Archive of Our Own

As soon as they cross the threshold into her room, she walks away from him, straight to the bed, shedding her clothes without ceremony on her way. She leaves the locking of the door to him. He knows the routine. This is what they do, whenever they find a moment alone. It's tough to find the moment in the first place, and no one can know, so that makes it tougher, but they manage more frequently than he expected, though never as often as he'd like. If he had his way, he'd keep her to be all his, always.

He takes off his clothes, too, then joins her. His hand slips down her thigh, and she sighs and shudders at the touch. He's over her, behind her, just like always—she hates for him to see her face when they're doing this—and he thinks she loves knowing that he has to work to get to the places that will give her what she needs from him. She arches, her back against his front. His quick inhalation of breath is the only thing that gives him away; his hand remains steady, slow, as it travels up the inside of her thigh again. She tilts her head back against his shoulder, turns her face to kiss his neck. It's the sole expression of tenderness she'll allow herself to make.

He considers himself to be under no such limitation. Despite the deliberate pace of his hand upon her skin as it traces a blaze up her stomach, over her small breast, gently cupping it and rubbing her nipple with his thumb, his mouth is busy, busy, always moving across her body, always dropping kisses upon the back of her neck—currently laid bare by the fragrant sweep of her long hair over one delicate shoulder. He kisses that shoulder, too, and the other one, the small knobs of her spine, each after the other. She's too thin. He wants to feed her, but this is the only sort of service she lets him provide. He stays silent, but his heart pounds, and he knows she feels its beat across her skin as he curves to match the line of her body with his own.

I love you, he doesn't say, because it's sure to scare her off, and instead he reaches down with one hand to grasp his cock and guide himself into her, not too fast because he wants to savor the moment when he is finally connected to her as deeply as she'll permit, but not too slow, either, because she'll know what he's doing and she might stop this, then. She might not allow it again, and there always, always has to be an again.

He pauses for a second when he's buried fully inside all that wet slick heat—she's so small, compared to him, in every way, and the way they fit together is no exception to that rule. He's got to be careful, with her, in every way: careful not to frighten her, careful not to hurt her body or her heart, careful to keep her awake without stripping away too many of her defenses. He's not used to being careful, and he's not used to caring, but for her... for her...

The thought fades as he feels her relax around him and accept his intrusion, her breath paradoxically moving faster as the adjustment yields to excitement. This is what he can do for her: he can pull her out of her mind, can yank her straight back from the obsessive thoughts he's seen occupy her existence like an invading army, ruling over her life with an iron fist and preventing any sort of move, either forward or back, so that she's been trapped in a bizarre sort of half-life. He's seen it, even though she doesn't let him look at her face, and if waking her from that stupor is the task he sets himself for the rest of his existence, he'll consider it well-spent. He wishes she would let him do more. If she gave him permission, he would crawl inside every space left empty and fill it with everything he feels for her, pushing out the void until he occupied her every thought, just as surely as the memory of the one who left resides inside her form now. But unlike the other, he would never leave. Never, never.

A steady throb of longing and adoration pulses in his chest as he moves inside her, a thread of rage running through it all because she won't accept it, won't accept anything from him but his body. He's still so fucking happy, though, because here he is, he's inside her and she isn't stopping him and she's letting him do this with her and to her and yeah, there's maybe one thing better in this world. But he learned early on that second best was way better than worst, and he'd better take whatever was offered, no questions asked, so he takes her when she offers. She might be cold and dark behind that wall that surrounds her heart, but he can warm her. He's warm enough for two, and she's so little anyway, it's almost no effort at all.

He's never wanted anyone as badly as he wants her. He's never wanted anyone as completely, either, in every way that a guy could want a girl, every fashion in which he could hope to attain and hold her. He doesn't let her know. He keeps his face blank and his eyes redirected whenever they're around others, as much to protect his thoughts from discovery as to protect her secrets. With her body turned away, though, he can let his touch speak for him as he thrusts into her, hand trailing over all the breakable softness and satiny skin. His hand says the things he won't allow his mouth to speak: You're so amazing, so precious, so everything I've ever wanted and never thought I could have. He worships her with every whorl of his fingertips. And maybe he won't say anything out loud, but he keeps his kisses sweet too, barely-there pressure against her shoulder blades and the back of her head, filled with affection and gratitude, yes, that she'll give him this much.

She's getting closer, muscles inside tightening around him, making the drag in-out-in-out that much more excruciatingly pleasurable, panting out tiny little moans and sighs as she presses herself into his strokes. He wants more more more, he never wants this to end, he never wants to have to pull away, but he knows she needs the sharp burst of ecstasy more than he needs to remain where he is. So he presses the heel of his palm to her clit and licks her neck to surprise her over that final mental hurdle and into orgasm. She lets out a sound that's a cross between a moan of pain and a scream as she convulses. The way her pussy clenches around him makes him follow her almost immediately—it's so good, so fucking good, and he doesn't want to admit that it's because he loves her loves her loves—

—and that's when Paul wakes up, every time; it's getting to be almost every night, goddammit (he's got a sick feeling this has something to do with the wolf inside him but he doesn't want to know), and he still wakes up with his hand around his cock, pumping away before he's even remembered where he is, and when he comes he groans her name even though it pisses him the fuck off to hear the sound of it—

"Isabella."