Disclaimer: Sleepy Hollow belongs to Washington Irving and FOX

Abbie and Ichabod's POV

-2 weeks later-

Abbie's hands shake, fingers covered in drying mud, and it's hard to keep her grip on the steering wheel. Her whole body trembles, freezing cold seeps into her skin. There is mud everywhere. Both she and Ichabod are covered nearly head to toe and since it's the beginning of December, it's freezing mud.

Abbie glances over at Ichabod, who's trembling almost as much as she is. He has his hands tucked under his armpits and he's hunched over a little in the seat. "You all right over there?"

"As well as can be," Ichabod says. "I do wish your car's heating system would work a bit faster."

When Abbie started the car, the engine was stone cold and it doesn't want to warm up enough to fill the cab with heat. "Yeah, me too," Abbie says.

Ichabod looks over at Abbie. He's worried about her. She's so tiny; he doesn't know how she's handling the freezing chill. "You look as if you're going to shiver straight out of the car."

Abbie snorts. "Feels like it."

Abbie navigates the car along the road through the forest and Ichabod curses the events that have transpired, especially since it all seems to have been for nothing. A useless tromp through the forest, searching for a long lost burial site, only to have both of them fall into a frozen mud pit.

"I'm going to take us to the cabin. It's only a few minutes from here," Abbie says, her voice still shaking.

"I insist you come in and warm up, then," Ichabod says. "I cannot in good conscience let you make your way home alone."

Abbie lets out a small chuckle and the sound shakes in time to her shivering. "I'm not going to say no to that."

Abbie pulls up in front of the cabin – a few minutes later just as she said – and kills the engine. The sun's almost disappeared beneath the horizon and the air that hits her when she gets out of the car is more than biting. "Holy fuck," she mutters under her breath. She pops the trunk open as Ichabod goes to the cabin's front door and when she peers inside the trunk, she swears again. There's no duffle bag, which makes sense because she took it out to wash the things inside and hasn't had a chance in days to repack it. "Damn it!" she says as she slams the trunk closed.

"Is everything all right?" Ichabod asks over his shoulder.

"Not really," Abbie says as she walks up behind Ichabod. "I don't have my duffle in the trunk."

They've been working together long enough that Ichabod knows the meaning of the duffle bag, so he just nods and opens the door. "I am sure we shall figure something out," Ichabod says, stepping aside to let Abbie walk in first. "In the meanwhile, however, I insist that you have the first turn of the shower."

Abbie raises an eyebrow. "You sure?"

"Positive," Ichabod says. "I've survived worse chills than this."

Abbie knows better than to argue. Once Ichabod gets an idea in his head, it's nearly impossible to dissuade him. "All right, thanks. I'll try not to take too long."

Abbie enters the small bathroom and closes the door behind her. She flicks on the light, casting the hard surfaces of the room in a yellow, incandescent glow, and takes a good look in the mirror. She's absolutely filthy. Almost every inch of her up to her neck is covered in mud. Her jeans and jacket are ruined and the long-sleeved tee she wears underneath is soaking wet. Should have known better than to wear cotton. The only bright point is that she wore her hair piled up beneath a thick, black beanie and that didn't get wet at all, which means her hair is fine. It's a silver lining she'll gladly take.

And, so, Abbie turns on the shower and begins the cold and uncomfortable process of taking off her clothes, tossing them in a dirty pile in the corner by the door. She's still shivering when she steps underneath the steaming spray and it takes a couple of minutes before she feels her insides begin to thaw.

Abbie doesn't linger long – though she wishes she could – to make sure she doesn't use up all the hot water. She turns off the shower and grabs a spare towel from the cabinet under the sink. She's halfway through drying off when she realizes she doesn't have anything to wear. She looks over at the door and spots the flannel robe that hangs on a hook on the back.

Abbie freezes, caught in a panic. She remembers the shopping trip when they bought that robe for Ichabod and she knows how soft it is. It would feel amazing against her skin. But can she bring herself to walk out of the bathroom wearing only the robe with nothing underneath it?

Abbie glances over at her pile of sodden and dirty clothes on the floor and knows that she can either walk out of the bathroom wearing the robe or walk out wearing just a towel and, gee, which one covers more?

So Abbie lets out a resigned sigh and grabs the stupid robe.

Ichabod's at loose ends, it feels like. He doesn't dare sit down anywhere, not with his clothes covered in mud and dirt the way they are – he shudders to think about how much work cleaning out the inside of Abbie's car is going to take. So, for what feels like several minutes, Ichabod stands in the middle of the cabin's main living area and tries not to imagine Abbie naked in the shower. He fails spectacularly.

So now he's standing in the middle of the living area, both feeling useless and aroused. Ichabod heaves a sigh and moves into his bedroom. His boots and jacket get tossed into the corner by the small closet – another two things he's not looking forward to cleaning – and he passes the time by picking out clothing to wear after his turn in the shower.

Abbie must have finished sometime during this process because Ichabod's pulled out of his task by the sound of the bathroom door opening. "Has anyone ever told you you're freakishly tall?" Abbie calls out somewhere in the hallway beyond the room.

Ichabod listens to the sound of her footsteps moving into what has been turned into a small laundry room. "Many people during my boyhood days. And thank you for dredging up those memories."

There's a brief pause before Abbie speaks again. "Sorry," she says, her voice closer. Ichabod turns to see Abbie standing in the doorway and he almost chokes on his next breath. She's wearing his bathrobe, with the sleeves rolled up and the bottom brushing the tops of her feet. The sash cinches the robe tight around her waist and Ichabod cannot help but think that the robe looks far better on her than it does on him. "Is it ok if I borrow your bathrobe? I didn't have anything else to wear."

"Fine, it's fine," Ichabod says in a rush. He doesn't dare think about what Abbie is or isn't wearing beneath the flannel and how much he wants to remove the robe from her body to find out. "I am just going to – my turn in the shower." He gestures with the pile of clothes in his hand and wishes he wasn't so easily flustered.

Abbie gives him a look, a knowing one, and the usual tension that sits between the two of them ratchets up a level. "I'm going to heat up some water for tea. You want some?"

"Sounds lovely." Ichabod follows Abbie out of the room and tries not to ogle her on his way into the bathroom.

He fails.

Again.

The kitchen of the cabin is more like a kitchenette and it doesn't take very many steps for Abbie to reach the stove from the entrance into the kitchen, her bare feet padding against the cool linoleum. The kettle's already on the stove, so it's a simple matter of filling it with water and turning the right dial.

With the kettle heating, Abbie stands in front of the sink and looks out the window. The sun's gone now and the only light is the dim lamplight that spills in from the front room behind her. Abbie could go over and turn the light on, but she's fine standing in the partial darkness.

Without the lights, it's easier to remember the look on Ichabod's face when he saw her in his bathrobe. Surprise and desire played out equally on his face and Abbie felt his gaze on her all the way until he walked into the bathroom. He looked at her like he wanted to slowly undress her and Abbie's not above admitting that she wants to let him.

Abbie's hands are trembling, only not from the cold this time. She wraps one arm around her torso and holds the neck of the robe closed with her other hand. She wonders – hopes – that whatever dance they've been doing around each other for the past weeks, or months if she's being honest, is about to end. She wonders if she has the courage to take that leap forward.

She's spaced out standing there in front of the window, lost in her thoughts, and the sound of Ichabod's voice coming from behind her re-anchors her in the present. "I do believe the water's boiling."

Abbie looks over to the stove to see steam rising out of the kettle. "Whoops," she says with a nervous laugh and moves to turn off the stove.

Only Ichabod has the same idea and he reaches the stove a millisecond before she does. They're both standing in front of the tiny range, so close to each other that Abbie's shoulder is pressing into his chest.

Abbie's breath hitches and she turns to look up at Ichabod. His hair is damp and loose, falling around his face in soft locks and the chest she's pressed up against is covered in a soft, long-sleeved Henley thermal. But it's the look on his face that arrests Abbie's heart. Desire and affection and wonder play in equal measures on his features and Abbie does the only thing she can.

She leaps.

Ichabod realizes what is happening half a second before it actually does. Abbie looks up at him with open resolve and when she reaches up for him, Ichabod reaches back.

The first touch of his lips on hers is a soft, tremulous kiss. Abbie stands on her toes, her head tilted up, and Ichabod winds his fingers in her hair to keep their mouths pressed together. Her lips are soft, softer than even he thought possible, and the feel of her body pressed against his, her hands resting on his chest, fills him with heat.

The kiss draws to a close and they pull back enough to look at each other, eyes meeting in a blazing gaze. It feels as if every moment they've spent together has been leading to this very night and Ichabod cannot help the anticipation that speeds up the beat of his heart and causes his hands trembling where they cradle Abbie's head.

Abbie's never been one for grand words of declaration, but she can safely say that the kiss she just shared with Ichabod set off a cascade of fireworks inside of her. She looks up at him and the way he looks at her warms her up from the inside out. So she licks her lips and pulls him down for another kiss, her hands clutching the fabric of his shirt that rests beneath her palms.

Their second kiss is a very different creature than their first. Abbie's arms come up to encircle his neck, her whole body flush against his, while Ichabod holds her close, one arm wrapped around her waist with one hand still in her hair. Their second kiss is all fiery lust wrapped around deep passion and it makes Abbie nearly swoon at the trembling heat that skitters up and down her spine.

Abbie hooks a leg around Ichabod's thigh and tries to leverage herself higher so she can better kiss him. She thanks whatever deity watching over them that Ichabod's a smart man because he lifts her up to set her on the counter next to the stove.

Ichabod allows himself to get lost in the feel of Abbie's lips on his, of her body pressed against him. Her fingers dance across the skin on the back of his neck and when she wraps a leg around his own, halfway up his thigh, and he places her on the counter next to them and steps between her parting thighs, he nearly loses all ability to reason. Her knees grip his hips and the warmth that surrounds him makes him never want to pull away.

He does, though, breaking the kiss just enough to look down at her. But he doesn't remove his hands from her hips or step back from the cradle of her thighs. The whimpering noise that Abbie makes in protest nearly crumbles Ichabod's resolve, but he has to know.

"Abbie," he says, his voice hoarse with need. "Are you sure?" It's a thousand questions all wrapped up in one: are you sure about me, about now, about here, about this?

Abbie hears all the questions Ichabod's asking and the answer to each one is yes, a thousand times yes, but words are beyond her at the moment. Her answer is to push him back toward her with her feet pressing into the back his thighs and nodding before she reaches up to kiss him again. He responds eagerly, his hands trailing up from her hips to caress her back through the thin flannel that covers it. Ichabod's fingers dance over the small of her back and it makes Abbie gasp. Her skin breaks out with goose bumps and her nipples begin to tighten.

Ichabod takes advantage of her gasp to pull his lips from hers so he can kiss his way down her neck and Abbie can't stop the loud moan that escapes her. She digs her heels into the muscular curve of his ass and draws him deeper between her thighs, rolling her hips against his to relieve the ache that continues to build up inside of her with each passing second.

Ichabod can feel the damp heat of her through the thin cotton trousers that he wears and he resists the urge to push back against her. He knows that she desires him just as much as he does her. But, he also knows there is nothing that can convince him to continue as they are on the kitchen counter of all places. No, he needs to make love to her properly, to worship her the way she deserves, and to do that, he needs to move the both of them to his bedroom.

Ichabod moves his hands back to Abbie's waist and he pulls her down from the counter as he steps back. Abbie looks up at him and she takes his breath away. Her lips are swollen from their kisses and her eyes are dark with desire, her chest heaving with every breath she takes. She nods and grabs his hands, pulling him from the kitchen.

They step into the bedroom and Ichabod grabs Abbie's shoulder to turn her around to face him. He kisses her again, bending down to do so, and runs his hands from her shoulders, down her back, and across her waist and hips to come around to the knot that holds the robe closed.

Ichabod breaks the kiss, breathing heavily as he looks down at her. "May I?"

Abbie's lips part, but no words come out, so instead she nods at him. Ichabod's heart begins beating even faster as his fingers work at the knot. It takes him a little longer than normal, but he manages to undo the sash.

Ichabod locks gazes with Abbie as his hands go up to where the two halves of the robe cross over beneath the hollow of her throat. He feels the shiver run through her when his slides his fingers beneath the fabric, her skin so unbelievably soft to his touch, and slowly pushes the material from her shoulders.

The robe falls to the floor with a soft whisper and only then does Ichabod dare look down to see what his hands have uncovered.

It's almost too much, the sight of Abbie bared to him, and he has no words to properly describe just how beautiful she is. He takes a step back to look at her. Exquisite. She is absolutely exquisite and it's still not a strong enough statement. He wants to write odes about her, wax poetic along each inch of her skin in every language he can think of as he worships at the altar of her beauty. She is all womanly curves and lithe limbs, intoxicating soft, dark skin and, when he looks back up at her face, Abbie looks at him with a wide, inviting gaze and lips begging to be kissed. She could tempt even the most stalwart of men and her physical beauty is only half of what makes her so alluring.

Ichabod cannot resist her any longer and when he reaches down to kiss her again, his lips hard against hers, he knows he is well and truly lost in love.

Abbie almost wants to cry. No man has ever looked at her the way Ichabod is right now, like she's the most beautiful and precious woman on the planet, of all time. And then he kisses her again, drinking her in like a man dying of thirst coming upon an oasis, and she lets herself get swept up in his passion. It's all too easy, since his passion matches hers.

Ichabod's hands traces down her bare skin, causing her to gasp and moan whenever he skims over a sensitive spot. She feels her knees begin to go weak and Abbie's not about to actually swoon, not when this is finally happening. With Ichabod's hand still tracing patterns along her back and sides, Abbie grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls him back towards the bed.

When the backs of her knees come in contact with the mattress, Abbie lays her palm flat against Ichabod's chest and pushes away, just enough so he looks her in the eye. And so, his gaze locked on her, she sits on the bed and scoots back until she's propped up against the pillows.

Abbie almost laughs at the way Ichabod's looking at her, she's so joyous. He's all slack-jawed, eyes roving everywhere. She can feel his gaze like a physical touch and she takes the opportunity to give his still-clothed form the once over. Ichabod's chest is heaving like he can't catch his breath and his hands twitch at his side like he's imagining touching her, but Abbie's gaze is drawn inexorably to his crotch and the very noticeable bulge that strains the fabric of his pajama pants. Abbie doesn't know whether to be impressed or freaked out that her dreams and fantasies seem to have accurately figured out the size of him, but she's got other things to concern herself with.

She draws one foot up the length of her calf, knee bending seductively, and crooks a finger. God, she can't help herself. The way Ichabod's looking at her makes her feel like a goddess, but she still can't stop the giggle that escapes her lips when Ichabod all but lunges for her.

And then there is no more giggling.

Abbie Mills is a Siren and Ichabod's a little concerned that she's managed to keep this a secret from him for so long. Or, at least it feels that way, with the come-hither look she's giving him and the way she's spread out across his bed. He does not know when Abbie managed to get the upper hand, but he'll be damned if he lets her keep it.

Ichabod crawls after her, nudging Abbie's legs apart with one knee, and he settles between her thighs as he reaches down to kiss her. Abbie's reaction is instant and she arches up into him, her bared breasts pressing delectably against his cloth-covered chest. Ichabod groans in frustration. He wants to feel those curves pressed against his skin.

Abbie's already ahead of him on that front, her small hands with their tricky fingers working their way beneath his shirt to begin pushing it up his torso. Her palms, roughened with calluses, send shivers down his spine as her touch trails up his rib cage. Ichabod only pulls his lips away from Abbie's to get the shirt up and over his head and he's already kissing her again when Abbie tosses the offending article of clothing aside.

Abbie wraps one leg around his hip and pushes up against him, his arousal pressing up against the most intimate part of her. Ichabod groans at the feel and, though he desires his release, there is still so much left to be done before that happens. Abbie lets out a moan that is full of impatience, but Ichabod does not let it affect him much.

He pulls back and presses a finger against her lips. "Not yet," he says.

Abbie draws his finger into her mouth, her tongue swirling around the tip, and Ichabod has to close his eyes for a moment to collect himself. "No, now," she says around the digit.

"Has no one taught you patience?" he asks, having calmed enough to speak again.

"I'll show you patience," she says, her voice breathy, and she raises a hand. She begins to slip it between their bodies, but Ichabod fishes it out and holds it down on the mattress.

Ichabod presses his forehead against Abbie's. "Let me have this, please. Let me show you."

There's something in Ichabod's voice that twists at Abbie's heart and, though her blood pounds with desire and her whole body is wound far too tight with need, she nods up at him. "Ok," she breathes. "Ok, show me."

Ichabod smiles his thanks and rests his upper body on one arm. With his free hand, he first cups her cheek, his fingers caressing her jaw, and then his hand starts trailing down.

Abbie shivers when his fingers brush along the length of her collarbone from her shoulder and in towards her throat. Ichabod then cuts downward, fingertips dragging down her sternum until he can he can lay his palm flat across her rib cage, below her breasts. He then skims the skin up and around the outer curve of her breast, the closest he's gotten to directly touching her the way she wants him to.

"There are no words for how beautiful you are," Ichabod murmurs.

Abbie arches into his touch, her nipples aching for attention. She watches his face, swept away by how lost he is in her and, when Ichabod looks up into her eyes, one eyebrow raised in questioning permission, Abbie nods. He cups the outer curve of her breast in his palm and runs his thumb across the tip. The second he passes over her nipple, Abbie cries out, pleasure shooting straight to between her thighs. Her nipple puckers immediately and Abbie moans again when he takes the budded skin between his thumb and forefinger, pinching and twisting just so.

Ichabod presses a kiss to her collarbone before he lets his mouth join his hand, leaving a trail of wet kisses down the top of her chest, the hair of his beard all but tickling her sensitized skin. He takes her nipple into his mouth, his tongue flicking her aroused flesh. Abbie's hands fly to Ichabod's head, her fingers tangling up in his hair. She's torn between wanting him to stay there forever and wanting more.

Ichabod switches hands and uses his newly freed one to give her other breast the attention she craves. Abbie arches her back into Ichabod's mouth and hands. She feels like she's so close to coming, just from having her breasts touched. She's never been so close with so little stimulation before and she shivers to think about how intense things still to come will be.

Ichabod feasts on Abbie with his mouth and hands. Her skin is soft as silk and the way she responds to his touch goes straight to his arousal. He resists the urge to tear off the last of his clothing and bury himself in her. There is no hurry, no true urgency. And he wants to remember every slow detail. There will be time later for fast and frenzied, but that time is not now.

Abbie moans above his head, the sound an erotic symphony composed only for him, and it inspires Ichabod to move on.

He abandons her breasts, his fingertips trailing down the curve of her waist and hips, while his mouth takes the route across her stomach, her abdominal muscles twitching in response to his touch. He avoids the apex of her thighs, his final destination, in favor of lavishing attention to her thighs. He nips the skin above her knee with his teeth as he pushes apart her thighs further.

Abbie spreads her legs with little convincing and the scent of her desire reaches him. He must taste her, to see if it's as intoxicating as her scent. Ichabod begins kissing his way up her thigh, alternating between her legs, before he settles in to do something he's been dreaming about for months.

Abbie forgets how to breathe as Ichabod kisses his way up her thighs, but she's forced to remember how when he blows across her wet and engorged flesh and she sucks in a gasping cry. Oh god, please, she thinks fervently, clit aching and throbbing.

"As my lady wishes," Ichabod says and Abbie realizes she spoke aloud just as Ichabod's mouth descends on her. And then thought is irrelevant. Ichabod teases her with his lips and tongue, and Abbie's entire world boils down to her clit. Her belly fills with warmth and the feel of his mouth on her, licking and sucking just where she needs him the most, is far and above anything her fantasies have conjured up in the past. Abbie's lost, just fucking lost, in a sea of sensation.

She raises her hips to meet Ichabod's mouth in time to his ministrations and it takes her a moment to realize that the lusty moans she hears are coming from her. But she doesn't care. Abbie has never felt this un-tethered before, this high-flying. And she's so close, pulled so taut. She can feel her orgasm hovering just out of reach and she craves it more than she's ever wanted anything in her entire life.

This is the moment Ichabod chooses to enter her with one long finger, adding a second a moment later. Abbie cries out and clenches around the digits. That's all she needed and then she's hurtling towards the edge, every nerve ending seizing as her orgasm comes crashing down on her.

Ichabod wishes he could better see Abbie's reaction to his touch, but his other senses are well stimulated enough to compensate. He pushes his hips down into the mattress to try and relieve the ache of his arousal, but he knows true relief will only be found where his fingers are currently occupied.

Abbie's desire reaches its peak and she cries out, her hands tightening in his hair as she pushes herself against his mouth. Her walls clamp onto his fingers so tight that Ichabod groans against her sensitive flesh.

He stays with his face buried between her thighs as she comes down from her climax and only when she sags against the mattress does Ichabod raise his head. He presses a soft kiss to her thigh before he crawls back up her body, wiping her wetness from his mouth and beard.

He settles back on top of her and Abbie opens her eyes, her chest heaving against his. "Oh my god," she breathes, her gaze darting about his face.

"So you already said," Ichabod says, teasing. He cannot help himself. He is too proud, too satisfied, over the reactions he wrought from Abbie's body.

Abbie doesn't seem to care about his tone and pulls him down for a kiss. If Abbie tastes herself on his lips, or even cares, she makes no indication, opening up her mouth to him once more. Ichabod lets himself get lost in the wild abandon of her kisses, so lost that he jumps in surprise when he feels Abbie's hands slip beneath the waistband of his trousers to cup his rear end.

Abbie breaks the kiss and smiles up at him. The expression is so open, it almost hurts Ichabod's heart to see it. "I think it's your turn now," she breathes. Ichabod cannot agree more. Together, they make short work of the last of Ichabod's clothing and then he's back between her legs, heart pounding with anticipation.

Abbie trails a hand down his chest and reaches between them. The feel of her fingers wrapping around his length is almost a shock to Ichabod and, for a moment, he cares about nothing other than her hand on him.

God, everything about touching him gets Abbie ready to go again. The feel of his cock in her hand, all hot and thick, hard and velvet to the touch at the same time; the way Ichabod shudders and slips his eyes shut, losing himself in the pleasure of her touch. Poor man probably hasn't been touched by another person in who knows how many years and Abbie knows she can't keep up what she's doing for long unless she wants this to be over sooner rather than later.

Ichabod lets her know when he's had enough of her hand on him because he grabs her elbow and pulls, forcing Abbie to let go. He kisses her heatedly, forearm planted by her head, and Abbie loves being surrounded by him. Ichabod pulls back and looks down at her. "You are too much for a sane man to bear, Abbie."

Abbie smiles. "In a good way?"

"In the best way possible."

Abbie lets her gaze drop to where their bodies are touching and looks back up at Ichabod through her lashes. "You haven't finished showing me yet." She raises her chin, inviting Ichabod to kiss her again.

He obliges, shifting against her to align their hips. "Allow me to rectify that horrendous oversight."

The look of excited anticipation on Abbie's face is one that Ichabod is sure he mirrors. He keeps his gaze locked on her face, forcing his eyes to stay open as the tip of him presses against her wet heat. He groans and Abbie gasps when he starts to enter her. His world boils down to the feel of being inside of her as he pushes his way slowly into her. Ichabod watches carefully the pleasure that plays across Abbie's face, needing not to miss a moment. He wants to be able to recall every detail. And so he resists the urge the close his eyes as he buries himself in her, gasping at the tightness that grips him like a vise.

And when he is fully inside of her, sheathed to the hilt, Abbie's eyes flutter and her head drops back, lips parted. "Oh god, that is so good," she moans, fingers his biceps.

Ichabod has no breath with which to speak, so he only nods and bows his back so he can press a kiss to Abbie's exposed neck. She tightens around him, squeezing his length with her inner walls, and she raises her hips against his.

Ichabod pulls out enough to thrust back into her, slow and steady, and both of them moan at the pleasure that ripples through them. And so it begins, the dance as old as time.

Ichabod feels amazing inside of her, just like Abbie always knew he would. But, once again, reality far outstrips fantasy and Abbie trembles and moans with each thrust. Her legs wrap around Ichabod's hips, ankles hooking behind his back to keep him as close to her as possible.

It's like he was made to fit into her. He fills her so completely, almost to the point of being too much, and each time he bottoms out inside of her, his pubic bone rubs up against her overly sensitive clit and Abbie knows that if Ichabod can hold out long enough, she'll come with him buried inside of her.

It doesn't hurt that their gazes are locked and she can see straight to the bottom of the depths of Ichabod's desire for her. Abbie wants to kiss him, but she doesn't want to lose the eroticism of looking at him look back at her.

So she bites on her lower lip as she lets out another moan, fingernails digging into his upper arms, face hot with desire. "More," she whispers. "Please."

Ichabod cannot resist the need that has him thrusting harder and faster. He watches Abbie bite her lip and plead with him, her face slack in pleasure, her eyes never leaving his, and it urges him on. He pushes harder against her and is rewarded with a gasping cry and a tightening flutter of her walls around him. Ichabod groans, almost overwhelmed by the feeling, but he needs to see her climax, needs to see her face as she surrenders fully to the pleasure that he gives her. And so he resists, just a little. But he knows he cannot hold out much longer.

Abbie feels it approaching: the tingle of her limbs, the rush of blood to her lower belly, the skitter of pleasure down her spine that settles in her lower back. "Oh yes," she breathes. Ichabod thrusts a couple more times, each one harder than the last. Once more and she'll be there.

With each push into her, Abbie tightens around him and it's beginning to drive Ichabod mad. He scrambles to hold on.

Beneath him, Abbie's lips part. "Oh yes," she says, so quiet he almost can't hear her for the blood that pounds in his ears. "Ichabod, I-" And then her voice breaks off in a loud cry as she climaxes.

It's the most wondrous thing Ichabod's ever experienced. Abbie goes taut around him, hips pushing hard against his. Her expression is one of pure rapture, lips parted in a soft "oh". Where he's buried inside of her, her warm heat spasms around him, squeezing and milking him and Ichabod cannot hold back his own pleasure.

With the feel of Abbie climaxing around him, it doesn't take much longer before Ichabod follows her. A handful of thrusts later and he's spilling himself inside of her, groaning her name as pleasure corkscrews through him.

Abbie comes back to earth in time to watch Ichabod as he comes inside of her and she runs her hands up his arms and around his shoulders, stroking his back as he thrusts hard into her. Then he collapses on top of her, just for a moment, both of them breathing hard against each other.

Abbie's never felt so sated, so whole, in her entire life. And the feel of Ichabod's weight pressing her into the mattress is just delicious.

After a few moments, Ichabod raises his head from where it was buried in the pillow and rests his forehead against hers. Abbie smiles up at him and he opens his eyes to look at her. The expression on his face is one of satisfied wonder. It's a good look on him, one Abbie wants to be able to put there on a regular basis. "Hey," she says, her voice a husky whisper.

Ichabod chuckles against her. "Oh, such words of romance from a lady so satisfied." Abbie just rolls her eyes and pulls him down for a kiss, joining him in his chuckling. Let him have his sarcasm. He's earned it.

Sometime later, once they've cleaned up a bit, they lay beneath the thick comforter spread across Ichabod's bed. Abbie lays on top of him, head cradled beneath the crook of his neck, her legs straddling his waist, her hands clutching his sides. Ichabod runs one hand up and down the bare skin of Abbie's back while the other rests on her upper arm and occasionally toys with her hair, twisting the thick strands around his fingers. He cannot remember the last time he was so relaxed. His heart feels as if it might burst from an overload of emotion.

"What happens now?" he muses aloud, almost not caring so long as the future keeps Abbie by his side.

"Well, we're not forgetting this, so, well, you can just forget that happening," Abbie says. Her breath tickles the skin of his collarbone and chest.

"I would never suggest such a thing," Ichabod says, turning his head so he can press a kiss to Abbie's hair.

He feels her smile against his neck before she returns the kiss, only against the length of his throat. "We take it day by day, then. Figure it out as we go. We've gotten pretty good at that."

"So long as we are together, of that I have no doubt."

"You and your 18th century diction," Abbie says, her voice growing heavy with sleep. "Makes everything sound so romantic."

"It's a skill," Ichabod says.

Sleep begins to pull heavy on him, as well, and it's not long until they've both fallen asleep, tangled up in each other's arms, whole at last.