Part III

M, mature readers please. ;-)

Notes: I can't put in the songfics, but it's called, "Glycerine," by Bush, and it's requested by titanwolf. So, just pretend it's there, half way through the story.

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When they've reached home, he's already stomping his boots noisily up the stairs. Like some kind of eager little boy about to get his strawberry ice cream dessert. He stops, turns around, at the top of the stairs; because he notices that she doesn't follow. Dante bites a grin, strokes at the day's growth there. He lets out a kind of laugh, hand on the iron-black banister, leaning his body. Hip against the railing, and already his fingers reaches to undo the black buttoned shirt, the sound of the necklace—clinks, against them.

"I'm waiting." He says, his brows high, wiggling. He thinks that if he's going to act sexy for her, it better be good. She lets out a sigh, slowing her pace as she reaches the couch, dumping her weapons with casual ease on the end table.

"I know, but first," she tells him, her fingerless gloved hand-- index up, "you're paid up for the job," she unhooks her belt, pulling out a folded envelope. It's stained in dry blood, and the cash—green shows through the opening.

"Looks good to me," he grins wide, but he's getting a little antsy, "Now, shall we?"

"There's another," she tells him, her grin matches his—and he could tell that she's got mischief in the tone. Lady brings her boot up, slides a piece of thin lace out—slowly, it's almost too diaphanous.

He pulls away his shirt, revealing torso, the muscles there---beneath his ribs, twitching as he moves; the breadth of his shoulders, broader against the low shadows of the interior.

"I like it, already." He grits his teeth a little, too damned horny to care, "but it's going to be ripped off as soon as you put it on."

"It's part of a gift from the job you just did. As payment."

"What?" He makes a scoffing noise, "first the bottle of wine upstairs, and the prissy paris-something rug, now this? I'm beginning to wonder if our little phone call deal is some kind of voyeur too."

Then he shakes his head, laughs, "Well that's fine with me, if they want to take a peek, let them."

"Dante!" she pulls away her sunglasses, throwing them aside, "don't you think it's a little creepy that they're sending you all these 'gifts'?"

"I could give a fuck," he curses softly under his breath, "now damn, Lady, I'm about to burst here. If you have any sense of sanity in you, you'd do this boy a favour and help him on his way."

"Quixotic. All action and no talk are you? Anymore brilliant lines?" Her eyes cast down; she bites her lips, watching him through lower lids as he casually climbs back down the stairs.

"I'll give you brilliant, lady; I'm not a man of words."

"Indeed." She softly exhales, "gun, sword, all body language, I used to despise your cockiness."

"Got used to it huh?"

"Arrogant prick."

"Uh-huh yeah, keep talking, come on, you can do better than that." he hasn't stopped grinning, already pulling away the belt; unclasping the front; it makes a soft sliding noise as it drags out from the belt loops. Dante realizes that she's not going to come to him, and he's descending, reaching the bottom, "now, if you don't come to me, like I think you're not, then I'm on my way, babe."

"Ohh ho," she laughs, walking back, "you know you're going to get punished, right?" Her mouth is open, showing pink tongue pushing against the wall of her cheek.

Dante looks through the curtain of white bangs, sees her walking away, then stops, "Fine, lady, I wasn't expecting anything less, do what you will. I like the abuse."

"One track mind."

"Bitch."

"You've used that one too many times."

He sends her a lazy smirk, "I hate this talking."

Lady does make the move, reaching him quickly---almost gasping as her body is promptly hauled up, and her legs are wrapping around his waist, because now they're locked together---kissing hard. She's angling her head so that the kiss deepens; his hands, large around her waist, holds, pulls her closer; his tongue dips in, diving like a man taking his first drink, and he feels nails, fingers digging deep on his back, shoulders.

As she moves away from him, breathing hard, against his cheek; grazing her skin, her mouth is open and her hands play at the nape of his neck, kissing again his parted mouth. He is looking at her, the blues closes over lids; he sinks into her mouth, stirring wet heat. They lean back as he takes over---dominating, as her back arches.

He allows her to breathe, as she moves away from the kiss-- nose to nose, her mouth parted; they're breathing like that—soft, white burn between, and while she's braced her body against him---legs wrapped tight, she whispers, hoarse, "I want you to take me from behind, Dante."

She's got her fingers along the curve of his neck, lightly touching the whites of his hair, and he's feeling the strain, stiff—against her, against the moist heat. He doesn't even question why, he's too damned restive. Not wanting it here. Not here. And says-- moving along her jaw, lips against cheek, gliding, mouth to her ear--that he won't go gentle, gratifying her, earning a bite on his lip.

"Ow," he growls, "that's real nice. Come on."

"Fucker," she grates back, husky, pleased; and her short nails burrow deeper into the naked flesh.

"You've got that right." He replies, rough.

When they've reached the bedroom, he kicks the door with his boot, slamming it shut. Dante doesn't even try, she's got her feet down, heels hitting the floor, but she doesn't move away. Turning, she pushes her body against him—and he hasn't stopped breathing too hard, when she reaches up, curling back, pulling him down to kiss her. His hands move around to hold her, arm over, under her breasts. Their kisses are wild; sucking; wet inside; bruising.

He pulls at her shirt, the button coming easily off, cupping a breast, moving down her skin, rough and smooth, under the white material. He feels her fingers gently tunnel through his hair, tasting her completely. And when he pushes groin against her back, she makes a moan in his mouth, trembling. She is pulling at her skirt, and he leans down, listens to her groan as he helps her. It falls down, in a pool at her ankles and she doesn't miss a beat when her feet steps out of them, lips against his skin.

"Aww fuck," his voice is too gruff, sluggish from lust, "Lady, lady…lady," he falls into her, sinking, where her skin is marked red from the day's bristle along his jaw. And he's bringing her body up, her ass along his strained groin, pushing up into her. Slow. She's wearing panties, translucent, feeling his fingers diving between skin and material. She makes another low moan, shuddering as he touches her heat—too hot, finding the cleft between, the softness and the moist heat makes him growl. He wants to violently shove her on the bed, his mind rages, because his demon's blood flares, burning sadistic, hurts like an open wound, wanting to take her.

But he's in control, simmering leisurely, as the blood flows hot-- the rumble in his chest makes its way past his throat; he's moaning against her mouth; his lips wandering under her chin, leaving dark red marks on her neck.

And she bites into him, giving him more---and they've moved, falling onto the bed; she's under him, and his hands roam—all over her back, feeling the lines and curves. The scars, they're partly healed, and he knows these are not so bad, because she takes it with pride. He allows her some room as he parts with his pants, roughly. The noises in the room are the sounds of his short, rapid breathing—long drawn out, exhaling, panting, and she's breathless, turning slightly, facing him.

"Let me, Dante." She gazes at him, wicked, before she closes them over, and her hands are at him, pulling the short under pants away, and reveals too much. She is smiling; one corner of her lip pulls up. And he groans loud, head back---shudders as he feels her mouth closing over, taking him sweet and soft, wet, sliding, sucking.

He stops her, before she could go on, because he thinks that she's enjoying it too much—and he's enjoying it too much. He's astonished at his will power, because he's shaking, tremulous with need to release. And this time, he promises her, that he'll be rough because she won't mind. She can take it, and she's already there, when her ass is the sweetest pushed against him. He holds her hips, steady, breathing hard. He strains at first, pushes in, her walls tight—surrounding his turgid organ like a wet, hot embrace. They sound off together, filling the room with grunts, skin slapping against skin, and her cries of pleasure makes him drive harder.

She's got her fingers digging into the sheets, pulling at them, and she's being pushed up, being driven back and forth as he fills her over and over again. Lady tries to push back, and receives his push and pull; feels the rush of his blood, violent inside him, and he's gritting his teeth. Doesn't realize, seconds before--- that he's gripping his fingers hard on her waist, slamming into her; he knows, when he's got himself reaching against her walls, touches the spot, because he's done this before, where he's driving mercilessly; she's trembling—screaming a warning that she's going to reach a point. Even when he knows this, he waits for her body language, the feel of her walls clasping around him---tight, before he makes his own release. He starts to shudder against her back, sweat between them--sweet and musky.

He likes to lay there, next to her, while she's resting, at peace. Even he can't help but feel the slow burn there, where he kisses her temple, down to her wet cheeks, her shoulders, tracing the curve of her spine. There are rough patches of scars—but they're hers, like a tattoo--a testament to her human body. He is glad, that she is human, and showed him the way of what his father must have felt when he had fallen in love once.

---The end.