His hands find their way immediately to her hips. Her docile, slight, begging little hips. His grip is hard and urgent as he pulls her to him. His fingers snake themselves over the top of her jeans and the pads of his thumbs rub across the sliver of skin exposed there. The feeling of her soft against his skin hardens every last inch of his body with desire.

He knows she wants his mouth on hers. Wants his tongue dominating hers inside the confines of her hot mouth, but he's never been the obvious kind. Instinctually, his lips move towards her neck instead. He's telling himself to hold back, to stop, to keep from tasting her because once he does he won't be able to undo the damage he's done or the damage he's about to do. But the way she's squirming against him makes coherent thought next to impossible.

His lips glide slowly - oh so slowly - just above the flesh of her neck. He feels the submissive, sweet, downy hairs that cover her from head to toe tickle the chapped, roughened skin of his lips. He inhales her, audibly. Literally trying to breathe her in, soak in her, intoxicate himself with her. Unconsciously, he grinds her hips against his and the whimper that comes from deep within her undoes him.

Moving his mouth further north, finding the place where her pulse throbs against her throat desperate for release, he finally takes her into his mouth - licking, nipping, and then sucking that pliable, beating proof that she's alive. That she's more alive than she's ever been. And God, she's moaning and begging and calling his name over and over again.

As his mouth continues its assault, he feels her weaken. Feels her muscles go lax beneath the control he's taken from her. And something in her release brings him back to himself and he pushes her back. He looks at her. She's woozy from his mouth and his tongue and his hands. Her eyes are heavy with heat and desire and him. She's panting and he's panting. And her eyes find his and widen in question. She gains an inch of control and pushes herself back at him, but he keeps her away - at arm's length - as he steadies himself.

"What's wrong?" Her voice is barely a whisper. He doesn't know what to say, really. Can't imagine why he stopped as he looks at the uncontained need for him so boldly written all over her face. He shuts his eyes and tries to remember something beyond the ache in his groin.

"This just don't feel right. I mean, it feels right, but it feels wrong at the same time. It feels dirty. Sneaking around with you in secret like this. And fast, too fast. You ain't like all those other girls from before. I don't want you to be. You deserve better, is all." He knows he's ruined the mood. Ruined this moment. A moment that has been so goddamned perfect for him, but he wants it to be perfect for her as well. And stripping her naked in this house and rutting against her before he's even good and properly kissed her isn't what he wants for her. He wants his time with her to be slow and gentle and burning. He wants to make her stretch and moan and tremble beneath him for minutes, for hours on end.

But Beth has other ideas. She positions herself back between his legs, and this time he doesn't stop her. Her hands move up to cradle to his face. She kisses his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, his nose. "The others aren't stupid. They know about us. They know where we are. They know what we're doing. If they objected, we'd have heard all that by now. Consider this moment of privacy their blessing. And the reason we're moving so fast here, Dixon, is because we've spent the last two months moving slower than molasses."

She kisses him, then. Moving her lips lightly against his. Darting her tongue out to take her first taste. His hands bypass her hips this time and wrap themselves around her waist. He pulls her plush against his chest as he begins to kiss her back. Her persistent, stubborn tongue fights itself beyond his lips and into his mouth. Her fingers begin to twist his hair urgently between her fingers as her desire mounts. He can feel her nipples bud through her shirt and harden against his chest. Now it's his turn to moan.

Gripping her sturdily, he stands and puts her on the table in his place not once breaking their embrace. Pushing her further back, he climbs onto the table, onto her, and she wraps her legs tightly around him as he kisses the breath from her body. He spends the next hour, day, lifetime making her moan, making her shake and tremble, making her beg and plead, making her quake with need and hunger, making her hoarse from crying his name. He enters, pushes, thrusts inside of her. And she pushes back, meets him at every turn. Leaves him a complete and utter fucking mess. A mess that she kisses and soothes and loves back to whole before scattering him all over the table, once again, with some new exploration, some new yearning.

And he quickly realizes how lost he's been his entire goddamn life without this girl - this woman - beside him. Challenging him, surprising him, angering him, and yes - even loving him. He realizes how vastly wrong he's been about who's in charge here. Because it certainly isn't him, has never been him, will never be him. And he's so beyond willing to just give himself away to her.

To waste away in her hands.

To let her consume him.

To die in her hands, at her hands, in a moment when he's never felt so fucking alive.