#twc fic

He should not be here. He should have left the moment he had seen her safely to her apartment. He should have left while she changed and freshened up, rather than insist he keep watch just a moment longer. He should have left when she emerged from the bathroom, hair piled on top of her head, soft and warm as the surprised smile on her face when she saw him seated on the edge of her bed. He should leave now, and ignore the warmth of her thighs against his as she stands between his legs.

He grips her soft waist, pulls her flush against his body. Surprisingly pliant against him, her warmth seeps through the thin fabric of the old shirt she calls pajamas as she brings her lips to his. She kisses him, soft and willing, tearing at the last shred of his willpower, all of which he uses to pull back, just enough to whisper against her lips, "We should not do this."

He keeps his grip tight on her waist, but she does not kiss him again, the way he both hoped and feared she would. Instead, she runs her hands gently over his shoulders, her touch soothing his tensed body, and murmurs, "You have remarkable self-control."

Adam has gotten better at knowing when she is teasing him—and she must be teasing, for it has only been a few weeks since he swore to her he would let her go, a promise that was proving as impossible to keep as leaving is now. "It is difficult to maintain, when it comes to you."

Sutton smiles, and the only word to describe it is mischievous. Her plush lower lip catches between her teeth, and there is a look in her eye he has come to know as well as the stubborn set of her shoulders during an argument, one always accompanied by the intent to push. Uncertainty shivers pleasurably down his spine.

She says, "Let me make things easy for you tonight."

Warmth blooms in his cheeks at the words, spoken with a soft heat. He opens his mouth to protest that nothing about the way she is pressed against him makes anything easier, but she cuts him off with a kiss. Where her earlier kisses were soft, this kiss is intense, seeking and open as her hand cups the back of his neck, pulling him close. The flush spreads down his neck, across his chest, flaring where her hand lays flat against him. She leans into him, and even through his thick cargo trousers he feels the heat of her thigh between his legs, which his body answers with a hot, harsh throb. It is dizzying, how much he wants her, how badly he wants to hold her close, a weakness he despairs of—

"Take off your pants," she murmurs against his lips. "I want you to touch yourself."

Heat ripples through him even as he blanches, so quickly it startles him almost as much as the words themselves. It is difficult to look her in the eye as he—to his dismay—splutters, "I hardly think that—"

"I'm doing the thinking tonight," she says promptly. Her fingers find some slight purchase in his short hair and use it effectively, tilting his head back to meet her gaze. "And the ordering."

A pulse resounds in his core at ordering, and almost without thinking he drops a hand between his legs, cupping himself through his trousers. I should not be doing this, he thinks, even as he feels himself stiffen beneath his hand. Sutton still has hold of his hair, and so he has no choice but to look her in the eye, to watch her gaze darken as she watches him back. It will only hurt us both.

She pushes on his shoulders, both at once, and though he has honed his supernatural strength to precision over the course of nine centuries, he falls back onto his hands. He swallows as she trails her hands across his chest, cannot help the slight hitch of his breath when they move down his abdomen. She comes to a stop at the buttons of his trousers, and taps them once before pulling her hands back.

Adam sits as still as the stone from which he has often been accused of being made, but his heart is not so quiet. It pounds in his chest, on the edge of thrill and trepidation, but there is no more deliberation to be had, and he does not want to have it, anyway. He unbuttons his trousers, slips them down his thighs along with his briefs. She smiles as he does so, and he knows this one too, the result of her particular stubborn patience winning out.

It mortifies him, how hard he has grown already, from only a few kisses and touches, but he manages to look at her as his erection is freed between them, and he is glad for it. Her breath catches ever so slightly in her chest as her gaze drops, and a fresh wave of need pulses in his body when he hears her heartbeat quicken at the sight of him.

She looks up, and says, firmly, "Stroke yourself."

He shivers slightly as he finally takes himself in hand. He is no stranger to this task, though neither is he particularly familiar. He does not remember the last time he allowed himself to indulge in this habit, and he certainly had not had anyone observing him then, but he at least knows what works best. He replicates it now, his grip just firm enough as he slides his hand along his length.

"Take your time," Sutton says, her eyes still locked on his. He slows, and the new pace draws a shaky breath from his lips. "Slower, Adam. And gentler, too."

Need sparks low in his belly, white hot and sharp, at the firm drop of his name from her lips. It makes it harder to do as she says, but he breathes in deep and loosens his grip once more. He forces himself to draw his pleasure out, and it is agonizing. He cannot think of anything besides the desperate force of his own desire, of her lips, parted as she watches him. His body is alight, aflame, with his need, but he makes himself keep the pace she requested. It is easier, when she is the one who asks. When he might see that smile again, if he gets it right.

She steps forward, careful not to touch his cock as she puts a hand on his shoulder and draws him toward her, into a sitting position. "Do you do this often?"

He frowns. He cannot fathom what she means by this—does he stroke himself while a beautiful woman watches often? Still, he wants to argue. He wants to say no, I do not indulge this weakness often, but it is difficult to think through the haze of desire that fogs his mind, and he only manages a breathy, mildly outraged denial before she leans in, pressing her cheek to his and whispering in his ear, "Do you think of me when you do?"

Adam stutters a breath in his surprise, his thoughts blinkering. Images pass unwillingly through his mind—Sutton, her pajamas soaked through, clinging to every one of her generous curves. Sutton, shirtless, his own hand skimming across her chest as he rubs a healing ointment into her skin. Sutton in a long black dress, the neckline dipping enticingly low. He has thought of her before, but never like this, never with his hand around his cock. He has not even allowed himself the practice of this touch since meeting her. "I have not—I would not—"

"You should think of me now," she says, still whispering in his ear. His eyes flutter shut, a powerful blaze of desire sweeping through his body at the words. She presses a kiss to his cheek. "Think of me taking you between my lips. My hand stroking your cock, just how you like it. Think of how wet I'll be, when you finally slide into me."

A growl rips through Adam. He surges forward, wraps his free arm around her waist, and captures her lips with his. She laughs against his mouth, satisfied, more than a little smug, and any shred of self-control he had managed to maintain dissipates at the sound of it. His body, alight with his need, flares bright hot where she touches him, her hands roving across his shoulders, his chest, clutching at the back of his neck. He succumbs to the order, desperately thinking of her in all the ways he had tried so desperately to not. He thinks of the fall of her breasts beneath her shirt, of trailing his lips between them and over the rise of her stomach. He pictures himself gripping her bare thighs and pulling her into his lap right now, pictures the part of her lips, the gasp as she slides herself onto him. Imagines how her chest would catch against his, and the first shift of her hips against his. His own hips jump, as if hoping to find more than his own hand, and Sutton does not reprimand him for the frantic pace he keeps now, only kisses him deeper, licking hot into his mouth. His hand twists and slides and shifts until he moans against Sutton's lips, in pleasure and relief, as his climax overtakes him.

He rests his head against her shoulder as he comes down. She cradles him there, just close enough to be pleasant, stroking his hair while his breaths come in short, harsh pants. He is overwhelmed and overwhelmingly sensitive, and even the light touches are enough to make him shiver slightly against her. When his breathing finally evens out, she kisses his temple and extracts herself, disappearing into the bathroom and emerging with a cloth. At first she reaches for him, as if to do the work herself, but pauses, and hands over the cloth instead.

Adam is methodical in his cleanup. Sutton stands back while he wipes his hands and then his body, and he appreciates the distance. In the time it took her to retrieve the cloth, every thought that had fled with her first instruction had come rushing back in, sweeping away the relief of letting go and replacing it with the awareness that he had likely made it all much, much worse for the both of them.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" Sutton says, when he has pulled his trousers back up. It is a different kind of relief that she does not expect him to stay, and he appreciates that, too. She steps forward and lifts a hand to his cheek, as difficult to deny as ever as she turns his face toward hers. He works up the courage to meet her eye and the smile he finds there is breathtaking, warm and happy and brilliant, so beautiful it makes his chest ache.

He leans into the touch, lets his eyes flutter shut. Turns his head so he can press the barest of kisses to the inside of her wrist, the guilt that weighs on him at her soft sigh only just outweighed by the desire to keep touching her. "Tomorrow," he replies.

Then he flees.

He is not proud of it, but it is what he does, stepping away from her and rushing out of the room, not stopping until he has slid into the driver's seat of his favored SUV. He slumps into the seat, his head falling back against the headrest as he does so. He remembers, involuntarily, Sutton's fingers in his hair. If he had not been a vampire, if he had not healed from any physical pain so fast, would he still be tender where she had tugged him into place?