Part 97

"I used to be terrified of this."

His confession was a whisper into the curls atop her head. She snuggled closer to him in response, hummed softly.

"It's not easy to open up to someone even if it's something you want," she murmured as she settled. "The reality is different than the unexperienced desire."

"Yeah," he agreed as he stroked his fingers in the little hollow at the base of her spine. She shivered and he liked that he knew she would.

Eyes closed, he nuzzled her, basking in the continued intimacy from earlier, in the aftermath of lovemaking.

The memory of her soft and welcoming under him, of her hands gliding smoothly over his skin, clutching when he found that spot that increased her pleasure, were enough to make him shiver. And make her mold herself even closer to him, as if her proximity would cure all his ills.

He thought maybe it would as more memories surfaced, of gentle, passionate kisses and hushed moans rooted in love more than pleasure. Of freshly painted toenails, curling against his chest when he'd braved kneeling and taking her slow.

He'd watched her as he'd moved in and out of her. And she'd watched him, blue-gray eyes darkened to the color of the rain-laden clouds of a twilight storm. A woman in her most innate form. Powerful, sexy, in love and given over to love. Accepting and giving. Her body and heart open to her lover, to him.

He'd loved filling the space she gave him in both places. He loved that she wanted him there, that she seemed to need him as much as he needed her. She had watched him penetrate her and he'd watched, too, and the sight, simple in mechanics but boldly erotic, had sent him to the edge.

With anyone else, it would have held no meaning. With her, it meant something, maybe everything.

"Cuddy," he'd whispered when he'd helped her ease her legs around him then stretched out atop her, taking the strain off his thigh.

She'd taken his face in her hands and drawn him into soft, breathy kisses. She'd whispered his name in return. She didn't tell him she loved him. That had been self-evident. But he'd told her because words meant something to her.

"I know," she'd said in a rush of breath that came with tears. He'd watched them trickle slowly from her eyes, down along her cheeks as he flexed his body against hers, driving his erection as deep into her as he could manage.

A need to be deeper had danced at the periphery of what thoughts he'd possessed but he was at the end of her and would not hurt her. He never wanted that.

Cradling her face in his hands, he'd kissed her and held her gaze until she closed her eyes and came. She had been devastatingly beautiful in that moment, when she fell into oblivion. She always was, vulnerable, delicate, whole, and wholly his.

The sight had rendered him hers, again, and more. He'd come in her, pulsing deep. He'd gloried in doing so and feeling her unhindered, the soft, slick walls of her sex caressing his length as he filled her with a groan.

He grunted low now, feeling her hand curl around his reviving erection. She just held him and nuzzled the hollow of his throat. That made him harder, but not like earlier. He was tired and thought that was probably why she didn't do more. Then she spoke and he began softening in her grip.

"What do you want to do about Wilson?"

He was instantly irritated, and not about the state of his dick. The question shattered the peace of the moment. Maybe it shouldn't have but it did. He didn't like it and she sensed the change.

"What is it?" she asked after gently caressing him then wrapping her arm around his waist.

He sighed.

"I don't want to talk about Wilson," he told her. "Or any of the other stuff."

"We need to," she said as she kissed his Adam's apple.

The gesture took the edge off his upset but it didn't put him back to where they had been, which triggered frustration.

"We didn't need to right now," he stated unequivocally. "It could have waited."

She drew back from him and he met her glittering gaze in the night shadows.

"You're angry," she observed.

"I'm frustrated," he corrected, although angry might be on the horizon. To head it off, he told her he needed to get up to pee. She hugged him tighter in response, apparently thinking he was deflecting. He supposed he was, kind of, but he really did need to pee. He just hadn't been in a hurry to go before, not until she killed the mood.

"Gotta pee," he said again and she let him go, albeit reluctantly. He knew she was confused about the intensity of his response, but he wasn't, for once.

True contentment had eluded him most of his life and he'd never really let himself inhabit those moments fully, but when he did, abrupt transitions to the outside were as pleasant as an encounter with his father. He hated it.

Untangling himself from his lover, he limped to the bathroom and raised the toilet seat. He made sure his aim was true before he shut his eyes and tried to shake off his ill temperament. He didn't want to take it back to bed with him any more than he wanted to talk about Wilson or his going back to work or dealing with at the idiots that surrounded them at the hospital and elsewhere. He didn't even want to talk about getaway plans.

He wanted to find that place again, with her, and fall asleep in it. But that wasn't what was going to happen, he realized when he heard her get out of bed and leave the bedroom.

"Crap," he muttered as he finished up.

After giving the toilet a flush, he located his pajama pants and a t-shirt. He noted his other shirt was no longer in the floor, meaning she'd re-donned it — or she'd taken it to the laundry. Either was possible but he hoped for the former since that would mean she wasn't entirely pissed at him.

Or maybe she's not pissed at all, he thought when he found her in the kitchen, getting milk out of the fridge.

Post-coital munchies weren't really her thing, not if she'd already had a meal, but he didn't complain when she moved to the next cabinet and pulled out a box of his cereal —Cap'n Crunch.

His frustration bled away at the sight of her bare bottom when she bent and opened the cabinet that held her pots and pans. Anticipating her next move, he made his way over to the cabinet and retrieved the canister of oatmeal for her. She looked over and up at him when he set it on the counter.

He saw no anger or even worry in her eyes. What he saw was patience, but not the patronizing sort. He wasn't sure to make of it, having seen it so little in his life, but when her gaze flickered to his mouth, he took the hint and kissed her.

She hummed then set about making her oatmeal, leaving him to his cereal. He waited until she was nearly finished cooking hers before filling his bowl with the golden, peanut-buttery crunchiness. There was absolutely nothing in it good for him but he liked the taste and it was something he hadn't been allowed very often as a kid.

He pushed away thoughts of his childhood when she joined him, bringing empty glasses with her. He poured each of them some milk into the clear tumblers and they ate in relative silence.

He enjoyed it. It wasn't like earlier, but it had its own appeal and it satisfied his need for the peace he was rapidly finding addictive — more addictive than Vicodin. He wondered if that was a good thing, after all he had left behind an addiction to indulge in another.

Is it an indulgence?

That was a question for Nolan, he decided, favoring her company over old fears, even if she wanted to talk about all the stuff looming ahead of them. It was infinitely preferable to the other. So preferable that he found himself extending the olive branch.

"Were you able to take next week off?"