Once More, With Feeling

"Was there ever a day when you were just . . . happy to be away from everything? No pressure from your family; no need to be the person that everyone expects you to be."
- Helena Bertinelli, 1.07

What was the saying? Once more, with feeling . . .?

My hands slipped from his chest to his pants, yanking on the strong waistband of his jeans, nearly clipping my fingernails on the button. Wanting. Hungry for what he had to offer, what he had to give.

Oliver hissed through his teeth, "We're doing it like this?"

"Exactly like this," I panted, already palming the flesh that spilled into my hands.

His chest trembled, breaths hitching a little at that first long, deep stroke. He didn't close his eyes, and I didn't look away. Basking in the quiet eroticism of watching him, watching me, touch him. He felt like velvet over steel.

His large, strong hand caressed my face, and he dragged me forward, reclaiming my mouth. There was an edge to this kiss I savored, moving with him, pulling deeper. Something different from last night. Saltier. This kiss wasn't patient, it didn't seduce or persuade.

It took.

And I gave, demanding no less. I couldn't taste the sugar, the vanilla, from the cream puffs we'd had but I could taste him. Oliver's hands were rough as he swept down, hooking my shirt to pull it up. That first brush of callused fingers on bare skin – I broke away just long enough for my shirt to clear my head.

The collision was impending and electric.

And still, I had hold of him. Indulging in those long, deliberate strokes mirroring slow, deliberate thrusts. The sounds he made guttural, and encouraging. Everything about him was hard and strong and just a little rough.

Hands swept over my bare skin. On top. This time, I was on top. But Oliver was in no way a passive recipient. Straddling him. His hand slid between my legs. He was careful, putting just enough pressure on that sensitive place, stroking in tight little circles that made my body go both utterly loose and tight enough to snap.

His mouth slid over my jaw, trailing down to my throat. The scrape of his stubbled jaw rough, and static; my body trembled lust, with want for more. He dragged his mouth to my collarbone and, finally, to the front clasp of my bra.

His eyes flipped to mine as he reached up and sprang the fastening.

He didn't let the two sides snap apart but held them in place. Inch by delicious inch he kissed his way to my breast, gradually exposing skin until he revealed the nipple. Only then did he pull the lace cup off entirely.

No hesitation. Oliver latched onto what he'd bared and as warm, wet suction drew on my nipple I threw my shoulders down and back; letting my bra fall away. My breaths hitching. I couldn't quite remember how to breathe.

My breasts tightened, both feeling full and heavy.

I dragged my free hand down his thigh, even as the other continued to work him, feeling solid muscle there. Dragged it back up again in a long, idle stroke. He was hard. Maybe even brutally so, given the straining length of him.

Oliver broke contact and my nipples tightened on a quick sting of pleasure. "Wait. Wait," his callused fingers closed over my hand, and he hissed a breath through clenched teeth, "I'm going to come if you keep that up."

"I thought that was the point," my heart thundered, slamming in my chest "or am I misreading this?"

Oh, wow. I was vying for humor; it came out sounding sultry, my blood coursing molten through my veins. A single, glistening tear formed at his tip and wept down the head of him – he kissed me, hard, and said, "Inside of you. I want you to feel me when I come for you."

Well that set nerves stinging all up and down my body. Air punched from my lungs and somehow I managed a breathless, "I'm staying on top."

Eyes too blue to be real, sharp as a crack of lightning in the buttery tropical sun, danced.

"Be my guest."

There was some moving involved and I was careful not to touch him, not wanting to push that straining past where he could hold himself. Hooking my thumbs into the waistband of my designer jogging pants, I caught my underwear in the same hook and rose up onto my knees to get the things down.

A lot more complicated than one would think.

It felt clumsy, and totally unsexy. And I think I laughed. Oliver peeled his shirt off those chiseled abs and I dragged my hands down the front of him, marveling at the difference between our bodies. His muscles flexing, tight as coiled steel beneath that map of scars like battle wounds.

But there would be time for exploration later – what I wanted, now, what I was looking for, what I needed . . . was release. His weeping erection was a brand on my naked inner thigh. I kissed him, drinking in the taste of him.

I sank down onto the blunt head of his erection, guided by my hand, surprisingly steady, and Oliver rose to meet me there – a single thrust, a deep one. I sucked in a trembling breath but the instant sizzle at my core wasn't pain.

All I felt was that glorious stretching and a sense of fullness.

I drove my fingers through his hair, tilting his face up, and started to move. My body more than ready for this but still needing to adjust to his girth. He arched under me so that I took him even deeper and with a surge of his powerful body Oliver sealed his mouth over mine.

Reclaiming that kiss I'd started –

– and he claimed it the way I was learning he always did; with the unhurried confidence of a man who knew precisely what to do. He kissed me deep, his tongue stroking deliciously, our bodies settling into a rhythm that was simultaneous hard, and sweet.

Everything loosened at the friction.

He was thick inside of me, solid under me, drinking in every sigh, every kiss. The taste of him. The smell of him, of sweat and heat. A primal musk as pleasure coiled low and tight and fast . . . very, very fast. I could hardly breathe, hardly think beyond where our bodies were joined.

This was going to be over soon. Too soon. But I couldn't stop it; had no real desire to try.

My release hit with a surge that rocked me, sharp and sparkling as shards of glass. Each hard, deep contraction stinging pleasure. Oliver was right behind me, his hips jacking up and then freezing as he locked in against my core.

Deep inside of me his arousal kicked, the spasming cueing off his own orgasm and I held him, just as I had last night. Absorbing the waves of my release, and his.

So . . . round one was fun.

We capped off the sex with food, raiding the ridiculous amount of leftovers we had chilling in the fridge, reheating our cheeseburgers and fries in the oven before taking them to the green glass dining table for a naked lunch.

Neither of us having feeling motivated to pull on clothes, and the tropical heat was more than comfortable.

Cheeseburgers. Ohhh, yes. Nothing like a little red meat after an explosive quickie. Day old reheated French fries were cardboard but I devoured that burger, surprised by the lack of awkwardness while we ate.

Or maybe it was that arousal had a way of totally sweeping past inhibition. Because we weren't done. This time, we made it to the bedroom, and the comfort of a king sized bed and sheets thick as clouds.

Round two was what our first time together should have been.

Last night was . . . I'd enjoyed it but still, the memory of it tainted by responsibility. We were contractually required to sleep together and on the first night of our honeymoon it had felt like we'd just gotten that out of the way.

A deeper, quiet intimacy as we came together for the second time in as many hours. This time indulging in exploration, his hands playing over my body with devastating precision. His body coming alive under mine.

We might have tried for round three, but I needed a breather.

"So. That happened."

"I did tell you it'd been awhile."

Oliver laughed and turned his face into the pillow. Sunlight glistening off his sweaty skin and the whip of scars, startling in the clear light of day.

Lying on his stomach, I couldn't see the identifying tattoo inked on his solid pec but there was a dragon on his back; it's crown arching sharply over his shoulder blade.

I sighed and stretched my legs out, delighting in a delicious soreness.

"Or maybe I thought we'd do it right," I said. "Last night was . . . the end of a very long day. Oh, I liked it," I was quick to assure him, as Oliver's attention swung around, "but –"

"– but it was at the end of a very long day."

"Yes."

I breathed. Just absorbing every moment of this comfortable quiet, the sounds of the wind, of the ocean, lending dimension to the whisper of our breaths. The sky was a pane of hard blue stretching off into eternity through the wall of windows . . .

It was still full daylight out, though my tired body was telling me it should have been late, the orange of sunset spilling through the glass not this clear white light. Oliver's eyes were on me, a little smile playing over his expression.

"You think anyone was watching?"

My face heated, but my gut tightened. "If they were, I hope they liked it."

"You're blushing."

"I'm flushed," I said, and laughed a little. I reached across, closing the short distance between us and ran my hand over the intricate dragon tattoo. "Where did you get this?"

His eyes shuttered.

"I've had it for awhile."

That's not what I asked. Clumsy evasion, but I let it go, my fingers tracing the hard ridges of scars cut deep into his skin. My heart thudded at the sight of them. Whiplashes. A puckered star low on his abdomen, half hidden beneath the sheets folded over his hips . . . was from a bullet . . .

"You still surprise me," I said, echoing my sentiment from last night, on the veranda, "why agree to honeymoon on an island? After what you've been through."

Oliver rolled his shoulders. "It's not the same. We can leave, there's indoor plumbing. Room service," his smile hardened into a smirk, and we both glanced at the remnants of lunch, scattered across the dining table, "you realize you bought enough food to feed a platoon."

"A squad, at least," I countered, "I think a platoon might be pushing it."

"Uh-huh."

"I didn't order that much."

"Yes, you did."

"Yes, I did."

I brushed my mouth against his, a feather-light kiss that even after the last couple hours I still savored and that still, somehow, set off the sparkle in my blood. My heart ached with want, with a longing that was so far removed from lust, from desire.

I asked, "So what happens now?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm going home with you," – to Starling City. I'd left home before, gone off to college, travelled, but this was different. Final, somehow, like the slamming of a door and I wasn't sure what to make of that. And then I heard what I'd said, and winced. "Sorry. That came out harsher than I meant it."

Oliver's lip quirked.

Sunlight reflected off our pool, eddying in the window glass. The wind blew, whipping our gossamer curtains. To my surprise, the TV was still on. Muted. Scrolling through the same twenty or so adverts for various restaurants and island activities.

Maybe we'd pull dinner at the Mango Reef Bar & Grill . . . waste more food. I glanced at Oliver, aware he hadn't responded.

"I meant what I said, at our reception," I said, "I want this to work. Our marriage. I want – . . . I want a life." Clumsy, but sincere. Not a word of that was untrue.

I sat up, dragging a sheet with me. My cheek hot from where I had it pressed into the pillow. Oliver waited until I'd swung my legs off the side of the bed, ready to get up, before asking, "Why does it sound like you don't really believe that's possible?"

I paused.

Sitting still with the sheet pressed to the front of me, flashing him all of my back, and lower; I shot him a glance from over my shoulder, genuinely surprised to find that he wasn't looking at my body. His eyes were steady on my face.

"I didn't say that." I tilted a slight smile, to soften the impact of my words. "Don't read too much into this, Oliver. All I'm saying is that I know what's expected of us, of me . . . and it doesn't scare me."

I got up, and went to shower.