yosafbridge | OOM: Upstairs.

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OOM: Upstairs.

And here she'd thought the night wasn't going to be interesting.

Her room is much of the same as it's always been, though she's taken the time to do a little redecorating. Not only that, but there are a few new additions. Trophies, she likes to call them, or rewards for a job well-done - at least, until she can find someone willing to shell out enough to take it off her hands.

The bottle in her hands - well, she might be willing to give that up for a few.

She nudges the door shut behind them, taking a swig straight from the now-opened bottle before she even hears the sound of it clicking shut.

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It's that kind of whimper he wants to hear drawn from her lips. His hands find her now-bare skin, palms sliding down to just over the waistband of her pants, fingers digging into her skin as he pulls her closer.

"Ain't you a regular wild child?" he manages, words practically breathed out. "Just as fiery as your hair."

"You haven't seen the half of it," she promises, her own hands making quick work of his shirt, and it promptly joins hers on the floor.

Her fingertips dig into his shoulders, enough to let him feel the press of her nails, but not enough to draw blood as she shoves the both of them away from the wall and in the direction of her bed.

"Then I look forward to seein' the rest."

He grimaces, rolling his shoulders back into her hands, twisting her around so it's her back hitting the mattress. His hands are working at the zipper of her pants, lips tracing a hard line down her neck to her collarbone.

You'll get all that, she wants to promise, but the words are torn out of her by a moan that replaces them instead.

Her hips jut up and forward, aiding in the removal of her pants with a small wriggle, and then she kicks a few times to get them down around her ankles and off.

He licks his lips, eyes unabashedly roaming over her figure (and good god, what a figure). It's one moment more before his prison-issue slacks are off and he's back on the bed, one hand planted on the mattress just by her head, the other cupping her jaw as his mouth finds hers again.

She draws him up against her, with arms that wind around him and legs that lash around his waist as she grinds against his thigh.

Her teeth gently close on his lower lip, drawing it out slowly, before she releases it to flick the tip of her tongue against the inside of his upper.

He can't help a groan as she presses against him, lips slowly curving into a grin as she bites his lip. His fingers spider down her waist, hooking in the material of her lingerie and slowly pulling down.

Craning his neck, he nuzzles her jawline, drawing the tip of his tongue slowly along the curve of the bone.

She grins, pleased by his reaction, arching up and tipping her head back as his mouth slides over her jaw, tilting her head to allow him better access.

There's less and less separating them now, and her need for him only grows.

His bottom row of teeth graze her skin between kisses, and he rolls his hips down as he manages to get rid of his boxers. He'd only had a swallow of the alcohol and yet he feels drunk, drunk on her, drunk on the fact that he's slit another man's throat.

And, quite frankly, he can't get enough.

She's ready for him, eager, but she won't beg. It hasn't come to that yet. (And she's not nearly drunk enough to blame it on the alcohol if it does.)

Her legs wind around him again, her hold almost like a vice as she reaches one hand down between them to wrap a hand around the erection that swells from her touch.

"What do you want to do to me?" she purrs.

His groan is more audible this time, his entire body tensing at her touch. He laughs, a low, half-breathless sound, as he answers with an echo of her former statement.

"Oh, I think you know perfectly well."

Another grin, her teeth grazing along his neck while she positions herself under him.

"What are you waiting for?"

There's part of him that wants to answer (for you to beg, for you to break), but he's far past exercising that kind of restraint. He rocks his hips up against hers in a single movement just as she finishes speaking, breath catching at the moment of joining.

His teeth find her earlobe as he rocks into her again, biting down as a low laugh echoes in the back of his throat.

And, really, when you get right down to it, there's plenty of time for her to put on a convincing show if the occasion calls. Now, though, she's not going to waste time with theatrics.

She gasps, once, the sound stuttered in the back of her throat, biting down on her own lip to muffle it, but it slips out anyway the moment he takes her in one hard thrust, and her body undulates under his with each one that follows.

When he kisses her again, it's with a definite kind of hunger; unrelenting, harsh, needy. His hands slide over her skin, nails tracing paths down her body.

Here and now; here and now, all he needs (all he wants) is her.

She's fully prepared to meet him halfway in the kiss, and it deepens further when she tilts her chin up to let her mouth move against his. It grows a little sloppy when she pulls back to whimper, but never loses its intensity.

She arches below him, hips rising up to meet his again and again, and her own nails scratch light over his shoulderblades.

That pain only serves as an aphrodisiac, his back arching under her fingers as a grimace flashes over his face.

Nothing about the way he touches her is enough to draw blood, but enough to leave bruises, leave marks that'll be clearly visible the next day. (And that's what he wants.)

She knows the marks will be there later, serving as small reminders (temporary unless she can get him to remake them when they start to fade).

The barrier between pleasure and pain starts to crumble when she gives herself over to it more fully; her movements lose control and become more erratic and unpredictable as she practically writhes from the ecstasy of it all.

Heat, haze, and her -- it's all he can register. His movements grow faster, skin flush on skin, breathless and close to falling over the edge.

(And here he'd almost forgotten what it was like to have a match.)

Her hands scramble for purchase on anything, whatever she can find. One fists in the sheets and the other cups the back of his neck.

Her release is practically snatched away from her, and she's coming before she even knows what's hit her.

His lips part, no sound coming out as he passes over the edge, the heat that had been pooling in his muscles slowly untwisting, slowly letting him down from a great height.

Hips bumping against hers a last time, he raised one hand to her face, brushing back her hair as he kisses her again, still not gentle per se but more so than before.

She rides out the aftermath, a few remaining sensations rippling outward from deep inside her, and the moan that falls from her lips then is the loudest sound she'll make.

She lays back, hair fanning out around her head in a scarlet corona, and tries to catch her breath, her heartbeat still racing at a gallop.

He seems reluctant to move more than a foot or two away from her, but shifts quietly to the edge of the bed and sits up, eyes closed, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth. His breathing's still hard, chest rising and falling at a quick pace, slowing very gradually.

He can still feel a sort of burn on his skin, the high that had been clouding his head a little bit clearer now. Brushing over his forehead with the palm of one hand, he glances back over his shoulder, content (for now) just to watch her.

She's still splayed out, luxuriating in the aftershocks, waiting until she can't hear her heart pounding in her own ears anymore.

And then she finally rises, tossing her hair back over one shoulder, propped up on her elbows as she fixes him with a lazy grin.

"Wŏ de mā*," she breathes.

* mother of God

There's an easy mirror of that grin on his face as he leans back, trailing a finger along her hip.

"Think I like the way that sounds," he murmurs, "Though I could probably tolerate listenin' to you read the phone book. Either way, you're gonna have to help me with the translation."

OOM: Upstairs.

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