Annie loves this dress, and if Jesse had been any easier to pursue she might have protested. As it is, she doesn't even notice, and when he sets her on the bed she arches up and strips it off in one go, then uses her legs to pull Jesse to her.
She realizes then she's never heard him laugh before, not when he was himself.
Even Jesse can only be so dour at a time like this. He's had sex that wasn't actually any fun before, but let it not be that way with Annie. Not stunning, sweet, stubborn, imperfect Annie, who grabs him while he's still wrangling his last sock and gets a real laugh this time in return, whose scarred neck he eagerly returns his attentions to as he leans over her.
She deserves -- fuck it, they both do, or at least she deserves and he needs -- a few moments of real, actual release; the kind that takes another person to get.
She keeps her legs around him, not the way she would if she feared he might leave; more like the way she would if she had fantasized about this exact position a few times before.
The first time he'd touched her scar she'd gone a little stiff, shivered a little. It's entirely different now, feeling the brush of his beard and the warmth of his mouth, and she moans quietly. She slips both hands between them, one stroking him, one stroking herself.
He shudders, his breath hitching hot against her throat. Despite all the angst it had caused, it's probably a good thing they slept together the first time, and not only because it's eventually brought them back here: it's been long enough since he was last touched that between the physical need and the emotional weight of it, he might not otherwise make it very far into this. As it is, the sensation is intense enough to catch him by surprise.
He shifts his weight to one arm, his other hand running down her body to join hers between her legs. "Show me something you like," he suggests in a whisper, his lips moving over her jaw.
She almost says This, and just that, because otherwise it's breaking this into smaller pieces: she likes the way her feet feel running along the backs of his calves, she likes the way she can tip her head back to let him have her jaw, her throat, ever vulnerable part of her. She likes that she isn't afraid of the weight of him on her.
But then she guides his hand, shows him that if he moves his fingers just so, she will gasp and arch her back ever so slightly. She'll do that every time, more eagerly the more his touch curves to fit her.
"Like that," she whispers, her free hand kneading helplessly against his back. "Keep doing that, just like that-"
Just like that, she says, and she will discover before long that he is very, very good at taking orders. That he likes taking orders, when they're her orders.
He smiles at this one and does just as he's told, his normally fidgeting fingers moving steady for her. "Like that?" he breathes, though he's making his way back to her lips, and he captures them before she can answer properly.
When she realizes, it will settle something inside of her, like the edges of two cracks shifting down against each other to make one surface. Annie isn't much like other wolf girls, but one thing they all have is a pleasure in being heard, in being with someone who would do what she says just for her pleasure. It's what allows her to turn around and help lead, help patch the holes that life has carved into her packmates.
"Tell me what you like," she pleads softly, like knowing what he craves is what she needs to be able to finish, even with the way her hips are writhing against his hand and her breathing has turned sharp, desperate.
"I want you to ride me," he murmurs into her ear without much hesitation, like that's been on the top of his list for a while. He doesn't know why, but he knows there's something about a woman getting on top, taking charge, giving directions, that drives him crazy. Maybe that's one of the reasons he's so drawn to Annie: he's always been able to sense the strength in her, the part of her that's known exactly what she wanted all along and refused to back down from it, and the other side of her appeals to the other side of him that needs someone to take care of.
Not that he's thinking about it that coherently right now. Right now, he's just trying to pick the best out of all the things he's fantasized about with her. "I want to taste you," he adds breathlessly, his eyes glittering when he looks down at her.
Annie is perfectly capable of silent sex, of keeping even her breathing hushed. But she's not bothering with that now, not when she's spent so much time thinking about this. She responds to his requests with a gasp and a low sound, and realizes as much as she'd already wanted him, the way he's looking down at her now is so much better.
And he's listening to her, which gives her the freedom to be very blunt about what she needs.
"Do it," she urges, kisses him, "Keep fingering me but taste me, and then I'm going to ride you till you collapse."
He's good with the blunt. He loves the blunt. He practically growls in response to it, kissing her hungrily in turn -- although he keeps it brief so he can get to actually carrying out the order. He has to stop touching her for a moment to readjust, but he traces a line of equally hungry kisses over her skin as he moves down her body to settle between her legs.
He groans when he first tastes her, instantly intoxicated. There's nothing tentative about his movements, no hesitation other than a split-second of silent prayer; he used to be really good at this, he knows, and he can only pray that he's still got it even if he's rusty. He knows she'd forgive him, knows she knows it's been a while, but he doesn't want to need forgiveness -- he wants to earn her presence here in his bed. He sets to earnestly, fingers and lips and tongue moving in eager sync.
She'll reflect later, when her head isn't buzzing with stimulation, that there are very few things that can make her feel more wanted than this. She scrapes her nails lightly over his scalp, and she tries very hard not to cry out too loud.
She ends up biting her fist and her arm and the pillow, and still Jesse will get a litany of praise and pleading and coaxing, and she claps a hand over her mouth to smother anything louder.
One of her legs has wrapped around him, pulling him insistently closer and then keeping him with her while she shivers with release.
He truly couldn't care less how loud she gets, especially not on a night when fireworks are actually exploding above their heads, but he's way too preoccupied to stop her from stifling herself. Besides, he gets more than enough of a charge out of the things she does let herself say, the sounds she lets out -- not to mention the way she writhes against him, or the way she moves when she falls over the edge.
He stays with her until the shivers die down and the grip of her leg eases up again. Then he moves back up her body to capture a kiss.
She laughs against his mouth, the wolf stamina in her kicking back in and making her delight in him on a deeper level. "Maybe I'm never leaving your bed," she whispers, thumb stroking his cheek--there are scars she feels, but doesn't linger on, just takes them in as easily as she does the scratch of his beard.
"Roll over," she orders fondly, firmly, because she has plans for him.
He sighs, pleased. "I can live with that," he mutters against her lips. Responsibilities? What responsibilities? He'll feel bad about thinking it later, but not that bad, not the way he would have excoriated himself months ago. He's giving in, as much as anything, to the idea that he needs moments like this one; that letting in a little happiness, a little healing, isn't a betrayal.
The fact that he can do this at all -- that he can deal with her touching his scars, that he can believe she wants him despite them -- that, in and of itself, is a sign of healing. He catches her hand as he rolls over onto his back and pulls her on top of him, pressing a fiercely grateful kiss to her thumb, then her palm.
She settles over his hips, rocking slowly and just enoughto let him know that she means to wear him right out.
But first she bends over him and kisses his shoulder, kisses a line all the way to his mouth. "I've never seen you smile this much," she whispers, helplessly pleased with herself for it.
"Yeah," he whispers in agreement and says nothing more, only kisses her again. The only things he can think of to say are A: obvious and B: depressing -- it's been a long time since I've had anything to smile about -- and he's sick of bringing down the moment. Especially when it's a moment like this one.
Given how he'd reacted when she'd only touched him he should have been ready for how intense this would feel, but it still makes his breath stutter, still wrenches a low moan from his throat. He closes his eyes for a second, but one hand skates up and over her back to curl in her hair, the other settling on her thigh as he starts to move with her. "Jesus, Annie," he breathes, wondering.
A few years ago this would all have turned wild; she'd have urged him to pull her hair, she'd have bit him and left marks with her nails, furniture would have become treacherous with how raucous she could be. But that was then. Now, she loves that his hands are where they are, warm and steady without offering her pain or trying to control what she does.
Certain things are different from the time in the flood. Jesse is very different; and Annie isn't pretending to be human, isn't hiding the supernatural strength she has all through her body as she slides up, then down, taking her time to try to get him to keep saying her name.
"When I'd dream about this," she whispers, "It was just like this, me on top, letting you have me."
The amnesiac Jesse had been a little wilder, too. A little wilder, a little more selfish -- but then again, neither of them had been carrying the kind of emotional attachment they do now. Now that it's their first real time together, savoring it feels so much more important.
Even if the pace, combined with the strength and fluidity of her movement, is driving him slightly insane. His range of motion is limited, but he does as much as he can, hips rising to meet hers as she takes him in. "Fuck," he gasps, fingers digging into her thigh, kneading the taut muscle. But then: "What happened when you woke up?"
She blushes but at the same time she's also leaning down a little, shifting her hips to take him deeper and at a different angle. Her arms rest on his shoulders because she wants as much contact as she can have, but it also is an undoubtedly dominating position.
"If Elizabeth was gone already, I'd stay in bed and touch myself as I thought about the dream. And-" a small gasp as his hips meet hers, "If she wasn't gone I'd go shower and do the same thing."
He groans, momentarily overcome by the mental image that blesses him with, combined with every little thing she's doing that seems designed to render him speechless. "Christ, that's so hot," he manages breathlessly, staring at the long arch of her body above him. "You're so fucking hot."
He can't help but try to speed things up a little bit, though she massively has the upper hand here; if she wants it to stay slower, there's not much he can do about it. He knows this. It's not a bad thing.
Annie knows it, too, and it's soothing a part of her that's lain dormant since her pack was wiped out. She goes along with Jesse for a minute, faster, so sharp in each staccato thrust that she ends up groaning senselessly.
And then she slows them right back down with a delighted grin and a kiss to his jaw. "I'm not ready for you to be done," she murmurs, tightening a few strategic muscles as she slides slowly up, then down.
He lets his head drop back and closes his eyes with a sound that's sort of a laugh and sort of a growl and sort of a moan all at the same time, because he had absolutely seen that coming, and a part of him absolutely loves that she did it, and a part of him was really enjoying that.
He runs his hands up her sides and knots one in her hair again, a little tighter this time, pulling her into a kiss so intent it's practically a reprimand. With the other he takes advantage of the new position bringing her closer to him, exploring the parts of her body he'd neglected before in his eagerness to taste her.
When his hand strays near the scar on her side she shivers and rewards him with a particularly eager roll of her hips. The scar bothers her, not for any cosmetic reason, but because she will never forget where it came from. Having someone--someone she likes very much, someone she trusts, someone she chose--touch it is surprisingly good.
Granted, she doesn't want too much attention on it, so she whispers, "I want you to pull my hair a little when you like what I'm doing to you."
He gives her hair a light tug immediately -- mostly in play, but it's not like he doesn't like everything that's going on right now. He eases up again with a smirk a moment later, but the next time she rolls her hips like that and knocks the breath right out of him, his hand tightens quickly again.
He's learning where the scars are, finding them by feel as well as by sight, but it's mostly so he knows how to hold her comfortably, where and how to touch, what she does or doesn't like. He lingers more on the soft, untouched places -- running his hand up over the flat of her stomach, mapping the curve of her breast with his palm.
She had shivered and encouraged him to touch her scars, but the care he shows in exploring her unmarred skin is so unfamiliar to her it catches her breath in her throat.
The men in her pack had loved her, but there is so little that is gentle about a wolf. And after so long being hammered by the life of a wolf, Jesse's warmth is like clear water after a drought.
She wants to keep him pulling her hair, wants to feel him go rigid with pleasure, but for a moment what she does is study him as she rides him, his scars and his beard and the look in his eyes. It's never been quite like this before with anyone, even those she loved; but she doesn't dare say it.
What she does say is, "Jesse," in a whisper that's thick with emotion. What she swallows and adds is, "Want me to make you come?"
Because she has so many ways she can do it, so many ways that she tentatively hopes some of them will even be new to him.
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She realizes then she's never heard him laugh before, not when he was himself.
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She deserves -- fuck it, they both do, or at least she deserves and he needs -- a few moments of real, actual release; the kind that takes another person to get.
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The first time he'd touched her scar she'd gone a little stiff, shivered a little. It's entirely different now, feeling the brush of his beard and the warmth of his mouth, and she moans quietly. She slips both hands between them, one stroking him, one stroking herself.
oh right this got nsfw a minute ago
He shifts his weight to one arm, his other hand running down her body to join hers between her legs. "Show me something you like," he suggests in a whisper, his lips moving over her jaw.
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But then she guides his hand, shows him that if he moves his fingers just so, she will gasp and arch her back ever so slightly. She'll do that every time, more eagerly the more his touch curves to fit her.
"Like that," she whispers, her free hand kneading helplessly against his back. "Keep doing that, just like that-"
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He smiles at this one and does just as he's told, his normally fidgeting fingers moving steady for her. "Like that?" he breathes, though he's making his way back to her lips, and he captures them before she can answer properly.
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"Tell me what you like," she pleads softly, like knowing what he craves is what she needs to be able to finish, even with the way her hips are writhing against his hand and her breathing has turned sharp, desperate.
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Not that he's thinking about it that coherently right now. Right now, he's just trying to pick the best out of all the things he's fantasized about with her. "I want to taste you," he adds breathlessly, his eyes glittering when he looks down at her.
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And he's listening to her, which gives her the freedom to be very blunt about what she needs.
"Do it," she urges, kisses him, "Keep fingering me but taste me, and then I'm going to ride you till you collapse."
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He groans when he first tastes her, instantly intoxicated. There's nothing tentative about his movements, no hesitation other than a split-second of silent prayer; he used to be really good at this, he knows, and he can only pray that he's still got it even if he's rusty. He knows she'd forgive him, knows she knows it's been a while, but he doesn't want to need forgiveness -- he wants to earn her presence here in his bed. He sets to earnestly, fingers and lips and tongue moving in eager sync.
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She ends up biting her fist and her arm and the pillow, and still Jesse will get a litany of praise and pleading and coaxing, and she claps a hand over her mouth to smother anything louder.
One of her legs has wrapped around him, pulling him insistently closer and then keeping him with her while she shivers with release.
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He stays with her until the shivers die down and the grip of her leg eases up again. Then he moves back up her body to capture a kiss.
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"Roll over," she orders fondly, firmly, because she has plans for him.
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The fact that he can do this at all -- that he can deal with her touching his scars, that he can believe she wants him despite them -- that, in and of itself, is a sign of healing. He catches her hand as he rolls over onto his back and pulls her on top of him, pressing a fiercely grateful kiss to her thumb, then her palm.
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But first she bends over him and kisses his shoulder, kisses a line all the way to his mouth. "I've never seen you smile this much," she whispers, helplessly pleased with herself for it.
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Given how he'd reacted when she'd only touched him he should have been ready for how intense this would feel, but it still makes his breath stutter, still wrenches a low moan from his throat. He closes his eyes for a second, but one hand skates up and over her back to curl in her hair, the other settling on her thigh as he starts to move with her. "Jesus, Annie," he breathes, wondering.
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Certain things are different from the time in the flood. Jesse is very different; and Annie isn't pretending to be human, isn't hiding the supernatural strength she has all through her body as she slides up, then down, taking her time to try to get him to keep saying her name.
"When I'd dream about this," she whispers, "It was just like this, me on top, letting you have me."
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Even if the pace, combined with the strength and fluidity of her movement, is driving him slightly insane. His range of motion is limited, but he does as much as he can, hips rising to meet hers as she takes him in. "Fuck," he gasps, fingers digging into her thigh, kneading the taut muscle. But then: "What happened when you woke up?"
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"If Elizabeth was gone already, I'd stay in bed and touch myself as I thought about the dream. And-" a small gasp as his hips meet hers, "If she wasn't gone I'd go shower and do the same thing."
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He can't help but try to speed things up a little bit, though she massively has the upper hand here; if she wants it to stay slower, there's not much he can do about it. He knows this. It's not a bad thing.
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And then she slows them right back down with a delighted grin and a kiss to his jaw. "I'm not ready for you to be done," she murmurs, tightening a few strategic muscles as she slides slowly up, then down.
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He runs his hands up her sides and knots one in her hair again, a little tighter this time, pulling her into a kiss so intent it's practically a reprimand. With the other he takes advantage of the new position bringing her closer to him, exploring the parts of her body he'd neglected before in his eagerness to taste her.
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Granted, she doesn't want too much attention on it, so she whispers, "I want you to pull my hair a little when you like what I'm doing to you."
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He's learning where the scars are, finding them by feel as well as by sight, but it's mostly so he knows how to hold her comfortably, where and how to touch, what she does or doesn't like. He lingers more on the soft, untouched places -- running his hand up over the flat of her stomach, mapping the curve of her breast with his palm.
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The men in her pack had loved her, but there is so little that is gentle about a wolf. And after so long being hammered by the life of a wolf, Jesse's warmth is like clear water after a drought.
She wants to keep him pulling her hair, wants to feel him go rigid with pleasure, but for a moment what she does is study him as she rides him, his scars and his beard and the look in his eyes. It's never been quite like this before with anyone, even those she loved; but she doesn't dare say it.
What she does say is, "Jesse," in a whisper that's thick with emotion. What she swallows and adds is, "Want me to make you come?"
Because she has so many ways she can do it, so many ways that she tentatively hopes some of them will even be new to him.
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