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It’s past one when they make it to Blaine’s place.
Despite the fact that he’s already touched her—that she had just half an hour ago been naked and incoherent underneath him—Blaine is buzzing with nerves as he kills the engine of his car.
“Stay,” he says to Kitty, opening his car door. He dashes out into the frigid night air to come around to her side, where he holds a hand out as he pops her door handle. She hesitates for a second before she takes his hand. That brief hesitation makes him even more nervous.
They walk up the front steps still hand-in-hand, and he fumbles the security code for the front door twice before he finally gets it right and the mechanical whir of the lock tumblers sound his success.
“Just so you know, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a girl in my room,” Blaine jokes as he swings the door open for Kitty to step inside.
I never bring them home, he thinks—the realization coming with a deeper pang of disgust than he usually feels.
She hesitates again, just outside, on the porch, her brow furrowing. “This is your house?”
Blaine’s eyes skate up the height of the towering windows. The house is a looming, almost industrial structure of glass and metal that is, admittedly, intimidating at first glance.
“Yeah. It—uh, for now. You don’t like it?”
Kitty squints at him, twin lines appearing between her brows. “I just don’t think it fits you. The Post, the apartment. Those places do.”
He shrugs, stepping in before her and tugging at her hand. “I fell into it. It’s home for now. Are you saying that damp, run-down brick building is the vibe I bring?”
“No,” Kitty admonishes, smiling. “I’m saying you have much more character than this place does.”
Blaine looks over the house again, considering if he actually likes it. As he does, another thought skips through his head—She doesn’t want the trappings. The front. She wants you.
He tries to mentally stomp out the embers of—something—that begin in his chest at the very idea. Instead, he focuses on the fact that she’ll be naked again, soon. That’s a much safer track. And the Kitty lets him pulls her into the house she doesn't like. And Blaine finds that, as soon as she is in it, he likes it a lot more.
After he digs his gloves out, shoving them into his pants pocket instead, Blaine leaves his tuxedo jacket draped over an armchair in the foyer. There’s enough moonlight shining through the aforementioned giant windows that he can easily see Kitty as she drops her purse on the couch in the living room. Then, she takes off his coat—the one he’d insisted she wear when they’d left Romero’s—and drops it beside the bag. He circles to the other side of the couch, plants his hands on the back, and stares at her.
“What now?”
“Now you,” Kitty says softly.
He doesn’t look away from her as he straightens and then reaches up to yank the undone bowtie from around his neck. He lets it drop to the floor, and then rolls his shoulders back, hands going to the remaining buttons on his dress shirt. As he undoes the first one, he takes a step back. The second, another step back.
Blaine’s eyes are still locked on her—because he knows that the hours are sliding away, and even though they’re—please, God, please—about to spend a few of them exhausting each other, he wants to remember her like this, standing there in the place that he calls home with her own hungry gaze fixed on him.
Kitty raises an eyebrow. “Going somewhere?”
“Leading somewhere,” he corrects, now steadily walking backward toward the door at the far side of the living room. Her eyes flick past him. He reaches the bottom button on the shirt and yanks the tails out of the waistband of his tuxedo pants. He lets the fabric hang, parted from his neck to his navel, and he stops in the dark doorway of his bedroom. Her eyes return to him, slide down the expanse of skin he’s exposed.
He's a man who’s been looked at a lot, and he likes the fact. But the way it feels when she looks at him is different. Like he’s earned something—something rare and precious.
“And I’m supposed to follow?”
He nods. “Right through this door and into my bed. You sleep on the right-hand side. My side’s the left.” He reaches down and undoes his cufflinks, one after the other, tossing them across the floor of the living room, where they skitter to rest somewhere against the edge of an area rug.
“Facing, or from in the bed?” Her tone is deceptively light. He can see her chest rising a little more rapidly than just a few minutes past. He can see her nipples, peaked against the scarlet fabric of her dress.
He wants to tear every stitch of clothing off of her.
But he waits; refrains.
Blaine shrugs off the dress shirt and drops it at his feet. “Everyone knows it’s from in the bed. Which, coincidentally, is exactly where I’m hoping this is headed.”
Come on, pretty girl, he thinks. C’mere.
But he doesn’t say it—he simply waits.
“You seem like you’ve thought this through.” Kitty’s smiling now, walking slowly toward him. A few steps past the couch, she stops to unbuckle and step out of her shoes.
“Many times. Figured out the whole boy side/girl side thing in the same bed, actually.”
Her eyebrows rise, her expression playful. “So you have had other girls in your room.”
Blaine reaches for his belt buckle and undoes it slowly, drawing it out to join his shirt on the floor with a dull clink. “No, no. I’ve been woefully alone. I mean, you were there, in spirit.”
Kitty’s halfway to where he’s standing. She drops her eyes, and they trail up him now, from stocking feet to face with a deliberate heat that makes it hard for him to wait out her next decision. Blaine’s fully aware that her torn underwear are out in the living room in his jacket pocket and that she’s bare underneath her dress. He’s seconds away from losing it and fireman’s carrying her into his bedroom when she closes the remaining gap.
“Maybe we can fix that alone part,” she says, low and soft.
“God, I hope so.”
She’s right in front of him, now, and she puts a hand on his chest and pushes him back the last few steps into his bedroom. But she stays just in the doorway, not following.
He kicks off his dress shoes and sits at the end of his bed to pull off his socks, which he balls up and tosses across the room—one makes the hamper, the other does not. Like the cufflinks, he can’t exactly be bothered to go get it. He’s more concerned that Kitty’s still not in his bed.
And then, he remembers. “Oh. I—I have something for you.”
Beneath him, under the bed, is a box, wrapped in cool silver paper, black satin ribbons snaking around the breadth and width, culminating in an intricate bow. He hefts the box in his hands a moment, and then stands.
Kitty’s still there, in the doorway, hesitating, watching him with now-cautious eyes.
Blaine pauses, box in hand, drinking in the silhouette of her in the frame of his bedroom door. The kitchen light is on just to the side of the living room, behind her, making the bedroom dim but not unnavigable.
"Light’s right there," he says huskily, throat dry. He points to the switch on the wall beside her.
After a second’s pause, Kitty shakes her head and takes a step into the room. "I'm okay without the light."
As he watches, silent, she reaches for the hem of her dress and lifts the garment over her head, tossing it to the side. Then, almost as though she might lose her own nerve, she reaches back and unclasps her bra, letting it slide off her arms and to the floor.
Between the way she looked at him back in the living room and the next steps that she takes into the darkness between them, bare and practically luminous even in the low light, Blaine now feels like he’s won the fucking mega-zillion lottery. His hands tighten around the box, and he's suddenly unsure of which is the better gift—the elaborately wrapped one he's holding, or her gesture of trust.
“What’s that?” she asks, nodding at the box.
Blaine is momentarily mute at the sight of her—gloriously nude, making his mouth actually begin to water—but he clears his throat and manages, “A gift for you. W-well, I suppose it’s really for me.” He feels his face heat, his nerves return.
“Oh?”
Blaine dances backward, waving the box. “Come get it.”
He plays keep-away as Kitty lunges at him, and when she tries a second time, he tosses the box onto the bed and hooks her around the waist, pulling her in, laughing and lightly struggling, until he manages to get her feet off the ground and fall back with her onto the bed.
There’s a brief, teasing wrestle for dominance filled with Kitty’s shrieks of laughter and Blaine’s protests—when she manages to gain the upper hand—that he’s holding back and therefore her victory doesn’t count, until, finally, breathless, he manages to subdue her beneath him.
They settle, and Blaine tries his best to ignore that she’s naked beneath him. And he does—mentally. There’s no way that he can control the way physical desire pools low in his gut at the feel of her bare skin, the sight of her hair spread out against the bed, the thought of touching her in a hundred different places until he can figure out the best ways to drive her insane—nor the way that all three of those work automatic electric signals down his body and make his cock harden and swell against his zipper.
“Something wrong?” she asks, teasingly, wiggling against him.
“Nope. Right as rain here,” he says through clenched teeth.
After a beat in which he struggles very mightily with his self-control, Blaine reaches over for the gift box, now teetering at the edge of the bed. He holds it above Kitty’s head. She reaches for it, and he raises it out of reach, delighting in the way she presses up to grab for it.
“Now, now. Only good girls get gifts.” He dangles the box closer. “How good are you?”
“I’m as terrible as you are,” she says dryly. “You’re being a tease.”
Blaine ducks to kiss her shoulder, sliding his free hand up one of her hips. No gloves. It feels forbidden and fucking delightful. “A tease? Hmmm. I imagine you’re obscenely wet over it, too. But we can stop, if you want. Go straight to sleep.”
“You’re insufferable.” But her voice is a lovely, breathy brush against his ear that says otherwise.
“Am I? Does that mean you’re suffering, kitten? You need something to help?” He drags his fingers up her ribs, sweeps them over to the soft side curve of her breast. “Just let me know. Like, very specifically, what you need me to—”
“Blaine.”
“Fine, fine,” he grouses, grinning, rolling to the side to let her up. Kitty scrambles up and pulls the comforter around her, dark eyes on him as she does so.
How dark will those eyes get when I’m fucking you brainless? he wonders.
For now, instead of imagining all the ways he wants to make that thought a reality, or on the lovely blush covering all the non-face bits of her, Blaine holds out the gift box. “Here. For you.”
Kitty takes the box and carefully undoes the ribbon, popping the top. The blush blooms all over her pretty face, now, too, as she reaches in.
Blaine watches as Kitty slips on the gloves and looks down at her hands. The pair is a smaller version of his own, and a perfect fit, he’s happy to see.
Her eyes rise to meet his. They’re warm and fathomless, unreadable. “You want—”
“Yes,” he cuts in, reclining on his side next to her, feeling his pulse quicken.
“You really have been thinking about this.” Her smile is slow and hot. It soothes his jangling nerves.
“Yeah,” he says slowly, reaching out a finger to trace the comforter next to her hip. He tugs at the covering, and she lets him pull it down.
She lays back against the pillows as she asks, “Any other plans you’ve made? A script of any kind? Preferred positions? You like a little reverse cowgirl, or just missionary?”
“Mmmm. You say whatever you want. I’m partial to a little begging. But I’m not a missionary guy.”
She laughs. “What? Why?”
Blaine’s eyes trace over her, and he walks two fingers up over that same hip. “Missionary’s for lovers, kitten.”
She wrinkles her nose at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Blaine flattens his palm over her stomach. Kitty seems to melt, stretching out flat next to him.
She’s so warm. So soft.
“You know, it’s very romantic—emotionally connect-y and all that. I’m pretty sure there’s like a whole missionary album by Enigma that newlyweds play in their honeymoon suites when they’re sucking each other’s souls through eye contact in missionary. It’s not exactly my vibe.”
“You really are a horrible person,” she says through peals of uncontrolled laughter that he feels under the flat of his hand.
“I know,” he deadpans, dipping a bare finger into her navel and tracing its depth once—twice. On the third time, her laughter subsides, and he lets the single digit wander lower, to the border of soft curls just below. As she squirms slightly, Blaine asks, “So, what are the rules here?”
“Rules?” she parrots, sounding half drowsy and half aroused. He likes the combination—likes the thought of exhausting her here in his bed and then falling asleep with her in it, despite his seconds-ago foreswearing of all that emotional stuff.
Blaine stretches out a little more, too, scooting close beside her and propping himself up on an elbow, head in hand. “I mean, we aren’t doing the deed.” He draws his finger down to her knee, the one closest to him, and it takes nothing but the slightest pressure for her to widen it. He traps her leg between his. “And kissing is risky…”
He starts back down the expanse of her inner thigh, fingers light and teasing.
“Mmmhmm,” she says, distracted.
“So what would you like me to do to your delightfully naked body for the next couple hours?”
Kitty stops his hand just as his thumb presses into the crease where her thigh meets her body. “Oh, no. I believe it’s my turn,” she replies, sitting up. She waves at the space beyond the bed. “Get up. Take off your pants.”
Blaine blinks at her. “I—what—?”
“You heard me.”
He feels one corner of his mouth curl up. “In addition to a non-missionary guy, I’m also not really the order-following kind…”
One of her eyebrows lifts. “I think you’ll want to make an exception this time. Or was I wrong? Are the gloves for some purpose other than me being able to touch you?”
With an exaggerated sigh, Blaine rolls up off the bed, standing opposite Kitty. “And a little dance, or…?”
She shakes her head. “Don’t need one. Just you. Pantsless.”
He pauses, fingers at the button of his tuxedo pants. “I’m not sure I want you to watch me. Maybe I’m shy.” Their eyes meet.
Kitty reclines against his headboard, all loose, dark hair, heavy eyes full of hunger. She plants her feet on the mattress, knees bent, and spreads her thighs. “Maybe you should get over that, and then get over here.”
That hunger, it’s for him.
“Fine, fine. If that’s what you want…”
Blaine pops the button on his fly, and then slides the zipper down—carefully. She’s still staring at him, and there’s no mistaking that he’s painfully hard, straining against the black boxer briefs beneath.
“Keep going,” she says—soft, husky. Needy already. He fucking loves it.
Blaine pauses, though, purposefully rebelling a little against her command. He untucks his gloves from his pants pockets, slipping them on and taking his time doing it.
Kitty narrows her eyes at him.
“Don’t get it into your head that you can call the shots this whole time, kitten.”
She widens her knees and pats the bed between her vee'd thighs with her own gloved hand. "I swear to Go—get naked and come here, Blaine."
If he'd been a man who needed much air, he'd be shit out of luck at the moment at the sight of her sitting like that. He shucks the tuxedo pants, but he leaves his boxers on, feigning innocence. “Sit? In…your lap?”
She grins. “I have a plan. Boxers, too. Now.”
“I’m interested. A little unnerved, but…” Blain leans toward her. The mattress dips as one of his knees hits it, and he invades her space, lips hovering an inch from hers. “Interested.”
Kitty snakes her arms to the insides of his, fingers slipping under the waistband of his boxers. “Just trust me.”
He falters inside—something deep in him rebelling at the request. As much as he rejoiced when Kitty had stepped into the dark with him here, there’s a knee-jerk that prevents him from whispering back to her, “I do.”
But the issue becomes irrelevant as she pushes down his boxers and then tugs at his biceps, urging him toward her.
“Come on, handsome,” she whispers. “I’ve been waiting to touch you for so long.”
And so he settles, as she’d asked, in her lap, back to her. Her legs flank the outsides of his, and one of her gloved palms slides up his back and into the hair at his nape.
Fuck.
Blaine’s brain scrambles just a little.
“The plan is to pet me?”
She laughs against the back of his neck, pressing her lips where the sound had hit warmly. Blaine’s cock twitches against his stomach.
“You don’t like being petted?”
Kitty combs her fingers through his hair, massaging lightly, and he sighs, relaxing into the touch.
“Yes—I, uh—I mean, no. I don’t mind. It feels—pretty—mmm, yeah. Pretty good.”
And it’s oddly true. There’s a hell of a lot of pent-up sexual tension between them, but Blaine finds that the intimacy of this simpler touch isn’t unpleasant. In fact, he quiets a little, feeling the need to speed things along toward their inevitable, stars-bursting-in-air finish ebb just a bit. It’s just…nice to be touched.
Her other hand joins the festivities, caressing his shoulder, down his arm, gloved fingers dancing over the back of his hand a moment before she twines their fingers, her hand over top of his, both resting on his thigh.
His naked thigh. Pressed to her naked thigh.
The hand in his hair moves to his opposite shoulder, down his opposite arm. She doesn’t hold his hand on this side, but traces down the inside of his leg, much like he had hers moments ago. But she stops short of where he wants her hands.
And she kisses the back of his neck again. This time, he feels the edges of her front teeth scrape his skin.
Fuck.
It’s now the absence of particular touch that has him squirming. He’s run fantasies of every permutation of them together that there just about is, and now, the looming reality is almost painful. In control or not, Blaine wants Kitty to touch him. Now.
“I feel like you’re making me wait as some kind of sadomasochistic thing. Is that”—he pauses as she wraps first one, and then the other leg over the tops of his, her calves over his thighs, her feet pressing down into the softness of the bed, widening his legs—“what you’re doing? Because I’m not averse to a little pain, but this is getting…”
“Oh, no,” she says lowly. “I don’t want to hurt you, Blaine. I want to make you feel as good as you made me feel tonight.”
“Oh,” he says, the word breathy, “it was my pleasure.”
“Well, soon to be…” she agrees.
She licks at the curve of his shoulder, scraping her front teeth against him again, this time at the side of his neck, sucking at the salt of his skin. He chokes out a sound that is half hiss and half moan, hips jerking up against the downward pressure of her calves. Kitty presses her heels more firmly into the mattress. She’s not really holding him. If he wanted to, he could easily get free of her.
Physically, that is. Mentally, emotionally, possibly even spiritually, Blaine has to acknowledge that the woman wrapped around him right now is an indelible tattoo on nearly every facet of him—his body, his very soul.
Both of her gloved hands splay against his bare chest, and she traces up and down his torso—clavicle to sternum, delicately skimming the plane of his stomach downward in soft, fleeting sweeps, and then back upward before she gets too close to the place that aches for those hands.
Then she does it again, this time caressing down to his jutting erection, and on her retreat, letting the backs of her knuckles graze both sides of his cock—no pressure, no relief, just the barest whisper of contact.
“Ok, I think—I think that’s enough,” he says, breathy—agitated. “I can take it from h—” He reaches for the hard, sensitive length of himself, desperate to relieve the ache that’s been his constant for an excruciating span of time.
She bats his hand away. “I don’t think so,” she argues softly. “You had your fun at Romero’s. It’s my turn.”
And then, she wraps her gloved fingers around his cock and squeezes him once—up, then down, the movement so carefully measured that he knows she’s doing it slowly on purpose.
“God,” he whispers—his voice raw even to his own ears. His hands splay on the bed at either side of them, and he looks down at where she’s touching him. She does the same slow, torturous move again—and then, again, her grip tight and perfect but her pace teasing.
Blaine utters a string of sound that’s half profanity and half throaty, desperate moan.
“Good?” Kitty whispers back.
Better than good. It’s what he’s wanted, fantasized about, fought against begging for these past months.
“Yes. But—just—faster.”
“Bossy,” she says. “Say please.”
“Please,” he cries, pretense forgotten.
Every nerve ending in his body that can still feel lights up like Christmas as she laughs warmly, fists his hair to yank his head back, and starts stroking him in earnest.
“Fuck, Ki…”
“Better?” she whispers into his ear.
He can’t even manage a response. Kitty has his head angled so that, if Blaine casts his eyes down all the way, he can watch he two of them in the full-length mirror on the opposite wall. They’re a gloriously obscene tangle of limbs, her chin on his shoulder and her dark eyes meeting his lighter gaze in their shared reflection. He watches her deft fingers work the length of him, and as she continues to whisper in his ear, he watches those dark eyes focus on his face as he keeps staring at their reflection.
“What was it you said to me earlier? Pretty girl…”
His eyes feel heavy as he thinks back to only an hour past, when she’d been lost beneath him, coming to pieces, gorgeous as she’d given in to what had been building between them for months.
Pretty girl…
He hadn’t been giving empty compliments—the sight had been carnally beautiful. And so is this, the two of them together.
“Well,” she continues, “you’re pretty, too, my dangerous boy. We look so good together…”
It’s damned near too much, the sight them in the mirror, Kitty draped around him from behind, naked save for her black leather gloves against his pale skin. He’s captive to the tandem thrill of seeing what’s she’s doing to him and the feeling—on every upstroke—of her soft swipes just at the vee on the underside of his head. Fast, but delicate. Firm, but careful. Just right. So unbelievably good, and so much better than all the times he’s gotten himself off, thinking of this very moment.
“Yeah,” he agrees breathlessly. “We do.”
It’s true. They do—if only for tonight. But that ugly eventuality threatens to dilute the drugging escapism of their current activities, and so, Blaine pushes the melancholy thought from his mind and his hips rise into Kitty’s grip. He grabs for fistfuls of the comforter as she squeezes a little tighter, moves a little faster.
Blaine’s eyes drift closed, and he lets his head drop back until it touches the headboard behind Kitty. He revels in the rush of sensations, lets himself get more than a little lost in the fevered depths of it all. He’s giddy and a little punch-drunk, uncaring that he’s writhing against her grip, babbling shamelessly.
“Fuck, baby,” he moans. “Just keep…”
Her lips graze his cheekbone. He can feel that she’s smiling.
“Good?”
Everything In him draws tighter. He can’t catch his breath. There’s something so unbelievably sexy about the way she asks—better? Good? As if she’s delighted by the idea of pleasing him. If he were of sounder mind at the moment, Blaine would have probably laughed at how it fed just the right need in him, the need to be catered to, just so. To have someone focused entirely on how he feels.
At this point, though, if he’s being honest, she could be punching him square in the face and he would beg her to keep going.
“So fucking good…don’t stop.”
Blaine’s thrusting up faster now, heels digging into the mattress, hands moving to grip the upper edge of the headboard behind them. He’s waited too long to feel this, and now, almost embarrassingly, his body is rushing toward release.
“Are you going to come for me?” Kitty whispers.
He’s right there on the edge—muscles tensing, pleasure crawling up his spine and radiating through every nerve ending below his waist. His chest heaves as he opens his eyes, raising his head to meet her gaze in the mirror.
“Yeah,” he growls, hips snapping, “but you have to let me…to be—fuck, mmm—safe…at the end…”
“I have to?” There’s a distinct pout in her tone. Her lower lip juts out, and Blaine huffs out a laugh, somehow.
“Bad influence. Just, just get me a little closer…”
He’s skating the edge, though. That delicious, focus-narrowing feeling rushes through his head, brain a little oxygen deprived as his breaths grow shorter. Their eyes meet again in the mirror, and she’s panting now, too,
He’s greedy for it, a slavering, desperate idiot, and he doesn’t care how toxic it might be. He wants her sole attention for the rest of his days, mana to a man who is so surrounded by sycophants that he shouldn’t feel so empty—and yet, he does. Except with her.
Blaine wants the feeling to never, ever end. To have the hollow where his heart should be filled with the shape of her for the rest of their days.
“Just a few more…seconds…” Blaine’s back arches. He’s panting, whimpering. Every muscle in him strains, and his scalp tingles. “Yeah. Christ. I’m gonna—"
Kitty stops.
She unwraps her fingers from around him and grabs him again by the back of his hair, this time clenching her fist so hard that it hurts. And instead of plunging off the edge into an orgasm that feels as though it’s been delayed since the moment she stepped foot into The Post, Blaine’s left with the harsh, sudden torture of being bowled backward from the edge. He fumbles for her hand at the back of his head with one of his, his brain not comprehending, a whine slipping out of his throat as the hot tightness in his balls flares painfully higher. He bucks up, but her legs—locked over his—keep him down.
Blaine’s breath seizes in his throat for a moment, and then— “F-FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK?”
She has the audacity to laugh.
“Tell me you can wait just a little longer,” she whispers.
Fuck.
Blaine’s voice strains again as he laughs in return. “Oh, kitten, you vicious little bitch.”
He feels her shrug behind him. “Turnabout, what do they say?”
Blaine moves before she can react. He knows that she forgets, sometimes, the differences between them, strength and speed and all that. He revels in the way her eyes go wide when he turns too fast for her to evade him, how her lips part and her eyes flare as he yanks her wrist from his nape and shoves her sideways on the bed. He’s over her in a second, pinning her down, that same wrist over her head. He covers her mouth with his other hand—mostly to keep himself from crashing his mouth into hers in a savage display of the frustration he feels, but also because she looks so fucking pretty underneath him like this, captive.
Her lashes flutter, hitting his gloved hand, and she squirms, eyes locked on his.
“Maybe…” he says, stretching his arm a little higher so that her own, wrist trapped in his grip, stretches to its limit, “maybe I make you wait again, hmmm? We’ve not got much time, but some. Maybe I get you so close you’re fucking crying for it, and then…”
She whines this time, the sound desperate against his hand, and he pushes her chin to one side, attacking the column of neck—kissing, licking, muttering darkly. Then, he moves lower, releasing her wrist. He kisses Kitty everywhere that’s safe—overcome by the pebbled hardness of her nipples against the flat of his tongue, the softness over her ribs, the tautness of the ligament that runs from just behind her knee and down, ending at the sweet curve at the underside of her ass. It’s there that he sucks dark, vicious marks into her pale skin while she writhes and swears under his efforts.
Oh, he doesn’t break the skin, just draws hard enough to bring blood up under the surface, pulling back and watching each swirl of purple-red bloom into the shape of his worshipping mouth. He whispers between perpetrating each mark all the forbidden things he wants to do to her.
Too greedy for you to make you wait like that…
I want to bury my tongue in you so bad, kitten. Make you come all over my face.
If I put you on all fours, I could see these marks while I fuck you.
Been dreaming about you so drunk on orgasms that you don’t even have the breath to beg me to stop.
I want you addicted to what we can do to each other.
I’m gonna keep you in my bed until you’re ruined for anyone else.
That last one—edged with all the vehement, jealous possessiveness that wells up in his chest when he thinks of Kitty leaving, of the possibility of her finding someone new. Some wholesome, doting, stalwart fucking yokel with stars in his eyes for her, who gets the future privilege of touching her the way Blaine is now. Someone with the ability to give her a life that isn’t dependent on the deaths of others. Just before the thought of it overwhelms him, just as he feels the slightest red pressure build behind his eyes, she whispers back.
I’m already there.
“Good,” he growls.
He crawls up her body then and wraps his arms around her, sitting up so that she straddles him. She jumbles breathlessly into his chest, and then she leans away, pushing her hair from her eyes. Their eyes lock.
Blaine wastes no time slipping a hand between them to find her wet and swollen. He circles the broad pad of his thumb against her clit, rhythmic and firm.
“Blaine…” she sighs. He can feel her thighs tense on either side of his.
“What was that?” he says, watching her face flood with pleasure as he presses just a little harder, flicks his thumb just a little faster. “I didn’t hear you.”
Kitty’s dark eyes go a little more distant, unfocused, that pleasure taking over articulate speech. “Just…Blaine…”
He touches his lips to the delicate skin under her ear. “Oh, no, I think I heard a lot more. How you wish that I could fuck you. Fill you full. Deep. A bit too hard, so that it hurts just a little. Enough so you’d think about me, morning after, when you’re nice and sore.”
“Yeah,” she breathes, “all of that.”
Blaine leans away slightly, and Kitty moves softly against his touch. Their eyes lock again. Blaine sees her cheeks brighten just before she turns her head away.
“Sorry…” she says breathlessly—guiltily?
Blaine reaches up and turns her face back, grip tight on her chin. He shakes his head. “Sorry for what?”
“You—you said you hate when it’s all eye con—”
“Yeah,” he cuts in. “I did say that.”
This close, her eyes are even bigger, wide, amber pools with the pupils blown. He inches forward and kisses the curve of her jaw as he flattens his palm against her back, urging her up onto her knees. It’s close, and intimate, and he loves how much of her is touching him, soft and hot and sweetly curved.
“Don’t look away,” he whispers as he tilts back, bracing one hand behind him on the mattress.
“Okay.” Her smile is questioning.
“Now...” He teases at her entrance—a soft nudge with two fingers—and then rolls his thumb upward again for good measure. “Ride me, sweetheart.”
Kitty hesitates a second longer, breath hitching, before she lowers herself, taking his gloved fingers inside in slow slide, hips riding down until she’s seated tight against his thighs. Her eyes lock on his the whole way.
“Fuck. Good. Good girl.” Blaine sits up, winds his free arm around her, and pulls her hips close, his cock trapped between them.
She loops her arms around his neck. “Blaine…” she whimpers. Her eyes are unfocused, but still trained on his.
“Yeah, me too,” he grits back, drinking in every flicker of change in her expression. He bucks beneath her. “Come on. Let me feel how bad you need it.”
Kitty’s hips roll—gently, at first, the movements tentative and uncertain, breath stuttering between them.
“Faster,” he urges. “C’mon, kitten. Faster.”
She starts to pick up the pace, rising away from him the scant inch that his hold allows, and then dropping, a moan slipping out at every down-motion.
Blaine helps her in the movement, forearm flexing as he relaxes to give her space, and then tightening as he hauls her back against him. Over and over they move in synchrony, urgency increasing, until they’re slamming against each other, until Kitty is moaning in one long string of needy, gorgeous sound as her eyes roll back. But then she seems to remember; she returns her eyes to him.
“Yes. Look at me. Remember who makes you feel like this.”
It’s almost pathological, his need to mark her, inside and out—mind, body…
Heart.
Kitty’s moans start to punctuate with a breathy please or three that make his brain feel as though it’s on fire. The friction of her skin and his, the aching length of him trapped between their bodies, is almost—almost—as good as being inside her.
Blaine moans too, as the rhythm starts to build in his blood, the damp, soft skin of her belly rubbing him in long strokes. She draws her arms away from his neck to grab hold of his shoulders. Her forehead touches his.
“So good…” she moans, sounding as far gone as he feels.
“Yeah?” he growls, “Almost as good as it could feel. If only the universe weren’t so cruel.” Blaine curls his fingers slightly inside of her, as though beckoning her toward him, and Kitty keens. “I would fill you up, kitten, every night, just like this. Bounce you on my cock until you fall to pieces…”
If you were mine. Mine to keep.
“Blaine...”
He’ll never get tired of hearing his name this way, slipping out of her mouth like a prayer. He doesn’t want this to be the last time. He can’t let her go—it will hurt too damned much.
Blaine thinks—in a momentary madness—that they should give in, that he should urge her onto her back and angle his hips just so, shove his tongue into her mouth to taste her moans as he pushes his cock impossibly deep inside her. Fuck her in stupid, ridiculous, intimate, blissfully connected face-to-face missionary like they’re newlyweds. Like forever is an option.
Then, maybe he holds himself inside while they come together, fills her full of the death sentence that would feel to him like the joyfully twisted answer to a prayer.
Stay.
Blaine knows that he doesn’t deserve the mirage of happily-ever-after, but he still lets the idea flood his mind for a fleeting minute. Then, he refocuses—no, they only have tonight. The next time she rocks away from him, he slips his thumb again through the slick, hot folds of her and presses upward, pulsing against the sensitive bundle of nerves there as he had before. And it gets a sweet, strangled...
“Blaine…”
Fucking poetry.
And so, he does it again—and again—timing his touches such that she’s soon grinding down on his fingers faster and faster, seeking more. Her blunted fingers dig into his shoulders. The crest of her pubic bone works the length of him with the perfect pressure and cadence, and he is the one to break their eye contact. Blaine lets his forehead fall forward, touch her collarbone as they grow frenzied together. His breath freight-trains into the scant space between them.
Her head tips back ever-so-slightly. Blaine takes the opportunity to bite—lightly, though the suggestion of danger is enough to make him rut up against her just a little harder—at the column of her throat. As she rocks against him, Kitty’s hair spills down over her shoulders and back, the ends tickling his wrist. He reaches up and buries his free hand in the length, wrapping it once around his wrist, pulling down so that her chin cants up sharply.
“Blaine…”
This version is pleading. Reaching. One word that contains multitudes—don’t stop. I’m close. Make me.
“Keep going,” he breathes—two more syllables than the sweetness of his name on her lips, but those two syllables say so much.
Take me. I’m all yours. Yours.
“Come on, sweetheart. I know you need it. I need it. Fuck, I need it.”
She’s wild in his lap, barely contained by the cage of his one arm and his fist in her hair. Writhing, riding, begging.
“Please, oh. Blaine, pleasepleaseplease…”
“Yes. Yes. Come all over me.” Despite the fact that he’s so ready to come that it hurts, aching and desperate from being pulled back from the edge prior, he’s trying to wait for her, wait her out, hold himself back until she—
“Blaine!”
Kitty bows against the pressure of his arm against her back and shudders against him. Blaine turns his head, and her chest heaves against his cheek, her heartbeat jackhammering, the sound viscerally beautiful to him. Her hand slides to the back of his neck for purchase, curving against the sweat-slick skin there, and her grip is nearly painful as she is lost to the orgasm that he feels spasming through her. She clenches around his gloved fingers, sobbing and incoherent as she shatters.
And the frantic snap of her hips at the end—once, twice, three times in hard, quick succession, squeezing him between their bodies—is just the final push he needs, too.
“Fuck,” he swears, his toes curling against the bed, his supporting arm slacking, his fingers loosening in her hair as the first wave of his own climax hits him. As Kitty sags in his arms, boneless, his raised knees at her back are the only thing keeping her upright. Blaine has just enough wherewithal to drop his knees and tumble her backward. He buries his face in her neck and wraps his own fingers around his aching length. The taut skin is already slick, but his glove—wet from Kitty’s body—adds the perfect, slippery slide to the tight grip that barrels him through waves and waves of paralyzing pleasure.
“God… Kit…” He can’t breathe. Everything in him seizes, over and over.
Her knees squeeze his hips. Her fingers rake through his hair. Her breath is hot in his ear, heavy and trembling, thick with the aftermath of her own gratification.
She bites his ear. Hard.
Blaine’s hips rut into the bed, and he has no care for the fact that he’s probably crushing her as he jerks and curses and spills himself through his fingers and into the folds of the comforter. His vision narrows for a split second, and he’s half afraid that he’ll pass out.
Thankfully, he doesn’t. But he does collapse, ungracefully, on top of her as the last crest of climax ebbs.
They lie there for long moments, both breathing hard, until Blaine has recovered enough to ease up on his elbows. He peppers her damp face with soft kisses, whispers between.
“You did so good, pretty girl.”
One of her hands roams his back, caressing.
“I love the way you look right now, so satisfied.”
That earns him a tired, blissful smile.
“Thank you for trusting me.”
Before she can reply to that, and before he chickens out, Blaine blurts, “Stay.”
Kitty’s hand stills on his back. “That’s not fair,” she whispers in return.
Blaine screws up his face absurdly, hoping that being incongruously comical in such a serious moment will ease the sting of the answer he knows she’ll ultimately give. He flares his eyes wide. “Yeah, uh—I’m a terrible person, remember?”
She laughs. It’s like she’s reached right into his cold, still chest and squeezed his heart with her gloved hand.
“So, if you’re so terrible, why should I stay?” It’s teasing, but it’s a chance.
Because I love you.
He could say it right now, looking down at her, drowsy and satiated in his arms. It’s a generally intimate scene, one of the typical places that people first say those three little words. But they stay in the cage of his head; locked away by a crippling cynicism about the sentiment. Cynicism that has nothing to do with the woman beside him.
But the fact that he’s fallen, it’s devastatingly true. And terrifying.
Instead of confession, Blaine opts for his standard out—humor. “I guess you’re right. You should actually leave as fast as possible. Don’t even get dressed. I’ll walk you home. It’s a very understanding neighborhood.”
Coward, he thinks.
Kitty smiles again, and the sleepiness of it makes him think of the night he’d spent with her at The Post, and he aches at the thought that this is the last night they’ll have to fall asleep together. He wishes that he could drift off to that smile for countless nights to come.
As her lashes fall against her cheeks, Blaine whispers, “Ravi’s working on a cure, you know. He asked me if I wanted to…”
Her eyelids open, but immediately drop to half-shuttered. She has to be exhausted. The clock on his nightstand reads two-thirty in the morning.
“Wanted to what?”
“To test it.”
Kitty frowns slightly. “Is that safe?”
Blaine almost laughs but holds it in. “I’m pretty sturdy.”
Her sleepy smile turns a little lecherous, and it nearly undoes him. “That’s true.”
They lapse into silence. Blaine doesn’t know what he expects—for her to rejoice, agree to stay in Seattle, tell him that she loves hi—
“Can I stay for the rest of tonight?”
He’s taken aback. “Did you actually think I was going to make you go back to the apartment?”
Kitty shrugs. “Can, uh—can I get up?”
“Oh! Yes, sorry.” He rolls off of her, and she stands—a little unsteadily, which makes him preen inside—and walks to the en suite bathroom, closing the door behind her. It’s a little unsettling, but Blaine recognizes the move for what it is—a way of distancing for her. He’s all too familiar with that mechanism, especially after a night of…whatever just happened between them.
It’s a funny feeling, being the one getting distanced from, though.
While the water runs in the sink in the bathroom, Blaine gets up, too, shucks his gloves, and wads up the comforter onto the floor next to his laundry basket. He gets a new one out from the underbed drawer, and by the time Kitty emerges, he’s back in bed, waiting for her.
There’s no distance to be found when she crawls back in with him, her own gloves shed. She slides into his open arms, nestling against his side and laying her head on his chest. Her bare hand rests over his heart.
And they lie there, entwined and silent.
He has to make peace with the fact that, tomorrow night, she’ll be sleeping somewhere else. Another city, another state. Running again. Blaine’s arms tighten reflexively around her, and he watches Kitty in the mirror across his bedroom as she falls asleep in his arms for the last time.