Two months later…

It's been a long day, but a rewarding one, she thinks, as she locks the door behind her and stoops to pick up the cat and give him a snuggle. She flops onto the sofa and he curls into her lap, purring in a loud, contented rumble.

"It's quiet here without him, isn't it?" she asks with a sigh.

She loves her new city, their new home, far away from the remnants of her former life. Has thoroughly enjoyed working with Dembe to set up another office for his foundation here — it's handy to be in Europe, anyway, proximity often valuable.

It's not that she minds being alone, either, really — and she has Oliver for company, a warm lump of contentment in her lap. It's more the way the texture of the quiet is different. When Red is around, even when he isn't in the same room, the air seems charged with energy, with life. Without him, the London flat is too still, too silent, too empty.

She laughs at herself a little. He's only been gone four days, and he'll be back soon enough; for now, she needs to feed both herself and the cat, review her day's sessions, plan for tomorrow. She puts the cat on the floor, and he follows her to the kitchen, meowing for his dinner. She pours out his allotted portion of kibble, then stands at the fridge, staring absently.

There's nothing there that appeals, in particular, but it seems like a monumental effort to go out again, just for herself. Cereal it is, she thinks, with a philosophical shrug. There are at least…some essential vitamins and nutrients, right?

She's mid-pour when the door opens again, the sound making her jerk and spill a little on the counter. She dashes into the hall, beaming, and lands right in his arms as he strides into the flat.

"You're back early," she says happily, letting his warmth soak into her.

"They were doing fine on their own," he says, his arms tight around her. "I wanted to be home."

It's ridiculous to be so happy, just because she knows that when he says home, he means with her, and it's everything she needs.

"I love you," she says, because it's important, because she missed him, because she worried over him.

Lizzie, he whispers, and then his mouth covers hers, hot and sweet, tasting like the mints he favours and the scotch he must have had on the plane.

Long moments pass, lost in each other, until he pulls back to look at her, cups her face tenderly in his hands with that one particular joyous smile.

"I love you," he says. "I missed you." Because they'd agreed, when they'd decided to really try together, to say aloud all the things people usually take for granted. "Have you eaten?"

"I was…just about to," she says, grinning a little sheepishly now.

"Cereal, again?" he admonishes, laughing. "Let me take you out, hmm? Or are you too tired?"

"Dinner with you would be wonderful," she says. It's easy to go out again if it's with him, especially since he feels well enough now to go right out again after a long flight.

"Just let me change," she says, with a fleeting caress along his cheek. "Sit and have a rest while you wait."

He grins at her and pats her lightly on the butt. "I'm fine," he says with amused patience. "Go on, then, and put on something pretty." He adds an eyebrow waggle, so she'll know he's not serious.

She just rolls her eyes and walks away, enjoying the sound of his laughter behind her.

She's still only in her underwear, considering her closet, when she hears him. Or maybe just feels him, his eyes on her intense. She looks over her shoulder, and there he is, leaning against the doorway, legs and arms crossed, watching her.

The way he looks at her never fails to make her breath catch.

She turns a little — showing off, maybe — and enjoys the way his form tenses. She puts one hand on her hip and raises an eyebrow.

"See something you like?"

He's across the room in an instant, hands hot on her skin, lips rough and hurried on hers. She responds eagerly — she knows no other way. Her hands find their way under his jacket to twist into the silky fabric of his vest and pull him close.

HIs hands on her body stroke, tease, search. She quivers under them, rising to his touch, murmuring need into his mouth. Just when she's about to start pulling off his clothes, he breaks their kiss and leans back to look at her, out of breath but grinning like a cat.

She tips her head toward their broad bed with a questioning look. "Are you sure you want to go out?"

"I have a craving for Thai," he says. "But maybe I'll go back to waiting in the living room, just to avoid temptation."

He saunters off with a wink, leaving her damp and restless and unsatisfied. She watches him walk away — he's got an excellent ass, after all — and plans for when they're home again.

He wanders out into the main area, marvelling, as he can't quite seem to stop doing, at the hand he has finally been dealt. That he has everything he ever wanted, as if he deserves happiness, as if he's just like anyone else.

He is starting to dare to think that perhaps, just perhaps, he can be. Just another man.

He thinks she watches him walk away, and that gives him a little boost, especially since he has to gingerly adjust himself before he can sit down. He only has to breathe in the scent of her to want her — it would be embarrassing if it didn't seem to be mutual.

Since they've been living together, over the few weeks that he's been mostly healed, they've enjoyed each other well, coming together gently, tenderly, frequently, curled together in their big soft bed. He loves waking up beside her — the sleepy murmurs she makes when they make love in the morning; the way she'll tease him so delicately that he sometimes wakes already inside her.

She has tended to him with a sweet generosity that has made him feel not only loved, but treasured; she has loved him over and over again in long leisurely hours together. She steadfastly refuses to let him "exert himself" unduly while he heals, and there's so much pleasure in putting himself into her hands that he hasn't really put up a fight.

He's not in any way unsatisfied — even the thought makes him want to laugh — and she doesn't seem to be either. Still, they both have broader tastes and desires, and he's been fit and well for a couple of weeks at least.

He thinks it's past time they indulge themselves in a little something…more.

He drives, saying he wants her all to himself, that Dembe has better things to do anyway. He often chooses to take them wherever they're going if neither of them are working, these days, making time together whenever they can. They are both so busy that every opportunity is one to be taken.

In typical fashion, he drives out to the outskirts of the South Bank somewhere, finding a tiny little eatery on a quiet street. It's crowded there despite it being out of the way, which tells her he's as accurate as he always is, and she's right — the food is fantastic.

The waiter calls him Mr Givens and chats with him like an old family friend. She wonders if there's anywhere in the world he doesn't have a favourite spot or two, a place to go where they know his name — at least a name — and he can feel at home.

She thinks briefly of the loneliness that must have driven him to make these connections, over the years, and reaches across the table to clasp his hand.

He puts his wine glass down and looks at her, questioning. She just smiles at him, so he squeezes her hand gently and smiles back. They tell each other stories of their time apart, and laugh, and eat. Over two hours have passed by the time they're back in the car, flown by so easily. She thinks that she'll remember this evening, although there's nothing particularly special about it.

And maybe that's why.

She's so content that it takes a while to realize he's driving in the wrong direction.

"Aren't we going home?" she asks curiously.

"Not just yet," he says, glancing over with a grin. "Let's go for a drive."

"All right," she says equably, willing enough to prolong this peaceful time together.

Eventually, he pulls off the road into an unpaved lot beside a park. There's a winding path, greenery and lush grass — but it's late now, and pitch dark but for the hazy light in the car lot, and the starlight.

"Red, really?" She's laughing as he tugs her along. "It's already almost 11."

"Just look at the stars," he says, brimming with enthusiasm. "You don't have to get that far from the city for them to really shine, do you?"

She sighs, and snuggles up to him as they walk — it is pretty, and it's quite nice to have the park to themselves. It's quieter, too, outside the bustling city, and the two of them are certainly safe enough. They amble through the warm night, Red pointing out constellations and waxing eloquent about the beauty of it all.

It's midnight before they're back at the car park — it's cooler now, and she's ready to go home. But he stops her just in front of the car and points, leaning into her.

"Look, Lizzie," he says, his voice warm in her ear. "Polaris."

The memory makes her smile. "Have you lost your way?" she asks, teasing a little.

He puts a palm against her cheek and turns her face to his. "I've found it," he answers, serious, then he's kissing her.

She returns it with a hum of pleasure; he's unexpectedly intense, and it's absorbing. She winds her arms around his neck and lets herself fall into it, dreamy and sweet. He turns again, then backs her up until her legs bump the front of the car.

"Lovely Lizzie," he murmurs, tracing the line of her jaw with soft lips. "Do you remember, some time ago, telling me some very charming stories about your…youthful indiscretions?"

She flushes hot, her body already thrumming with heady nerves, images flooding her brain. Not just memories of her younger self, daring and adventurous, but of Red. Red, fierce and intent, pushing her up against a wall in a dark nightclub and taking her to pieces with pleasure; Red, sliding fingers into her in a restaurant while he talks and teases her into ecstasy. "Yes," she says, a little cautiously. "I'm surprised you do."

"Are you really?" he asks, amused, pulling back to meet her eyes. "You painted a vivid picture, sweetheart. And I seem to recall something of a challenge."

His hands are staying busy while he talks, stroking and molding, lighting little sparks that shoot through her, making her restless. "Challenge?" she asks, already a little breathless.

"That's right," he says, and then he's lifting her with strong arms — his solid strength is somehow always a surprise — and dropping her neatly to one side of the hood ornament. "You asked me," he continues, running his hands up and down the outsides of her bare legs lightly, tantalizing, "if I would fuck you on the shiny hood of my Mercedes, and think about you every time I was in it."

His words do all the things his hands aren't, and she clings to him, dress sliding against the smooth metal so she presses against him. "Oh that," she replies faintly. "I remember now."

"I do apologize for taking so long to give you an appropriate answer," he says, "But there's no time like the present, is there, sweetheart?"

She hasn't the faintest idea what to say to that — but she doesn't have to say anything, because he follows his words with a searing kiss. She opens eagerly, tongue flicking out to meet his, a tangle of heat and need. Her legs come up to hook over his hips instinctually, heightening the contact between them and making him growl.

It's still this simple, like magic — his mouth, his hands, barely having to touch her and she's ready for him. She has a moment to wonder if this glorious hunger between them will last, if they can possibly sustain this level of pure desire. She hopes so.

"Red," she manages to say, keeping coherent with a small struggle. "Are you okay, love? It hasn't been that long since–"

"It's been more than long enough," he cuts in, "I need this as much as you do." He kisses her again, hard, hot, branding.

Then all conscious thought flees as he presses further into her, moving down her neck, tasting in hard little nips that make her want. She puts her arms down and braces herself on her hands so that she can arch into his mouth.

He makes an inarticulate sound of approval, then tugs the straps of her dress down her shoulders, freeing her breasts for his hand and mouth, shaping and licking and god it all feels so good. He slides his other hand under her dress, yanking her panties down her legs, knocking a shoe off in the process. Leaving them dangling on one side, his hand runs back to center, to stroke and circle and tease.

She's so much putty in his hands, can do nothing but offer herself to him, burning with need, breath coming in soundless gasps. He's practically a part of her now, so close that she can feel his mouth curve into a smile.

"Is it good, like this?" The harsh rasp accompanies the push of his fingers, thrusting into her smoothly. "Hard and rough, just a little on the edge?"

She whimpers in response, yes, yes; tightens her legs around his ass, digging in with her heels. A warm chuckle, a little breathless, his cock moves hard against her leg.

Lizzie, is all he can think, like a mantra. She's a siren beneath him, against him, the line of her body as she arches into him exquisite; the helpless noises of need she makes a sweet music. He lets himself go, mapping her with lips and teeth and fingers, marking her over and over as his.

Dizzy with lust, he takes his hands off her, using one to support himself while he uses the other to tear open his belt and flies. He pushes at the skirts of her dress, gathering them and shoving them up and out of the way in one shot when she arches further to lift herself off the hood.

He takes a moment, then, to just drink her in, bare to his gaze in the night air, reddened from his attentions and glistening wet. She whimpers again, a hoarse gasp of his name, Red, and he just falls on her.

Their mouths meet in a clash; he yanks her hands out from under her so she drops flat onto the car with a jerk. It only enflames her further — with her hands free, she wraps her arms around him, nails digging into his neck, the base of his scalp.

He thinks he could drown in her.

She clutches at him, the wool of his trousers against the inside of her thighs unspeakably arousing. Then he's there, at last, feverish fingers widening her for his cock before he slams into her, glutes flexing under her feet.

She cries out, then holds tighter, tighter, as he starts to move. He's in and out of her in a rhythmic undulation of his hips, keeping nothing back. Where her naked skin touches metal it stick and pulls; one of his hands traps pieces of her hair, making her scalp sting.

She loves it.

Every sensation is a part of it all, the gift of his body over hers, inside hers, bringing them together. He's moving faster now, losing the smoothness of his rhythm. Lizzie, he rasps, and mine; so good, so good inside you, he whispers, and love you, he says, I love you. He's pressing into her, hard and fast and graceless, and the world disappears.

Yes, she says back, hoarse and needy, god, yes, and faster, please, and Red, now, Raymond, love, love, I love you, like a stutter, then his cool fingers are between them, firm on her clit, and oh, oh, all she can do is keen out her pleasure in a wordless sound as the orgasm rushes over her like a tidal wave.

He's coming too, a long moan through his teeth and hot, hard pulses inside her and he can't seem to stop moving even though it's over now. She thinks she could sleep, right there on top of the car.

She recognizes, vaguely, that several minutes have passed, draped limply over the car hood, Red's solid body against hers the only reason she doesn't just slither off into the ground. He's pressing kisses into her hair, against her temple, her cheeks and lips, mouth moving constantly.

She sighs in contentment, loathe to do anything at all, although her skin is starting to smart where it's stuck, sweaty and red, to the metal hood; although the parts of her out in the open air are cold and starting to feel stiff.

"Lizzie, sweet," he murmurs, "we should go, I suppose." But he doesn't move either, except for his mouth, still making love to her like he can't bear to stop.

"Mmmmm," she says, a long hum of sound that could be agreement or not. She doesn't really care.

With a long sigh, he pushes away, smiling when she makes noises of disapproval. A few swift movements have him put back to rights, then he pulls her gently upright and deftly rearranges her clothing, her shoes. Her eyes still closed, she drops into his chest sleepily, enjoys the rumble of his laughter against her cheek.

He picks her up then, and carries her around the car to tuck her into the passenger seat. He even buckles her seatbelt, sneaking another nip at her shoulder while he does it.

The last thing she's conscious of is the warm weight of his jacket coming down around her and the soft click of the car door.

She's asleep before the engine starts.

He heads for home, tired too, but invigorated enough to get them there safe and sound. He checks on her frequently, glancing over at her peaceful sleeping face, quick peeks in the rearview mirror.

She'll wear his marks again tomorrow, for the first time in a long while, and the thought fills him with smug pleasure. He'll wear hers too, if the smarting on the back of his neck is any indication. If his recently healed wounds and the new skin on his side ache a little from the exertion…well, it's only fair. It doesn't really bother him, not with the new pictures he has in his head.

He reaches over without looking, to touch her like a lodestone, to reassure himself that she hasn't somehow disappeared like a dream. She is warm and comfortingly real under his hand, and he's more than content. He's happy, maybe more than he's ever been.

He thinks that if they can continue on, finding a balance between honesty and conversation, simple love and daring play, that they'll do very well together. That maybe, they can make something that lasts.

The next time he glances over, she's watching him out of drowsy eyes. "You're my way home, too," she murmurs, reaching out. "I love you, Red," she says. "For always."

His heart stutters and trips; he knows he's wearing his most foolish smile. "For always," he agrees softly.

He holds her hand the rest of the way home.

A/N: This has been the most drawn-out fic of ever, and I can't thank you all enough for hanging in there with me, because it's genuinely insane. I'm both glad to have finished it the way I wanted to, and sorry to be finished with this iteration of our OTP. It started out PWP and ended up way more, but I think it went well.

I need to give credit to Beautiful Stranger, by Christina Lauren, for both the inspiration for this not-quite-friends-with-benefits plotlet, and for a few of the…situations. If you are looking for some incredibly compelling smut in book form, I highly recommend the entire Beautiful series.

I heart you guys, and I'll see you again soon!