She's on the run from the FBI...
He has to help her escape...
She has amnesia...
Only he remembers their sordid past...
As long as he can keep her safe, he doesn't care what happens to him.
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Misty liked the feeling of pressing herself against him. She liked the way that he reacted to it. She liked the hard feeling of his muscles, under his shirt. She even liked the feeling of his stubble, scratching her cheek as she pressed a line of kisses across his throat.
The thought that it was the same path she might use to cut it, if there was need for violence, popped up and then faded into thankful forgetfulness.
Misty shifted her position to hold Grant tighter, his broad hips pressed between her thighs and reminding her in an instant that there was nothing else going wrong in their lives right now. She was good at forgetting. At least, she could try to forget. And that was all she needed.
Her lips pulled back as her teeth sank into the sensitive flesh of his throat, scraping across stubbled skin.
"Oh, God," he breathed, though Misty couldn't have said that she was supposed to hear it. His hand reached around behind himself, wrapping around her head and taking a handful of hair into his grasp. He pulled on it, pulled her over his hip and into his lap. Misty let him, slipping around until she was standing propped up on one leg, the other perched beside him.
Then she pushed forward, and he was pressed back onto the bed. Her leg didn't hurt any more. It was like she'd never been hurt, though she knew she had. She also knew that if he pressed on it then that feeling of pleasantness wasn't going to last very long.
She let out a long, low breath, and leaned over him until she was held up over his head. She let herself down enough for their lips to press together, just enough to be a little rough.
"Are you sure about this?"
The one question he shouldn't have asked. This wasn't time to wonder about whether or not they were sure about anything. This was time to decompress, to unwind, to explicitly not worry about anything or whether or not they were making the "right" decisions. Asking questions was anathema.
"No," she said. "But I'm not thinking about that right now." She pushed herself up until she was straddling his hips. She wasn't wearing anything, and with her hands lifted above her head, anything that Grant might have had to say to her about his doubts was swallowed up by the need to look at her breasts. He let one hand come up to cup one.
Grant was gentle with her. Too gentle, she thought. There was a time and a place for gentle. Desperation didn't go well with gentle, or sweet. Desperation didn't want to make love. Desperation wanted to fuck, and in that moment, Misty was as desperate as she had been the entire last year. The sooner she forgot about her worries and her troubles, the sooner that she could get back to thinking about them with a fresh head.
She moved her hips up until she was sitting on his chest, and then with another scoot forward, her wetness hovered above his mouth. Grant didn't need a hint about what she wanted. His hands gripped her hips and pulled them down. His tongue started exploring immediately, parting her folds and probing. He started shallow, exploring the opening, exploring her clit. Tasting her.
It was nice, but it wasn't enough. Misty started to rock her hips against him. He didn't complain, nor did he speed up the pace. His tongue kept moving exactly as fast as he wanted it to, deliciously teasing her. Forcing her to wait for what she wanted, even though waiting was the last thing that she had any interest in.
Then, just as she was about to give up, Grant seemed to change his mind. He decided to give her what she wanted after all, and pulled back, pressing his lips against her clitoris and sucking. She shivered at the sudden sensation, her fingers digging into his hair as if he could get any more pressed against her womanhood.
His mouth went back to exploring, but with a desperate need that overwhelmed Misty in exactly the way that she had wanted all along. Her body shivered as he did, a pressure building up in her entire body as she threatened to come in a shower of juices and need.
Her shoulders were the first to lock up. Her fingers tightened in his hair until she was sure that she couldn't have tightened them any more. Her toes curled up, and then the big muscles started to get involved, the long ones along her back, her abs, her thighs, until she was as tight as a drum from her forehead down to her toenails, and then… everything started to relax.
Through it all, his mouth never stopped moving, never stopped exploring, never stopped sending delicious electric signals coursing through her. Misty rolled over, off of him. Her breath came hard and fast, and kept catching in her throat, but she couldn't have asked for anything more. At least, she hoped she couldn't have–what she'd been given had felt hard enough to control already, and she wasn't sure what would put her any further over the edge.
She heard the zipper of Grant's trousers working, but it didn't mean anything to her exhausted, sex-addled mind. It didn't mean anything until he was the one hovering over her, and something hard and thick pressed against her opening.
Then it meant a lot. "I just came," she breathed.
"You've had a minute," Grant said. "Now you're going to cum again."
Misty didn't have time for a witty reply; he was already moving to take her knees in his arms, pulling himself tight against her opening and forcing the two of them together in delicious agony.
"You're a bastard, you know that?"
"Is that a problem?"
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