.
Basically Michael is capable of very high levels of focus, and this is a good thing. It's a good thing when he's on a job, because he's on the job. And it's a good thing when he's having sex, because having someone like Michael focused solely on making you feel good it a whole lot of fun. It's not so good if you want him to go from one to the other.
So in a nutshell, he needs a certain level of happy to want sex. Which is why a good deal of the make or break points in their relationship, the sex that's defined them and drawn them together has been tinged with adrenaline and spiced with euphoria.
And now, as she presses behind him, wrapping her arms around him, one hand slipping under his shirt to stroke his stomach, he does feel a hint of happiness. The job is done. They got a lead, granted not much of a lead, but more than they had before, on Nate's killer. And, a guy with the nickname "The Butcher" is going to prison for a long, long time.
They did something good today. Together.
And, while he vastly prefers the outfit she's got on now, a loose white tank top and denim shorts, to the bra revealing-Lycra body suit she had on before, he certainly didn't mind the way that outfit clung to her. Having her step out of the Hyundai, shotgun in hand, looking like the personification of sex and salvation was pretty damn good, too.
He closes his hand around hers, slipping his fingers along hers, enjoying the feel of skin on skin.
They hold each other for a moment. Then he turns in her arms, picks her up, and puts her on the table.
He's kissed her since she's gotten back, but this is the first real kiss. The first touch of lips and tongue with intent behind it. This is the first touch that was about pleasure, not just surcease of pain. And while there is comfort in this touch, it's not about comfort.
She pulls his shirt over his head, hands skimming his arms and sides, familiar touches made new by time away.
His fingers dance over her skin. He knows it, better than his own, but he still relishes this chance to learn it again. He kisses each scar, kisses each tattoo.
He pulls off her shirt, and kisses her again, deeply, trying to put as much love and desire into his touch as he can.
She moans against him, nibbles his lower lip, and squeaks a laugh when he playfully pinches a nipple and tickles her ribs.
He smiles, wide and genuine. "I missed you so much."
And once again, she says, "Good."
He presses back in close, rubbing against her, feeling her breasts on his chest and her legs wrapped around his. He kisses her neck, and inhales deeply. "Missed your skin. Missed your scent."
She purrs at him.
"Missed the way you sound."
She palms him through his jeans. He closes his eyes and sighs, arching into her hand for more pressure. "Missed your touch."
She's right. This is something he can't, or at least won't, do without her. Not to say he can't figure out how to deal with his morning hard-on by himself, but he hasn't, not since she's been away.
Fi hops off the table, sliding down his body, and turns him so his back is against it. She pops the button on his jeans, tugging them down and off of him. He kicks his feet free, while she presses against him. The impossible softness of her stomach against his cock feels inordinately good.
Her mouth feels better.
His eyes close, and a soft, almost-pained sounding breath slips from between half-open lips. He's clutching the side of the table, and forces himself to look down and watch her do it.
Nothing else on earth looks this good. Her eyes are smiling up at him while she sucks. She pulls back, treats him to a full smile, and lets him watch her wet, pink tongue slip along his shaft. She places a swift, almost chaste kiss to the tip, and then swallows him to the base.
This time, the sound that slips out of him is neither soft, nor pained-sounding. This moan is one of pure desire and erotic pleasure.
"Fi!" She purrs again, the soft vibrations adding to the delight of her mouth on him, and he knows this is going to be done a whole lot faster than he wants it to be if she doesn't stop.
Two minutes of oral sex usually isn't enough to get him this close. But it's been an awfully long time, and he feels almost crazy with the intoxication of her skin on his.
Tomorrow, he'll let her do it as long as she likes, because he knows she loves laying him out and driving him completely insane with her mouth.
"Bed. Please." She looks up, almost disappointed, but then her grin is back, she knows good things are waiting for her in their bed.
He doesn't disappoint. He picks her up and carries her to the bed, and quickly gets her out of her shorts and panties.
Four weeks of prison means that she's not hairless. He doesn't know when she started waxing. She didn't when they lived in Ireland. Best of his knowledge, no one did in those days. But he does know that since they've been in Miami, she's been bare. But not today, soft, downy black curls greet his eyes, brush his lips, and tickle his nose.
It puts him in mind of the first time he skinned off her knickers, sunk to his knees, and kissed her properly.
She had groaned then, a sound that was almost surprised. And he wondered then, and has since, if he was the first man to do this for her. He doesn't want to ask, because he likes the idea that he was the first there, first to slip his lips along hers, stroke her clit with his tongue, and feel her hands fist in his hair as her legs grew tight around his shoulders.
He's not terribly possessive. Not a jealous man. But something about the idea that he may have been first resonates with him, fills him with a perverse pride.
Something keeps pulling at his mind as he kisses her. He tries to shut it down. He wants to be focused on her body, taste, the sounds she's making, and how knowing that he's the one doing this to her makes him feel. He wants to be entirely in this moment, in her body, but there's a niggling at the back of his mind and he can't place it.
It's got something to do with the fact that her skin isn't bare. Something about this is reminding him of...
Birth control! She handles that. He knows she's on the shot. Fond memories of "soothing" the spot on her hip where she gets the shot make him smile. He knows it last for ninety days. What he doesn't know is when the last shot was.
He also knows they've got no condoms in the loft.
He absolutely knows they can't risk getting pregnant.
"Michael?" He must have stopped dead while he was thinking about that, because she's propped herself up on her elbows and looking at him with concern.
"When was your last shot?"
She laughs. He thinks it's mostly relief that he's not worried about something else.
"I don't know. But I know the appointment for the next one is three weeks off."
"Good!" His voice is hot and soft as he says that. He'd have been fine with finishing each other by hand and mouth, but he's a lot happier knowing that he'll be able to slip fully into her, feel her legs wrap around his hips, and revel in her orgasm rippling against him.
His mouth settles on her again, tongue making small, firm circles. His fingers fill her, stretch her, add a slightly rough, slippery friction as a counterpoint to the smooth, wet glide of his tongue. Her body is tight, and her moans have lowered in volume but increased in pitch. He knows that means she's getting close.
He also knows he wants to feel her climax. He wants her body pulsing around his. Wants that first thrust to set her off, and welcome both of them home.
It's not the kind of move you can do with a new partner. It's not the sort of thing that happens with first time sex. Though their first time was certainly his best first-time-with-a-new-person-sex. This is the sort of sex that takes practice, skill, and a master level understanding of your partner's responses.
So he speeds his tongue, uses more pressure, but pulls his hand away. He strokes himself with that hand, both for lubrication, and because it feels so good to know he's wrapping himself in her.
Her legs are trembling, and she's almost stopped thrusting, holding her hips still so there's no chance of his tongue slipping away from that spot that makes everything perfect.
One last lick. She groans, a deep, satisfied sound, and he moves, fast. He's kissing her mouth, cock and tongue sinking into her together as her thighs shake and the first spasm fades into the next.
And it feels so good. It's never felt this good before. She's wet and slick and tight and rippling and calling out his name and her nails are digging into his back while she arches under him and urges him to go faster.
"I love you." And it wasn't how he had intended to say it to her. But its close enough, because they're together, and touching, and naked, and smiling, and maybe crying, and no matter what else he wanted to go with it, now is perfect, because it's right. Because it's what his touch is trying to sing to her, and giving it voice feels better than he thought words ever could.
"I love you, Michael." And hearing her say it back, as an expression of joy, not as a desperate balm to soothe the pain of an emotional amputation, feels better than he could have ever imagined.
It becomes something of a mantra, a verbal punctuation to each slide thrust.
It's been thirteen years since they met. Thirteen years since the first time they made love. And this is the most naked, most open, he's ever been. This is him, holding her close, slipping against her skin, feeling his body turn to vibrant, pulsing light as a susurrus of pleasure pulls inward from his fingers and toes, drawing towards his heart and cock and making him feel like the entire universe has shrunk down to just them.
He's loved her since Ireland, but for the first time he understands cherish, and for the first time that too is part of the web of emotions binding them together.
She's sweaty and flushed, her hair wild against the sheets, her eyes filled with tears, and her lips in a wide smile when he comes down enough from his climax to focus on her face.
"You're so beautiful."
She kisses the tip of his nose, licks his bottom lip, and wipes a tear he didn't know he was crying from his cheek.
"So are you."
In the end, because, no matter how long he wants to lie in and with her, this too, must end, she gets up to go to the bathroom. He wipes himself off, puts on his pajamas, and finds a towel to put over the wet spot.
She sleeps naked, and finds the fact that he sleeps in jammies amusing. He's told her it's good tactics. He's ready to go at a second's notice. She says sleeping naked is good tactics. While he's going at a second's notice, whomever might be breaking into their place is likely to be distracted by the naked woman with a gun.
He watches her come back to bed, appreciating her curves and flats. She settles in between the blankets, and he curls around her.
For the first time in months he falls asleep in minutes and does not dream.
When they wake to the sound of pounding on the door, it occurs to him that maybe building some actual walls under the loft, and turning that into a bedroom might be a good idea.
When it turns out to be Pearce, and he gets up, a bit embarrassed knowing both of them look and, more importantly, smell like sex, he's thinking it's an even better idea.
When he turns and sees Fi, a similar look on her face, that clinches it. Once Nate's killer has been dealt with, they're getting a real bedroom. With real doors. And maybe a good sized panic room. Hardened electronic equipment. Space to hide a few favorite guns. A breaching frame in place on the off chance they ever need to drop in on the club downstairs...
Pearce is saying something, and he needs to start focusing on now.