the_gene_genie | OOM: Room 6620, #3

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OOM: Room 6620, #3

The evening did pass smoothly, and it's been a long time since he's been so grateful for anything. OK, there was the inevitable drifting of his thoughts back to recent - and not so recent - events, but it helped to have a distraction. He forced himself to concentrate on what happened with her today, and it gave him some respite. In hindsight, maybe he shouldn't have picked up The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly - he's seen it too many times to get fully lost in it.

Still. As things stand, he's got no complaints. But now it's over, and they do have to make an attempt at sleeping again. So he's in the bathroom, freshly out of the shower, newly shaved, and telling himself firmly that restraint is the order of the day, here.

Definitely a tad nervous when he emerges into the room, though.

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'Pervert.'

And he's pretty sure it's not as obvious for blokes - at least, normal blokes, who don't wear hippy trousers that are too tight. But frankly, just now, who cares? She just put his hand between her legs, and if the world was collapsing all over again, he doesn't think he'd notice.

He keeps his lips pressed to hers as he applies some pressure, using the heel of his hand as something firm for her to push against, grinding it gently against her. Her leggings make finding specifics a bit hard, but if this doesn't do enough, he'll work around it.

She presses back against his hand, letting slip a quiet cry, high and tight with arousal. Another kiss, messy and uncoordinated, and she's moving in time with him, matching the rhythm he's marking out with both hips and hand.

'You dress right,' she breathes, following the line of that curve with delicate fingertips, stroke and return, stroke and return. 'And I'd wager, you wear briefs more often than not.' The words are murmured against his jaw, and even though her voice is honey dark, the hand that is not occupied is gripping his shirt so tightly, her knuckles have gone white.

'Well, gotta keep...' his voice is low and rough, words interspersed with sharp breaths, 'him under control.

...bloody 'ell, luv.'

The lightness of her touch is doing his head in, in all the best ways. The 'him' in question is straining under her hand, looking for more, shooting waves of sharp pleasure through his body at each stroke. He hasn't got the energy to tense up and help it along; fored by exhaustion to lie there and take it. His only movement is to push into her rhythm a little.

And to rub between her legs, of course. The heat under his hand is both glorious and frustrating - glorious because she wants him, and he's been fantasising about being allowed to touch for years. Frustrating because there's a layer of cloth separating him from what he wants, disallowing specifics. No matter. He shifts his hand so his fingertips press over her clit, trying to give her more focused attention.

'Think it's cheating if the clothes stay on, but we go under them?'

'Yes, that's -- definitely cheating.'

That one gentle touch makes all rational thought flee, and the shuddering groan he gets should make that clear. Her hand melts around his prick, as much as is possible, feeling the heft and girth of him. Another wanton moan, and she has to fight down a surge of desire.

'I wouldn't want to stop... Maybe we should try... Something different.'

This time it's her turn to shift, and roll him onto his back, catching his hands and guiding them to her waist as she throws a leg over him again. She makes no attempt to keep the distance between them, wanting to feel heat against heat, needing the press of his hips against hers.

'Less temptation,' she murmurs, hoping she's right.

He can't stop himself - his fingers slip under her top, and for the very first time, he feels her skin under his hands. It nearly pushes him too far - he groans openly, and one searches upwards towards her chest before he checks himself. That really would be the end of him. So he pulls back, and just strokes over her flat stomach instead, biting his lip before grasping her waist firmly.

'OK. Like this.'

He reckons pretty much anything'll do it for him right now. And he manages a quiet chuckle in between the heavy breaths he's snatching.

'Good old-fashioned dry hump. Can't beat it.'

Her hands track his, light as air on his wrists, and maybe he can feel her leaning forward into that touch. There's a growl of disagreement, quiet but distinct, as he shies away.

'Hell yes I could. But we're going slow, remember?'

Her hips are already in motion, keeping the pressure and friction just so, her breath coming quicker now. She's never been shy about what she wants in bed, but with him, it's different. There's a longing for connection, and the baser hunger that's roaring through her skin can't even hold a candle to what she really needs.

'I can't see you...'

His eyes screw shut, sweet pressure where he needs it most, struggling not to let her overwhelm him.

'Can't remember why.'

It was important though, he's sure. He tries to hold on to that as his hands encourage her to move, as he grinds up into her, ragged moans pulled from his chest as the friction comes faster.

'More, luv.'

There's too much air between them, and she lowers herself to brush a kiss along his jaw.

'Doesn't matter,' she murmurs, picking up the pace, the shift from teasing to striving a gradual one. It feels right, natural even, to move with him. It feels like something they should have been doing all along, as easy as breathing and far more satisfying.

'Oh god...

The first hints of orgasm trickle into her awareness, and the sound of his voice is a match on petrol. There's a stutter to her movements, but she keeps going, intent on seeing him through.

His hands move under her top, to come to rest on her ribs. He turns his head to capture her lips, and tries desperately to keep the rhythm even. His chest pulls with the effort of holding it all together - he has no barriers at the moment, no energy to resist. But he's trying.

'Don' stop.'

She couldn't stop if she wanted to, couldn't stop if the ceiling came off again. But she is about to see stars, and she holds that kiss, smothering the harsh cry in her throat as she breaks.

It's high and bright, and strong, vibrating through her in waves, taking away her breath completely for a long moment. Her hips still move, scribing circles on his length, and her head slips down to rest against his temple.

'Gene...'

He groans and tries to arch, but he's pinned by her and trapped and she's coming, and the pulsing heat between his legs hits boiling point. He writhes under her, gasping for air and struggling to pull his trousers away enough to avoid the mess.

'Keep...jus'...'

In the end, he's not aware of any of it. He's yanked her top up, and his too; the second her skin rubs the heat of his, his shoulders arch them both off the bed, his strained cry lost in the bright flash of pleasure that burns through him, leaving nothing but exhaustion, and relief, and a wet mess between their bodies. But he's still kissing her, kind of, lips near hers and breathing her breath, sucking in her air like it'll keep his heart beating.

The mess doesn't even register with her, she's so far gone. Her muscles release the tension, and she sags against him. One trembling hand finds his cheek, using it to guide her lips to his.

Soft, open-mouthed kisses, savouring the closeness, and the feel of his heart pounding against her chest. She manages a dozy grin, nuzzling his cheek before going back for more.

'Oops.'

There's a definite tease in her voice, and not one shred of contrition.

'You're a bloody bad influence.'

He doesn't sound like he minds. He sounds sated, amused, tired. And kisses her gently, wrapping his arms around her back.

'But I already knew that.'

'I'm a bad influence? Oh please.' She chuckles, soft and low, slipping down to rest against his side. Her legs feel like jelly.

'I feel like I've just run a marathon.'

There's no small amount of wonder in that observation.

He winces as she moves, a familiar ache making itself known.

'Hey, don' blame me. You put the idea in my head.'

A one-handed search of the bedside cabinet comes up blank.

'An' I hear running marathons is good for you. Got any tissues on that side?'

She twists away from him, fumbling in the darkness. A light clicks on and she hisses.

'Here we are.' She's smirking as she hands him the box. 'They're good for you if you been in training. I'm afraid I'm out of practice.'

She sprawls on the bed beside him, her head lolling to one side so she can look at him.

'I expect that won't be the case much longer.'

'Mmm. 'spect not.'

He tries to clean up surreptitiously, which isn't all that easy when she's this close. And he offers the box to her, because she's bound to need it as well.

'It'll be a once a week, Saturday night chore soon enough, probably.'

The tease should be obvious in his tone, though maybe with a hint of real expectation to it as well. That's what tends to happen eventually, he's led to believe.

That gets a genuine belly laugh out of her.

'Oh right, of course. A chore. You're such a charmer. How the hell did I resist for so long?' The last is muttered against his lips as she steals another kiss.

'You, don't move. I'll be right back.'

She slips from the bed and heads for the bath, tutting under her breath. Maybe he can hear the smile in her voice even in the darkness.

'Meant chore for you,' he says, with a little smile. Because it's a long-held belief in British TV comedy routines, and TV shows, and culture, that long-suffering wives put up with their husbands demands because they have to. At least, in his era.

Once the bathroom door is closed, he lets out a long breath and just stares at the ceiling for a while. That...all went better than he thought it would. At least he doesn't have to worry about her fancying him any more. The evidence is right there on his stomach. He lights a fag, and lifts up the quilt an inch or two.

'You. Don' let me down, OK?'

Sergeant Rock's thoughts on the matter are not forthcoming. He's asleep. Gene sighs, and sorts his clothes out, and tries to just think about nothing while he waits for his turn in the bathroom.

She thinks he might be pleasantly surprised to discover just how different the reality will be compared to his imagination. But that's a surprise for another night.

The smell of sex permeates the air, and she grins, still vaguely feeling the place where his fingertips dug into her hips. It's been a long damned day, and it's getting difficult to keep her eyes open, even as she stands in front of the wash basin and cleans up with a flannel.

Her lips purse in amusement at the state of her hair. She hasn't even been well-shagged yet, and it still looks good on her. A few moments of toying with it and she gives up. Again, she has a debate with her Id, telling it firmly that no, she's not going to waltz back out there wearing nothing. He might die of a heart attack. Or worse, he might take it entirely the wrong way.

She said she'd wait, and wait she will, if it kills her.

The water from the tap isn't cold enough, she thinks.

A few minutes later, she emerges, humming a drowsy little tune under her breath. 'All yours.'

He's grinding his cigarette out when she turns up, looking mussed and bloody gorgeous. His lips form their customary pout at the sight of her, and he nods to cover his appreciation.

'Ta.'

His own clean up doesn't take long, but he lingers in the cool of the bathroom, leaning against the sink and rubbing the back of his neck to try and ease the knot of tension. He's more exhausted than he can remember being, but the release has helped a bit. He no longer has the energy to feel like he doesn't fit in his own skin. There's a chance for sleep.

As for the stuff they talked about - that can wait until tomorrow. He stands straight, and stretches, and thinks of the feel of her straddling him in the dark. There's going to have to be more of that, but he's still glad she didn't let him forget they were supposed to hold back.

He's not humming when he emerges, and probably still looks a mess. But he smiles at her a bit anyway, and there's no hesitation at climbing back into the same bed as her.

He's tired, and it shows, but he still looks good to her. (Considering she thought she'd never see him again, he looks damned good, no matter what.)

She holds the covers up for him, and insinuates herself along his side again, briefly pressing a kiss to his cheek.

'I think I'm going to sleep for a year.'

'G'on then.'

He puts his arm around her, and wriggles himself comfortable.

'I'll wake you up in three months for some food, and a shag.'

She makes a contented sound, nestling a bit until they're both settled. The reality of their situation looms, but she shoves it aside again, resolving to deal with it later, when she's had some rest.

'Wake me when ever you like.'

She lets out a huge sigh, and closes her eyes. After the last three years of madness and confusion, this feels right in a way she can't quite explain. For the first time in recent memory, she doesn't feel the incessant pull of not being where she belongs.

She levers herself up, weary but determined, pressing one last kiss against his lips.

'Night, love.'

When she lays her head down again, she can't keep her eyes open for another moment.

He cups her face briefly as she kisses him, then lets her lie.

'Night, sweet'eart.'

And as it turns out, sleepless night aren't so bad when there's a beautiful woman next to you. A reminder, if nothing else, that there's good things to look forward to. It's something to hang on to.

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OOM: Room 6620, #3

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