a/n: There's a photo which inspired and thus accompanies this story (mild nfsw warning) - you can find it on my tumblr account at nic6879 . tumblr . com (remove the spaces).

This Twilight

Wow. This is not what he had expected of his night. At all.

It's a million times better than anything he could've envisioned.

His mouth runs dry, longing so stark that it resembles physical pain consuming his body, blood rushing south, pounding, straining.

Two weeks. Two weeks since he's been on the road for book signings, two long weeks of interchangeable, empty hotel rooms and missing his wife so much that it hurt. He'd never before been that guy, the guy who'd long so feverishly, who'd felt homesick the moment he stepped through airport security.

But that was before Kate, before being granted the kind of love that feels larger than life.

Two weeks and here she is, draped along the edge of the California king bed in his hotel suite, wearing nothing but high, glossy pumps and an inviting smile. She's seductive to perfection, yet it's never staged, never without warmth. The clean lines of the bed linens contrast sharply with the lithe shape of her body, pale skin and the soft mounds of her breasts, pink nipples pebbled in the cool air-conditioning. He can almost feel them against his tongue, hard and sensitized to the slightest touch.

"Kate," he croaks, voice all but gone and he can't blame the last ten hours of speaking the same few sentences over and over- only the naked woman for whom he'd longed night and day. His beautiful wife.

"Hey." Her voice low, seductive in the way that shimmies straight to his crotch, his body already straining against the confinement of his pants, seeking the slick warmth of her embrace.

"Thought you'd never get here." Her teeth scrape against her bottom lip, a move that'd seem calculated if it weren't her, if he didn't know the genuine, sensuous expressions of her desire.

He loosens his tie; he rarely ever wears one to book signings, doesn't know why he chose to do so this morning but now it seems like intuition. She loves him in a tie. Her eyes seem to sparkle, darken in hue when he tugs the fabric from around his neck, lets him know she's in a playful mood.

"Touch yourself." It's less demand than plea, the need to see her a raw thing, a fiery heat that spreads to his midsection, his limbs.

Her gaze never wavering from his, she lets her legs fall open over the edge of the bed, balancing her weight against the floor, her heels dug hard against the dark hardwood. Her fingers slide down the length of her torso, goosebumps following in the wake of her own touch. God, he loves her fingers, her hands; he always has. Has watched her hands gesture, articulate her thoughts, her fingers write or fidget or touch since the moment he'd met her. Slim and elegant, sensual with every caress she bestows yet strong when she needs to be, when they both want her to be.

Two fingers glide between her legs, her wetness almost audible in the quiet room and he groans in rhythm with the moan that escapes from her lips, her eyes fluttering closed.

"That's it, baby," he encourages, walking toward her, watching as her fingertips circle her nerves, her muscles tensing in her thighs and her firm ass, her hips shimmying, chasing her own touch. She's the sexiest thing he's ever seen, bar none, and she's his wife. Sometimes he still counts his lucky stars, wonders how he ever got to be so fortunate that she fell in love with him too. His body goes taut with want, heat rising through him, making his blood rush deafeningly in his ears.

Kate arches for him when she feels him near, blinking up at him, eyes so dark and consumed with wanton desire. He leans over her, pulling the tie straight between his hands, and her tongue slips across her bottom lip, her yes gliding voicelessly from her mouth.

He drapes the fabric over her eyes, loosely knots the tie around her head.

She rises up against nothing, seeking his touch, his skin, his kiss, anything- Everything. She's missed him so much, an ever-present ache that filled her days, that wasn't eased by phone calls and FaceTime and exceedingly dirty texts. So she took her chance the moment it was presented, two days where she was off work, wasn't on call, days that gaped empty and boring before her until she booked her flight and excitement fluttered in her midsection.

She never thought it'd be that way, that she would ever have anything like this, so real and strong and all-consuming, a man whose love would be her cornerstone, and yang to her yin. She never quite believed that she would be capable of the kind of love they share, that she needed it, that she would be worthy of it. Yet he's been surprising her every step of the way, and now she can't imagine her life without him. Doesn't want to.

She just wants him, still, always.

Her nipples tighten, almost painfully peaked in the chilled hotel room, in anticipation of his touch. Darkness surrounds her now, yet she feels his presence nearby, his broadness a familiar specter that fills a space like no-one she's ever known before, confident and strong, yet undeniably tender. So loving.

Her senses seem heightened in the absence of sight and she listens to the whisper of fabric, to sounds that she hopes are the buttons of his shirt, of shoes being slipped off feet, of trousers and boxer briefs landing on the floor. Her fingers speed up, cold fingertips against the heat that radiates from her center, her heartbeat racing, almost harsh against her ribs, pounding between her legs.

Seconds pass, minutes, she doesn't know any longer, only knows the ravenous yearning coiled in her midsection, every muscle tense; the chill of the room and the warmth of his presence frustratingly out of reach, the sound of his breathing and his scent that leave her mouth parched and her body wet.

"Touch me." It's plea and wanton need, an echo of his earlier request and no sooner than she's voiced her desire, his mouth replaces her fingers.

She arches high, her cry wild against her tongue, flying toward the heat of his mouth as he closes his lips around her clit, his tongue circling teasing stroking; broad hands encircling her hips, so warm, holding her in place for his determined perusal. Her fingers claw into the bedspread, muscles tightening as he stokes the fire that's roaring through her, brings her to the edge at lightning speed.

Almost as fast as his mouth was on her it's gone again, and she drops back against the bedding, strung so taut, her skin tingling and hypersensitive. She's aching for him, wants to beg, bites her lip to keep her voice trapped because she knows, she just knows that it'll be worth her patience.

And then it starts- lips, fingertips, tongue, teeth, the teasing caress of his breath, no discerning rhythm as he maps her body, fast, sharp, or lingering, featherlight, slow; she never knows where, can only feel when he reaches the next destination of his haphazard path. Lips closing around her nipple, sucking her deep into his mouth while his fingertips linger at the bow of her ribcage, tease the spot that makes her shiver, sends goosebumps climbing along her skin. He seems to chase them, lingering here or there, the bend of her elbow or the curve of her navel, the crease of her thigh, the arc of her collarbone. His tongue painting long lines or playful swirls, a fingertip sliding into her wetness while his breath whispers across the plane of her stomach. Exploring her as if it's been years instead of two weeks, as if he's learning her anew and she's a quivering mass, she's moans and gasps and senseless words, she's awash in sensations that crash over her like waves, riding each crest that seems higher than the last, body tensed, blood pounding just beneath her skin, reaching higher, higher-

He stops.

She's quaking, her body seeking, contracting around nothing as she skates along the edge he's left her hanging on, claws her nails into the bedspread, needing something, anything while he's removed his every touch. Needing him. She needs him.

"Please," she moans, begging now. "Want you."

She's so beautiful. He can never get enough of her; every night he's dreamt of worshipping her, will never tire of this, her reactions so raw, genuine, so erotic that its fulfillment in and of itself. Her hips shift against nothing, her blood pounding visibly through the vein beneath the pale skin of her neck, but it's not about teasing or withholding, not tonight, only about her and him and the yearning ache of them. He nudges her knees apart, filling the the gap with his hips, marveling at the way they fit together so seamlessly. Nudging his tip against the heat of her entrance, he can't help but groan at the familiar warmth, the scent, anticipation and desire whirling together, making his blood rush, his length hardening impossibly more, almost to the point of pain.

She's rocking against him, her body seeking him, seemingly without her permission because her head is shaking against the bedding, fingers flying up to her head, clawing at the blindfold.

"Not like this," she gasps, and he gets it almost before she continues to voice her thought. "Want to see you. I've missed you so much."

His heart hammers, the hunger within him mirroring the intensity of her words and he reaches for her, tugging the tie off her eyes. Her pupils are wide, blown with arousal, need and her love for him swirling in the depth of her eyes.

"I've missed you too," he murmurs as he slides inside the welcoming heat of her body, has to work hard to keep his eyes open when her warmth caresses him like molten silk, so familiar yet overwhelming him every time, the way she loves him, grasps him, holds him tight. He watches her mouth fall open on a strangled groan, her eyes slam shut helplessly, then determinedly blink them open to find his in the hazy twilight of dusk that bathes their hotel room, watches her abs ripple when he fills her and her fingers scrabble for something to hold on to.

He bends over her, slowly, slides deeper as her legs bend back with him, and he loves how flexible she is, loves how she loves this too, her ankles hooked over his shoulders, those sexy shoes still on her feet and the angle deep, so deep.

She clenches around him and comes almost immediately, falling apart after his meticulous foreplay that'd left her just on the cusp, and he stays deep; swift sharp thrusts as she rides out her first orgasm, her muscles clamping around him, almost taking him with her as he marvels at the beauty of her release.

Her legs drop off his shoulders, limp around his hips and he reaches for her, chasing the last notes of her climax with his lips, sipping her breathless moans into his mouth as he kisses her deeply. Her tongue finds his, chasing playing seeking, her legs folding around his hips and her fingers gripping his hair, around his neck, her limbs wrapped around him like a vice, as if she'll never let him go again.

That suits him just fine.

He kisses her through his first thrusts, long and rhythmic, intent on building her up again with him; kisses her still when his moves get sloppy, lose their melody with the snug, clenching, irresistible heat of her body; lips brushing and breaths shaky as she moans, clings to him, her hips meeting his on every downward stroke. He folds his arms around her, holding her in his embrace, so slight in his arms despite the strength housed in every one of her muscles. His only leverage is gained from his feet pressed hard against the chilled wood floor and it's awkward, strains his calves and knees but it doesn't matter, nothing matters but the heat and touch and love of his wife.

He feels it more than hears it, the plea just a whisper, a groan against his lips, harder, more; strokes inside her as his release builds against the low of his spine, spiraling outward, muscles tensing, vision whitening out. Her cry against his mouth is oblivion and sweet relief, her nails sharp against his skin, the heat of her clamping, milking him to the point of no return and then he breaks, comes hard. The coil snapping, muscles quivering, body shaking in her embrace, his forehead pressed to hers, rapid breaths mingling.

It's long moments until he comes back to himself, becomes aware of the painful angle, of her hands trying to drag him with her to lie further onto the bed. He slips from within her warmth, the cold air a harsh clasp and he misses her immediately. On shaky legs he crawls onto the bed, slumps on his back, reaching for Kate to tug her against his side. She's warm and soft and pliant, curls against him instantly. It's a familiar embrace, borne of love and comfort and the boneless euphoria of making love, arm draped over his torso and her cheek resting against his chest where his heart beats just for her. His fingers trip up and down her spine, his body limp and all of him happy, just punch-drunk, king-of-the-world happy.

"Shit, Kate," he groans, still too incoherent for any words of substance and his voice roughened from the staggering intensity of release.

"Best surprise ever."