the_gene_genie | OOM: Texas, 1888. Just outside Oakville

'Nope. Not gonna need a stitch.'

He kisses the top of her head, feeling the low thrum of arousal start up, deep in his gut. His thumb brushes over her nipple, his other hand sliding up to rest lightly on her neck.

'C'mon.'

Bedtime.

"Mmm, maybe that's why I was changin' behind the screen."

Ever think about that, Gene?

Of course, it's hard to stop the way her body naturally responds to him. Her nipple hardens under his touch, and without needing to think about it she cants her head to the side, easing more firmly into his touch.

"Okay."

It's all she says. All she needs to say. She'll let him lead her back to bed.

Which he does, of course. At once. Not fast though, not pulling her along. Just taking the lead, holding her hand so she doesn't run away.

'One minute,' he says, when she's next to the bed. Because he didn't get very far at getting clean, and it's only polite to take care of the worst of it. And he's a bloke. Washing up doesn't take long.

She lets herself sit down at long last, half-reclining on the bed with a sigh. Her eyes are on him as he rushes to clean up.

"Want me t'get your back?"

She's only half teasing.

He raises an eyebrow at her over his shoulder, much like she had with him a moment ago, only without the horror.

'If you like.'

She can touch him wherever she likes. He's not going to moan about it.

Or maybe he will. In a way.

She was expecting some sort of smarty remark, or a laugh, or a brushoff, so she's rather surprised when he answers seriously. She doesn't move at first, as if she's waiting to make sure he doesn't flip on her and call her daft for offering.

She gets on her knees, moving to the edge of the bed, and holds out her hand. While she waits for him to hand her the cloth, she grabs him by his slackened suspenders and gives a tug to encourage him closer to her.

He pouts again, only amused this time. Without looking, he dips the cloth back in the water, squeezes it out with one hand, and places it in her palm.

Then he takes the few, small steps to her, and looks at her for a minute, before leaning down to kiss her.

She holds the cloth against his side while he kisses her, letting little rivulets of water trickle down his ribs and collect in his waistband. She starts to laugh, giving a little push with her chin to encourage him back.

"How am I s'posed t'get your back this way? Turn around. Sit down."

It's all asked through a smile, not demanding or insulting.

'My back's not the only thing tha's dirty,' he mutters, with a lurid smirk. But he turns easily enough, and sits with just the barest huff of breath to betray his tiredness.

The water on his side tickles and itches; he scratches at it with a sniff, aware suddenly of a certain lack of manliness in letting her do this.

"You're right, but I dunno how I'd ever get you t'stop jawin' on long enough t'get the soap in there," she says, pecking the side of his mouth. "Or maybe I should treat the real problem, try scrubbin' your noggin by forcin' the soap through your ear."

Her hands slide across his body with no real rush or destination. She isn't acquainted with him, yet. Be that from shyness or reservation, lack of opportunity, or any other hitch they've had there's no telling. She doesn't know his body.

And she wants to.

Tonight, they're not going anywhere. They're not pawing at each other (yet). And he's right in her hands. Hopefully, worrying over a lack of manliness will be the last thing on his mind. While she brings the rag to his neck, following the steps his spine makes, her other hand slides to his hip. Deft fingertips dance over bones, over soft skin, skirt the boundaries of his britches; and her mouth lingers near his ear.

He shifts a bit under her hands, quietly surprised by her languid touch. It's warm in here, as ever, and the contrast of the cool water and her gentle fingers is exciting, in a manner that's almost peaceful.

'If you promise t'do it, I'll promise t'shut up.'

He's easy, either way. He thinks he should probably be turning to lay her down already, but her breath is nice on his ear, and his muscles are relaxing nicely after being used all day. There's no rush.

She exhales, and her lips curl.

"One track mind, yours."

She doesn't sound particularly bothered. She's doubling back with the rag, running it over his shoulders and down his back again, being thorough. Her other hand is no less so, moving across his belly, flicking open the snaps of his britches before moving on. Her lips graze his ear.

"We'll see."

She leans forward to grab the soap off the sink, pressing into his back. Once she has it in her grasp, she dips it in the water and leans back. Her wet fingers are diligent, working over every inch of his exposed skin.

Mmm well, that doesn't sound like 'no' to him.

He presses back against her when she leans over for the soap, and then lets his head drop forward as she works over his back. It feels so good.

'Hope I get a turn after.'

This may be inspired, mostly, by a desire to feel up her tits, rather than any desire to get her clean. She's already taken care of that bit herself, anyway.

She grins.

Her hands run down the length of his arms, molding herself to him until she can't reach any further. His arms aren't quite as limitless as his long legs, but certainly longer than hers.

"I won't say no."

She transfers the washrag to her other hand and runs her fingers through his hair, leaving warm, wet kisses behind his ear.

The feel of her breasts pressed against his back brings the first sharp spike of arousal. He closes his eyes, letting out a long breath as her lips play on his neck, enjoying the feel of the pull between his legs.

He leans his head back, not quite resting on her shoulder, but opening up his front in case she wants to keep going. His breath is just a little bit more shallow, but she won't need that to see the effect she's starting to have.

She's mussing his hair, feathering the sun-and-sand-kissed strands between her fingers until she has them damp and in wild disarray. The cloth in her other hand has strayed to his low belly, but she's far too invested in the slight lolling of his head to give it much heed. She knows how to follow a cue. Her mouth trails around his jawbone, pressing hot and wet against every inch of his throat until she's found that tender bit of real estate, right under his chin where his pulse is strong. She gently, gently drags her teeth over the soft flesh, the prickle of his unshaven skin setting fire to her lips.

She lingers for a moment, still and silent, concentrating on the way his heartbeat thrums lightly in her lips. The reaffirmation and the comfort of feeling him whole against her. And, for just a moment, letting herself breathe deep, the terror of the evening soaking out of her bones. Her arms tighten around him ever so slightly, and then she exhales.

Her knees move to either side of his hips, just a little pressure to remind him of how close she is. Her hand slips from his hair to tug at his pants.

"These. Off," she whispers against his neck.

She doesn't have to give him any reminders of how close she is. He's acutely aware of it, through every nerve of every bit of him she's touching. She may not be paying any heed to the hand on his belly, but he most definitely is. It's a relief when she pulls at his trousers, but he still turns his head to the side first, looking to kiss her before doing as he's told.

'Yours an' all,' he murmurs, reluctant to move. She feels good wrapped around him like this. His hand slides back, up the side of one thigh, running easily over silk.

'I like 'em, but they'll look better on the floor.'

The kiss sneaks up on her, and she lets out a little moan that sounds suspiciously like a purr. Her eyes are dark, looking at him through heavy lashes and the quickest spark of amusement.

She never lets her hands still. They're exploring, touching, mapping out every inch of him. Teasing, soothing, arousing them both.

She sighs.

The soap and the rag plunk neatly into the basin of water, and she's bracing herself against his shoulders as she scoots back, eases fabric down her hips and past her thighs, working them under one knee, then the next, down her white calves and, finally, over his shoulder to the floor.

Edited 2011-09-19 00:45 (UTC)

As soon as she lets go of his shoulders he turns to watch, letting out a low sound of approval when she tosses her underwear. He's on his feet almost before it hits the floor, turning and looking down at her, unfastening his button fly.

He's a lot less elegant about disrobing, but that's probably no surprise. He just lets everything drop and steps out of it, yanking off his socks last. Then he crawls on to the bed without hesitation, bracing himself over her, kissing her firmly, long and deep.

There's a thrill in undressing so close to him but still out of sight — which, of course, he spoils the instant he turns to watch her. But, there's a thrill in that, as well.

She's smiling at him. God knows why, but it wells up from somewhere deep inside, and even if he isn't elegant, or graceful, or classically romantic, it only makes the smile grow. She loops her arms around his neck and lets the change in their positions naturally ease her back, finding the best way for their bodies to conform as he moves atop her.

He loves the feel of arms around his neck like this. There's a delicious masculinity in having a woman wrapping herself around him, waiting for him to make her feel good. He's always seen it as his job not to fail at it, especially if he gives a shit about the woman nice enough to let him do this.

'Question is,' he says when he pulls back, and conversationally, as though they've been talking all along, 'how much d'you hurt?'

He's pressing down onto her, fitting himself between her legs so they're comfortable as they lie. But he's not about to make any sudden moves. They have time, and he still wants her to enjoy it.

She eases her legs open as he presses down between them, and thinks she must have given herself away by her barely concealed grimace.

"Feel like I've been in the saddle for days, ridin' through rough terrain. An' there's a ... a deeper ache."

The grimace, and the teasing over it when she mounted the horse earlier.

He pulls back a little further, so his frown in clearly evident.

'I haven' damaged you?'

Bloody hopes not.

"Oh, you've damaged me all right."

She smiles softly, sliding her arms down until she's cupping the back of his neck. One thumb moves across his jaw.

"But not in the way you're thinkin'."

...yeah, he's not getting it.

'You what?'

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