1. Burns a hole in my hand by sanders
This was his first visit to her new place, her first guest, or at least the first that mattered. She wanted to make a good impression but really, she was a lousy housekeeper. Too much like a teenager, and it was a secret she kept well guarded. Still, there was an ordered chaos to the spread of magazines over the tables, the glasses left half full (or half empty depending on her mood) on the floor near the couch. The best part was the fireplace, and they sat on the couch, thawing from the snow outside, from the chill that stayed with them long after they'd swiped their cards to leave the office.
He thought she smelled different, less metallic, more earthy, patchouli maybe. She curled against him and they played pretend. Pretended that death couldn't touch them, that they never had blood on their hands. Pretended work didn't follow them home on nights like this, and they pretended the slapstick comedy was enough to make them forget. They pretended it was funny, just like he pretended he wasn't rubbing the back of her neck and she pretended not to like it.
She made more popcorn, settling in for a long night. He added more wood to the fire, and noticed when her hair came down, tumbling over her shoulders. He didn't argue when she handed him a brush and settled between his knees. It was touch and he would take it, soft strands sliding between his fingers, and he kissed the back of her neck while the opening credits rolled.
What started out simple progressed with a look, her hand in his, burning with a tenderness he'd learned not to want. He had no right to ask it of the women in his life, everyone knew it was temporary, one, two nights at most and moving on. Always moving on, department to department, bed to bed, he wasn't good at being stationary. So, they moved together, she pulled him to his feet, he cupped her face, their lips met in the glow of the fire.
The bed had posts but no canopy, soft blankets, and her toes were cold against his bare legs. Her mouth was hot, though, and everywhere, kissing his eyelids one moment then at his throat, licking his palm and biting gently at the inside of his thigh. She was slick and wet and open, his fingers sank into her, stroking her clit with his thumb.
She came quietly, staring into his eyes. If she had reservations, doubts, there were none in her sure hands, reaching over him for a condom from the nightstand. He was used to doubts, knew how to shove them down, and he knew this would be complicated, but complicated would wait.
He never realized how tiny she could make herself, how fragile, and that's what she was below him. As much as she was a goddess in his mind, and not just on this night but every day, she could still be broken, still be hurt. He focused on her strength, the way her hips rose to meet his thrusts, twisting just a little. Focused on the rise of her breasts, the silky taut nipple between his lips, the way she moaned when he bit down lightly and whimpered when he increased the pressure.
It was hard to be certain just where he ended and she began, blurring lines between friendship and this, between pleasure and pain as her nails ripped across his shoulders. She seemed to collapse around him, pulling him deeper and pushing him back. It was just enough to make him cry out, past the point of forming words, only hoarse sounds in the vague shape of her name, in the vague shape of prayer.
She slept afterward, limbs splayed wantonly, and he whispered to her. He whispered every bedtime story he knew, wishing her sweet dreams, and hoping for a happy ending.