She realizes sometime between their fourth or fifth coupling that he's holding back.

She doesn't call him on it, because in all honesty, what she's been experiencing is so much more than she'd dreamed since she realized she wanted to be with him. She doesn't want to ruin it.

Three weeks later she is folding laundry, angry about a flyer she received in the mail about a census, and taxes, and politics, and has a normal life always been so frustrating? She can't even turn on the radio without wanting to grind her teeth lately.

She hears the heavy footfalls of his boots on the stairs, knows he's fresh from the shower, is reminded that there's a reason he showers in the morning as well as the evening nowadays, but can't conjure a smile at the thought of it.

She feels his arms slide smoothly around her waist as he hugs her from behind, so gentle...but at least the hesitation is gone.

"I can take a hit, you know."

Her voice is cool, calm, almost as if she is talking to him about her plans for the day, or the weather. She pauses in her folding to tilt her head to the side, his nose against her cheek.

"You won't break me," she whispers.

He says nothing, but she detects a change in his stance, can feel his breath hitch, coming shallow and fast against her neck and shoulder. She waits for a reply, the air between them thick and heavy.

His arms fall away from her, and he is gone, the echo of his footsteps receding into the garage. Seconds later, Fenrir's engine roars to life, and she waits until she can hear it no longer before she returns to her chores.

Fleetingly, she wonders if she should have kept her mouth shut.

He is late that night.

She anticipated as much. She wonders if he'll come home at all. She quickly abolishes the thought, knowing that his presence was more than just for her pleasure, her eyes darting briefly to the hallway beyond the open bedroom door, and the sleeping children that lie there.

She wonders if she read him wrong, wonders if that's possible given the years with him, decides she is thinking too much, and, with a resigned sigh, crawls into bed, prepared to sleep alone.

She is on the edge of sleep when she hears the purr of an engine just before it's silenced, the sound of the garage door closing soon after. The moments thereafter are endless, and too quiet. She is embarrassed at the warmth pooling in her belly, the ache building between her thighs, and she shifts, pressing her legs close together. The subtle movement brings no relief.

There is no hope of sleep, not now.

Impatience yields to worry, and she throws the covers aside, quickly donning her robe, bare feet padding softly across the cold floor as she tightens the sash.

She peeks into the hallway, hears nothing. Hesitating, she glances back at the empty bed, silently cursing the low hum coursing over her skin and the pull in her groin. Had she always been so needy?

The sound of metal clanging on concrete followed by a muttered curse erupts from below, and she can no longer wait.

His shuffling becomes louder as she descends, tip-toeing through the back room, hovering at the door separating the living area from the garage. She feels the humid wash of her own breath blown back against her face, forehead pressed against its cool solidarity. Suddenly, irrationally, she wishes she could take back what she'd said. She's not even sure if that's why he's so late, if it's why he's taking so damn long to come to bed, and although her left brain is contemplating all sorts of reasonable excuses-monsters, road work, bad weather, a misfit motorbike, random incarnate remnants with mommy issues-it does nothing to alleviate the growing pressure low in her belly.

She takes a deep breath, stealing herself for confrontation, her hand settling on the doorknob just as it's thrown open. She observes that she startles much too easily nowadays, her hand recoiling to her chest as if burned.

He is a mess, hair caked with sweat and dust and hanging limp in his face, partially obscuring one eye. His chest is heaving with exertion, lips parted to accommodate each inhalation, the zipper on his vest undone and parting to reveal the skin beneath, smooth, and supple, and slick. If he is surprised to see her, he doesn't let on. He changes the hold on the door, his hand gripping the jamb, fingers white, his body rigid. She watches him as he tries to slow his breathing, and, infuriatingly, he succeeds.

She scowls, feeling the blood humming in her ears, her heart banging against her ribcage at the sight of him. She could let it go, could end it now, satisfied that he's home, and safe, content that he'd likely lie down beside her later, would surround her with his clean, fresh-from-the-shower smell and pepper her with soft, light kisses until she responded, their bodies coming together in a simplistic symphony of quiet hisses, silken slides, and bitten-back gasps.

She wanted none of that.

The "no" that grinds out of her throat is almost feral as she presses forward, knocking his hand from the door with a quick jab of her palm against his forearm. She doesn't give him time to register what's happening, kicking the door shut behind her. He's backpedaling, eyes wide with surprise, and she reaches out to quickly grasp a fistful of his vest, stalling his retreat.

The kiss that follows is a first, bruising in its intensity. He doesn't react as quickly as she'd like, and she tells him so with a painful nip to his lower lip before her tongue skids along his teeth.

There's a long, drawn out hiss as he sucks in a breath, and she smiles against his mouth, both hands curling into the fabric of his vest now, holding her to him, refusing him the opportunity to recover.

He'll have to fight harder than that.

The shift is subtle, and almost immediate. Confusion melting into understanding, and now he is parrying with his own assault, and she is delighted to hear a strangled moan deep in his throat as he breaks away from her mouth to bury his face in her neck, gloved hands digging painfully into her hip and thigh. She lets her head fall back, eyes closed, a throaty chuckle escaping as he lifts her up, her back and head colliding with something solid-the door? the wall?-and there are stars swimming in front of her eyes, but she is beyond caring.

There is force, and animosity, and raw desire and with it pain, but the good kind, like a well-placed right hook.

And as he begins to blindly tear away her clothes, she thinks, Now I have you.