None of the characters mentioned are mine, and I have made no money from my efforts. This story features a Greg Sanders/ Sara Sidle pairing, so if you dislike that particular ship you might want to stay away. This is very raw, quite a bit stronger than what I usually write, and this is just the "clean" version. (The original is posted on AFFNet. Need directions; drop me an e-mail.)
My first time with Sara we were in such a hurry to complete the connection we never even bothered to take all our clothes off . In truth I needed to be inside her so much my impatient, shaking hands probably would've torn her delicate shirt if I'd tried to undress her. At any rate, three minutes after we cleared my front door we were on my bed, her jeans and underwear hanging off the edge as our sweaty bodies moved together in wild, animal need. My pants I'd simply unzipped and pulled down just enough. She clutched at me and I gave her all I had, all I am, love and lust twining together as I thrust us both toward the shared oblivion of release. When she came apart she cried out my name, MY name, not his, and her sharp nails dug into my scarred back as we flew together into that shared ecstasy beyond words. Afterward, I wrapped her in myself and stilled the words I longed to speak, words I knew would only frighten her. If this was all of her I was allowed to have, then I would accept it and try with my body to give her the love she wouldn't accept any other way. Silence was not something anyone would ever attribute to me, but if that was how she needed me then silent I would be. I would take what she would let me have and be what she needed me to be, and afterward I would leave unsaid the things I knew she didn't want to hear. I could only hope doing so wouldn't destroy me.
I keep thinking back to that night, wondering how we ended up like we did. It started innocently enough - a call from Catherine asking me to meet her at her house. Sara was there, Sara was upset, Sara needed me. Hank Pettigrew, spoiled yuppy pretty-boy bastard that he was, Hank had fucked her over. The details were ugly, but it all coalesced down to one self-centered snot-nosed dog puke who neglected to mention he had a fiance'. Yes, folks, he was using my Sara for a little ass on the side. I picked her up at Catherine's, took her to get something to eat, sat next to her in the back of a dark, empty restaurant and listened quietly as she told me what had happened. She fought tears a few times, tears perhaps borne more from shame than from heartache, then stopped fighting and gave in to them when I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close. "Let it out," I whispered. "You'll feel better." She sobbed into me, soaked up my offered comfort. When the well of tears gave out she pulled back and looked at me, her dark eyes glittering in the candlelight. She licked her dry lips and looked at me as hunger pushed aside sadness. I watched her watch me, watched her move closer and press her mouth to mine. As she kissed me I ran my tongue along the seam of her mouth and slipped it inside. A few moments later I pulled back and studied her. "Let's go," I whispered, then threw down much more than I owed and headed for the car. She followed me out into the darkened, deserted parking lot and silently got in next to me. She collapsed into me and clung to my neck as deep kisses began anew and quickly progressed to an even more profound kind of comfort, my hands slipping into her clothing, touching and stroking and swirling and invading until neither of us could take any more. Only a total bastard would take advantage of the kind of pain she was in that night, but passion and need can make a bastard of the most honorable of men. I was lost.
I can only say I was enough of a gentleman not to take her in the car. I pushed away long enough to start the engine, and three blocks later we were home. Twenty steps and we were going in the front door, eight more and we were laying on my bed, baring ourselves for what we both so desperately needed. The first time was hungry and fierce, the preliminaries in the car already having driven us both so crazy it was amazing we'd made it inside the damn apartment.
The second time was slow and tender, as gentle as our previous coupling had been rough. I wanted to touch her very soul, to show her that she was not simply some secret vice to be taken out and used on a whim, like a nasty movie or a bottle of whiskey kept in a drawer. I watched her as I stroked her soft cheek and whispered her name, saw her lips quiver and her eyes close as she pushed into my caress like a cat craving attention. "So sweet," I whispered, brushing my lips against hers. "So beautiful." I unbuttoned her shirt and pushed it off her arms, then quickly shed my own clothing like a snake ridding itself of an outgrown skin. "Skin on skin," I whispered as I feathered my hands along her arms. "I think you're made of silk."
I covered her mouth with my own. She tasted of gin and sex and bitter tears, and when her lips opened she gave me a whimpering sigh. I sucked it in, the distilled essence of her pain and rejection, humiliation and even darker things unnamed, I swallowed it all. My hands slipped feather-light over her bare breasts, teasing the nipples into rosy points, painting abstract patterns over the globes with my fingertips. When they grew restless I let those fingertips meander slowly southward, passing across plains of flinching ribs and fragile belly, finally slipping softly over her most delicate places. She gasped and pushed into me, and a sensual heat flowed through my veins in response.
"I want to make love to you," I whispered harshly. "So much it hurts." I gently bit her shoulder, then soothed the spot with the tip of my tongue.
We teased and stroked each other for as long as we could take it, but then things shifted and she was pulling at me, her breathing ragged and desperate. "Now," she whispered urgently. "Please."
She didn't have to ask again. I loved her gently, stroking her cheek and kissing her as we rocked slowly together. The tension built gradually, like an unhurried storm rolling in from over the desert, just a faraway mass of dark clouds and rumbling portent growing progressively louder and more electric until there, it's on you. Then you feel the thunder claps in your chest, see the lightning strikes turn night into day and shake the very ground beneath you. That was us that night. When our personal storm was over I clutched her to my heaving chest, unwilling to let her see in my eyes just what this beautiful night had done to me. I knew with every fiber of my being I would never, ever be the same.