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Javier has given everything but a good excuse. Fishing had been for dinner, dinner had been because you were staying the evening away from camp, and the night away from camp had been for naught but spending time together. It's a nice spot, buried in the trees of Big Valley. Nearby Owanjila lake offered the fish, and, oh, that's right— Javier's reason for spending the night away was insisting that he had found a handful of interesting things that he wanted to show you. A pile of whale bones as big as himself, and strange faces carved into a couple of trees. It was intriguing, alright, but a ride back to camp would have left him plenty of time to nap before his next guard duty and you, plenty of time to relax before turning in for the evening. There seemed no other reason not to return.
How mysterious Javier believes himself to be is sweet. Dark eyes lingering and raspy voice softening every time they land on you fool no one. If you're feeling cruel, there's the way he shifts on his feet when you look at him with anything more keen than boredom, too. It's as if to be seen by you, in any emotion's coloring, is a very handsome thing.
He must think himself mysterious despite it all, because you've yet to be courted. There's no good reason for that, in your opinion, as fun as it is to know you entice someone. He has fixed too many jewelry chains without the right tools, pointed out too many holes in your clothes. You get the impression that his interest in keeping you pretty is out of the same pride with which he keeps himself looking good. You can't help swooning in private, but you detest that he wants to lay claim to you without first having the confidence to act on that desire.
Coward. You've never taken him to be as presumptuous as other men, but he often tests the endurance of your good graces.
Javier has invited you on day trips before. This morning, he drew in towards the poker table you were tossing cards over with Mary-Beth and leaned onto his forearms to ask another of you. He looked handsome in the late morning light, black hair falling into his face. Fishing was his proposition, although you never do much but watch him cast the line and stare at the water, hoping that you don't make eye contact. (Coward.) After the two of you finished betting with stolen jewelry, Mary-Beth slid to you a grin alongside the deck. Being a lady, she knew. Having eyes was not enough to tell Javier was sweet on you, given he had a pair of his own.
Fishing became an offer to teach you guitar, since you had asked him weeks ago and, naturally, it would be easier to focus if you were alone; then it became want to see somethin' interesting? as Javier gave you a push into the saddle, a fast shove, as though scared to touch you but too chivalrous to let you handle yourself; and by the time you had gotten out of the shroud of trees that protects the Overlook camp, there was a full day of activities ahead of you. Mysterious as a bodice ripper, this one. Javier's once-slouched spine was ramrod straight from the moment you put your arms around his waist for stability.
Hours later, the two of you were roasting chunks of a fattened bass, talking about spring and the lovely blooming fields. He's more appreciative of delicate beauties than the other men. His guitar laid in wait throughout dinner, neck disappearing in the tufts of grass surrounding the splotchy section of dirt you'd settled down on. One tent, a small fire, and Boaz grazing in the brush make for a quaint scene. Closer to the lake, the greenery is fuller, dotted with flowers; here, it's balding. The horse was content either way, having grown used to the chewed-up grass around the hitching posts. You hadn't managed to replace your own traveling tent from Blackwater, having donated most of the money you pickpocketed in town to the camp funds. You can only be thankful that he isn't bashful about sharing a necessity. As sweet as you are on Javier, there's a fine line between an invigorating obsession and the inconvenient sin of immaturity.
Well, obsession could be a hopeful descriptor on your part. His eyes say what his stoic face doesn't. They dart around the little campsite for a while before he reaches for his guitar, the fire drawing long, soft-mouthed shadows over the acoustic body he sits in his lap. You shift closer, intending to pay fuller attention. In an instant, his gaze is on your hand pushing into the ground to help you slide closer.
He disappears behind curtain bangs. "You still want to learn some?" Javier brushes a few strings, the dull notes stopped before they can ring out. Pick, mute, pick, mute, the awkward gait of a lopsided tune.
"Sure thing," you say. Your undivided focus wears on his nerves. There's no better feeling than the way he fidgets beneath your stare, the threading of his composure threatening to give way. It's been depleted for today, his expression fond when he looks at you. "But I don't know that I'll understand much if I'm not holdin' the guitar."
His eyes narrow, near imperceptible, but Javier must know it's true and so he obliges. Having earned his blanket suspicion makes you giddy. Jeans rustle against ground as he raises onto his knees, shuffling closer. The acoustic is heavier than you expected, skirt needing fixed once you've crossed your legs to support the weight. His strumming position is easy enough to mimic, but you're quick to get lost on the fretboard, choking it in a softly closed fist. Javier studies a rock on the ground until you're situated enough he can instead eye your incorrect hand positioning.
He reaches out, hesitates. As you are about to poke fun at him, he sighs. "It's not easy to figure it out from this side," he admits, hands dropping to his knees. "I've never taught anyone before. Figured it out myself, too."
"You could get behind me 'n' reach around." It's innocent at first, but you realize the opening you have created, quick to jump in it with a sly grin. "Been a while since you ain't had to pay for that, I'm sure."
Javier reaches out, flicks the air beside your temple. "Jackass," he says, good-natured, and gets to his feet.
Moments pass with him weighing what qualifies as too close, his hands trying from two inches too far to position yours until, with another quiet exhale, Javier's knees are on either side of your hips, his face peering over your shoulder to double check the guidance of his muscle memory. Despite your teasing, you prefer his awkward dancing around to a man who readily takes the opportunity to breathe down your neck. Maybe it's the same thing that keeps him from outright admitting himself which makes him respectful now. Plucking your fingers up between his and shifting them around, he diverts your attention.
The gutstrings are tough but smooth on your uncalloused fingertips, warm from Javier's playing. You'd want to believe you're better at hiding how his proximity makes your fingers want to twitch, how your interest shifts towards him and the roughness of his palm until you can correct its course. Once he's manipulated your fretting hand, he pinches the index and thumb of your other together. It seems random to you, but it must be a specific, natural posture to him.
"It's easier to start with a pick, but I don't have one." His voice is softer, trying not to shout into your ear. There's a waver behind it, one that stays in his throat but might climb out if you push him enough. You've heard his nervousness come through before; it was a good evening of messing with him. "Unless you want a coin?"
"This is fine," you say, unsure what difference it would make. "I thought you did it different." Javier's hand usually rests the unused fingers on the edge of the guitar's maw, thumb strumming.
"How I strum takes a little more finger strength," he says. Considering his backwardness, it's wishful thinking to hope he's toying with you, now, the way you toy with him. Without a hint of innuendo, he goes on. "This'll just irritate your nails." When your hands look right, his warm breath disappears from where it had fanned against your cheek. That he is not taking advantage of the opportunity disappoints part of you. The other is again grateful he can control himself. "Hold that pose. I've gotta— relieve myself."
It's knee-jerk. "All alone?" You turn to look over your shoulder where he's getting to his feet. Where your fire-shadow obscures him, you can't define anything but his face.
Javier barks a laugh, tracking his way into the brush. You know him well enough, after all this alone time bought on cheap excuses like friendly bonding, that the anxiety in it is clear.
Although he told you to stay put, you have never cared for listening to a man. Having spent hours watching his quick hands and his singing mouth in equal measure, you fix the pose of yours and try to strum. The guitar lets out a meek chord, strings vibrating where your fretting fingers do not choke them enough. Your thumb slips over the bases of the strings, barely touching the last few. Your pressure is too soft, that's obvious, but you fear being too harsh. What would break the strings? Could anything? New ones can be bought, but you cannot undo the look that would cross his face upon seeing them limp and lifeless.
By the time he returns, you've gotten back to where you were. Javier crouches beside you, a little ways in front of the guitar's neck. "I heard you tryin'," he says, squinting without the smile hitting his mouth. He leans forward to move your hands again, though he struggles to do it.
You want to laugh. He had said it was difficult from this angle and here he is, trying again— for what? The most you allow yourself is a giggle. "Are you actually scared of women?" You ask.
"I don't want you thinkin' I'm a creep," Javier huffs, humoring you with but a glare. You find his irritation endearing and his defensiveness, rather telling. "You don't respect me, but I'm trying to respect you."
"Oh, you wasn't worried about respect when you jumped on me earlier, were you?" You ask, raising an eyebrow. Pale goes his face. You snicker, sharp and sudden, after letting him believe it long enough to take in his drained cheeks, how ashen he becomes. "Jesus, Javier, you'd think I'd shot Boaz. I'm only jokin'." Javier loosens while remaining weary, sitting down from his crouch with bent knees knocked in front of him. Quieting yourself, you watch openly the flex of muscles in his forearm as he fixes his already in-place hair. "It was useful for me, actually. Would you get back there?"
He relents without argument. Closer this time, focused on getting your fingers to do as he says. They aren't used to the strange bends required for even the simplest of chords. Unruly, they crowd together and press too hard or too little. Some slip over to neighboring strings, some taking extra causalities, others unable to reach. Javier touches you more than he ever has, even on days where you believed he might finally speak his mind. After moments of fiddling in relative silence — you enjoying the attention and him, trying to find the words to teach — the fire's ambient crackle and pop give way to the click of his throat as he swallows.
You know from the strained nature of his breath that he's nervous to be near to you. It's delightful. Butterflies are too delicate a word for the inducement in your gut at rendering this stoic man so easy to read. Pride, and a helping of your own affection. You wish he would let his hands linger instead of drawing them away. Suddenly, this little clearing appears to you quite secluded and romantic. Three-fourths of your mind is listening and a wayward quarter is entertaining, as usual, thoughts of his touch sliding up your arm. His return to the other hand, pinching your thumb and pointer together again before his final retreat, give you one last memory to cherish. As Javier settles onto his heels behind you, you think something tougher than the softness of his stomach brushes your back, but it's gone in a moment and he's inviting you to try strumming. A fleeting touch on your elbow, encouraging.
Your first attempt is another dull one, the sound muffled despite Javier making you press the strings harder. "Don't be afraid of it," he coaxes, presses to you so that he may put a few fingers of pressure on the top of your wrist. The sudden confidence boost is of obvious origin. Where you had sparingly enjoyed his touch, you're biting your cheek to keep from speaking now. "Like this." Javier nudges down harder, and your nails slip against the strings, haphazard, in your distraction. He guides your wrist, and the sound is braver than before. "That's a... chord, I think."
"You think?" You ask. You strum again, and his hand disappears from your wrist, then the press of his body against yours fades, too.
You think, in its absence.
"I learned guitar when I's younger. Hosea only knew a little about playing it when he taught me English." He sounds sheepish admitting it, which endears you enough you consider not teasing him right away. Relief from you is difficult to earn and just as brief. "I've never had to worry about knowing how to call the different parts of it, so..." Javier clears his throat, skirting around his vulnerabilities. "Keep trying to play it."
The guitar gives another mewling attempt. You had liked him touching you, but without it you realize how many times you've tried and failed. The embarrassment is frustrating and you strum with double the force. The strings give a proper, full reply, your nails smarting some from scraping the wood of the guitar on an awkward downstroke. After a pause, you try again. And again, and another time— each one is more confident, until it sounds like someone who's got a clue what they're doing is playing.
Javier's hands are on your shoulders as soon as that moment comes, clammy against the bare skin your blouse's arms leaves. He squeezes gently. "Just like that," he says. He shifts closer and you are certain, this time, of what you feel, biting your tongue so hard your eyes water. Not out of discomfort, but to try to wipe the growing smirk off your face. Necessarily, he's leaning against you, reaching to position your fretting hand, and his erection is clear at the small of your back while he tries to convince your pinky to stay put.
You cannot help yourself. It is going to fluster him, which you will feed off like a psychic vampire, to be sure; but there's an undeniable cheer from that depraved quarter of your mind that wanders, sometimes, when Javier gets close. So you do have an effect on him.
"You must be proud," you say, like you're only being pompous.
His love of Dutch should prove he wouldn't care if that were the case. "'Course I am," Javier replies.
It's sweet, but not enough to make you feel any less eager to spit something out. The fun you take in teasing him is unlike anything else. Wriggling your way into a slim crack in his armor is such a reward, you cannot contain yourself. Laughter doesn't find you, at these moments, because you find it funny. No, it's that you've got no other way to let go of the rush. You make a good con artist when you don't love the victim.
"Yes, I can feel it," you drawl. It sounds too invested. You are invested, but pretending that you are not is part of the fun, so you lean into the sultry tone. A giggle escapes you, easier to stave off than the sudden breathlessness is.
Javier pauses, fingers hesitating and then falling from yours. Sounds as though he trips himself trying to retreat, the words taking a moment to sink in. "I'm sorry," he says at once, knees retracting from their spots by your hips. Denim and leather scrape grass as he goes, and a rabbit in the brush mimicks his escape, scampering off into the woods under the rustling of leaves. "It happens, sometimes, you know— we were so close—"
"It's okay," you say, smile evident in your voice. You study the fire drawing dancing shadows, barely resisting the urge to watch him flailing.
"—I was actually trying to teach," — he halts, letting out an exasperated noise or perhaps trying to re-find his bearings — "What?"
"I said it's okay," you repeat, turning to look over your shoulder. Javier doesn't shrink from your gaze. He must realize the way he looks: legs sprawled to give you an awkwardly wide berth, with mortification scrawled on his face. Without missing a beat, he collects himself, as far as the latter goes, with a speed that's almost humorous. You ease your expression. Crucial to understand is the balance between poking fun and luring him in. "We were close. It happens."
He exhales, chest deflating. "I don't want you to think..."
Before he finds what he's looking to say, you cut him off. "It's okay, Javier." The softness of his name on your tongue soothes him. He shifts to sit up straight, hands rubbing the thighs of his jeans. Wiping the sweat off of them, you realize, ecstatic. "Come back."
Expression suspect, he shifts to kneel behind you, a fair distance away. It's clear he's going to try to move on from it instead of making a pass at you. For a moment, you consider accepting the silent implication that he would rather not. Sometimes embarrassing things happen without cause. That much is true. But Javier is not the only one of you that's been spiraling down that path, and he is not the only one who might want it, and he's never going to be the one who says anything, anywhere, anytime. If you want anything but a guitar lesson from the man tonight, you know you're going to have to be the one to say it first.
"Why don't you put this away?" You ask, giving the fretboard a small lift.
The spike in his heartrate may as well be visible. "Yes, ma'am," he says, in the same serious tone everyone reports to Grimshaw with. You snort.
You could've gotten up to rest the guitar in the tent, returned in a few seconds. The request is more to see if he will do it, and Javier obeys. He slinks around fast, clearly doesn't want the bulge in his jeans to be in plain sight. Into the tent he disappears, the firelight bathing the canvas flaps obscuring him. You watch his ass until you can no longer, feeling a weight slide off your shoulders at the realization you can stare at him, be as hungry as you want now.
Of course, glances were stolen as frequently as you could manage in these last few months. His forearms flexing while he cleans his guns, the spirals into thinking of the barrel's phallic nature, the drifting of your hand to your hip to consider your own and how he might dream of you holding it. You worried that he might believe you want him for nothing more than a fling if you showed too much desire.
Having taken a moment to catch his breath in privacy, he emerges from the tent with stitched-up composure. The campfire draws those kind shadows onto him, gentling the sharpness of his face and making it clear what muscle lies in the arms beneath his rolled up sleeves. Javier settles with false coolness beside you, and his ass is no sooner on the ground than your hand is on his knee, fingers slotting between the folds of his jeans where the leg bends. His coolness thaws and he's already close to the hot, squirming thing he'd been when you turned your head over your shoulder.
"I'm sweet on you," Javier says, unprompted. He looks from your face to your chest to his knee, then back to your face. His dark eyes are firm, and you don't move beneath them. "I want more than sex."
Oh, now he can be straightforward? But then, you know you prefer him this way. To think he's fumbling most of the time but gravely serious at the prospect of not having something meaningful with you is romantic, in a way. It's that he thinks you wouldn't already know which is a touch sour.
"I ain't blind," you say. "And you aren't subtle." Whatever venom is in it is honeyed. He flushes, mouth twitching into a timid grin. You shift forward, slow, until it's clear he won't skitter away. Javier lets you crowd into his space, keeping a precious few inches between you until his back meets the grass and you have climbed atop him, knees straddling his hips and your forearms beside his head. "Sweet on you, too, Javier."
His arms, pinned odd, wriggle out. He brushes his hands on his waistcoat before they gingerly rest on your waist, the pressure all too faint but quite nice. Even when you've been sitting in the dirt, he doesn't want to touch you with any on his hands. You have so rarely thought of him as cute, but the word comes to you.
The smile on his face reveals his snaggle teeth, sharp canines. "You've got me all figured out, don't you, corazón?" Javier asks.
"It wasn't hard," you say, and this time it is a little pompous.
Endeared by how intently he keeps eye contact and a little peeved by his ignoring your cleavage, you press your chest down against his, only leaning in for a kiss once you've gotten a glance out of him. Javier's hands are strong where they slide around to your back, one moving across to curl around the opposite side of your waist, drawing you closer. The affection is new, but the easy way you work together is not.
He is all soft and open-mouthed beneath you, only his facial hair prickly against your upper lip, your cheek, your chin. It's gentler than you ever imagined him to be. Javier lets you lick into his mouth, nails curling into your blouse and then letting go as fast. Shifting your weight, you move to hold him by the jaw for no reason but the simple fact he will let you. He grunts, then strains his neck to lean up and into your kiss, pushes his chin into your hand to let you in further.
You give him a short reprieve before sliding your fingers into his hair, tugging gently to guide his head as you pull away from his mouth. It's weak and sharp, his ponytail making it difficult to worm them in far enough. Javier bears his throat to you, and you nestle a kiss into the softness under his chin. He pants, once, twice, then breathes out a laugh. "You're lucky I like you."
"Why?" You ask, not wanting to stop and speak. His skin tastes warm and sweat-salty, a hint of the lingering alcohol of a cologne dabbed on in the morningtime. He's always done-up, but you like to pretend it was especially for your company today.
Every movement of his chest is felt under you. It expands again. "I'd smack anyone else for yankin' my hair."
His hands come up your sides, edging close to cupping your breasts. They jump to them more out of surprise than eagerness when you bite at his neck, enough to be felt but hoping the red marks will fade in an hour's time. He's never seemed the kind to bruise like a peach, at least. You nose his neckerchief, fail to uncover anymore skin, then move to pull it undone, trying not to choke him. Javier doesn't protest and so you bite again, above the tough, keloided scar ringing the base of his throat. Over the rough tissue, you kiss gentler. His collarbone, though, fits between your teeth and he outright hisses.
"You trying to eat me?" He asks. You can hear the grin on his face and give another gnaw at his collar.
"If only." You move back to where his neckerchief will hide the marks, giving a tougher bite to the strong muscle of his neck. The accusation earns an attempt, doesn't it?
He must mean to stifle a louder noise, for what comes out of him is a strangled whimper. It's nicer on your ears than anything could hope to be, and with your hand moving between the two of you to seek out his clothed hard-on, you entreat to earn another. His hands, resting idle around your chest, squeeze. Given nothing but another kiss to his throat, softer, Javier starts to knead. He's an attentive kisser, but it sparks the first real bolts of desire in you. His breath falls above the crown of your head, hitching when your palm finds him and starts to feel, in earnest, the shape of him through his jeans. It breaks with another high sound, short lived, and then he's chuckling in nervousness.
Leaning away, you take the break as a chance to tease him rather than catch your own breath. "You moan like you've never been touched before." It's thin with your panting, doesn't land anywhere vulnerable.
"Never been touched by you," Javier says, as if agreeing.
It softens you some, and you feather your kisses up his throat, his jaw, his cheek. "You're too sweet," you coo. You let go of him, take his hand from your chest. His other stops, thinking it's a dismissal. Just in time to catch the bob of his throat, you guide him down your body and between your legs, pressing it in enough to feel the heat of your sex and the dampness gathered beneath your skirts. "Do you feel that, sweetheart?"
A beat of silence, a breeze grazing the trees. It becomes clear you aren't going to continue without an answer.
"I do," he says quietly.
"I liked that guitar lesson, too." Your fingers guide his to press in, the fabric's texture almost uncomfortable but the pleasure of stealing his suaveness away again indescribable. "Havin' you so close to me, with your hands on me." Knowing you may be giving away too much, you continue. "Almost wish I went on teasing you all night, but I'm impatient."
You watch his face as he registers what you mean, even if it's a little bit of an exaggeration. Getting this man on his back has been infinitely more arousing than those fleeting touches, but they had done something to you, too. You move your hand away, and Javier's doesn't leave. Its pressure lessens, but he rubs at your clothed pussy before moving over the shape of your thighs beneath your clothes. He seems interested in learning how you feel as a whole. He pauses, squeezes at the fat of your inner thigh, lets his head loll to the side as he exhales shakily.
"You make a fool out of me."
You kiss the corner of his mouth. He closes his eyes. Then you're laughing, soft, and his hand is curling around your hip. "You're real content," you say, can hardly believe he's so simple to please.
"I am." He scrunches his face, lets it go. Trying to set it into something presentable, but you don't let him. Javier grunts when you catch his mouth, letting you kiss him into the ground until you think he might sink into it. Between hungry, forceful kisses, he manages to spill out more compliments. "So pretty, my girl." The hand that had stilled on your chest kneads again, surer. "Fine as art, hermosa." Hanging back, unable to rake in enough oxygen in the seconds you're fine spending apart, he rambles freer: "I love the way you push me around. God, I don't even know what to do with a woman like you."
As he speaks, you're raising your hips, hand smoothing down his body to find his jeans again. "Good boy," you say, off-handed, more of a degradation than a praise and yet he shines as if it were all the same. Your fingers find the button of his fly, undoing it deftly. "Keep talkin'."
"You are the most aggressive woman I have ever met," he says, watching your hands picking at his clothes. It's an adoration of its own, even if you could've done much worse to earn it.
Nearly makes you want to prove that claim. In his infatuation, eyes fallen heavy and lips parted, deep gaze trained on you— you've often thought of him as pretty, never finding it a word reserved for femininity so long as Javier lives. The soft edge of it spurs you to grip him, a little cruel, but he gives no indication it hurts. If so, he likes it. He turns his head and lets go of your side to press his knuckles to his mouth, firm, then talks.
"I'm s'posed to be doing all this," he says. "I'm the man." It's veiled as a joke, but you can hear the vague sense of woundedness behind it. Your palm seems an awful fine place to be any other time, but he's squirming now that it's sex, whatever complex that must display within him.
It's not your concern, besides how easy it makes it to dig further into him. "Then do it, big man. I didn't tie you up, did I?" you taunt, faux-sweet. "Sure you wouldn't mind, anyways."
He's not foolish enough to believe you'll let him, but Javier takes the chance. His mouth is on yours before he's rolled you into the grass, more fervor to it after your comment. Throwing his weight to do it, the impact is jarring on your joints, and you feel him mutter an apology against your lips. Javier doesn't press against you until you claw at his shoulders, and then he is heavy atop you, barely supporting himself. The fire's heat builds, all these inches closer to it, lending to the sweat threatening to gather at your lower back. His touch is the most burning thing. On your arms, down your side, and then he's found his wits enough to pick at your waistband.
Fingers dance there until he's satisfied enough with the kiss to part from your lips. "May I?"
You consider. Javier waits patiently, his fingertips grazing skin where your blouse has come close to untucking itself with all the movement. His earlier comment comes to your mind, then flashes of just what benefits there may be in having a guitar player for a lover. You say yes, eager to quiet your mind with the real thing. Javier's eyes trail down to watch his own hand slip beneath your skirt, the man crowding into your space as he shifts to turn his wrist. Steps ahead, you're thinking of the touch of his calloused fingertips well before they seek you out through your drawers. The muscles of your stomach still flinch, as if unexpecting.
The fabric between you frustrates him even quicker than it does you. He gets past its drawstring to run the rough pads of his fingers over you. Wetness makes them move easy, as he passes them over your slit, light. Hearing the waver of his breath, as if you weren't the one being touched, breaks whatever patience you had for drawing things out in the name of sensuality. There will be another day to let him figure you out. You ache.
"Why don't you let me feel you sayin' how pretty I am?" You encourage, and Javier's surprise is brief. He looks like he might tease you for your eagerness, so you push his shoulders, an attempt at distracting him. He kisses you once before obliging.
Taking your skirts as he goes, your shirt falls and covers your stomach. Javier seems to consider not doing away with the clothing completely, but you bring your knees to your chest and slide your legs out before he can try to work around it. Gentleman that he is, he takes the time to lay them under you, rather than having you lay bare on the ground; or, it could be that doing so permits him a long look between your spread legs while your hips are lifted. The idea stirs your gut.
His stubble scratches the sensitive skin of your thighs as Javier kisses along it. It takes one, two nips for you to be certain he is biting on purpose. Where his hands settle, forearms beneath your legs and fingers curled around your hips, you lay your own atop them. With his breath, warm, fanning your skin and his mouth so close— you go quiet, as if you might be able to focus hard enough he listens to a command not spoken. You'd sooner make him beg than consider it yourself. The fact he wouldn't be difficult to convince is delicious. You only think yes, please as Javier works towards your middle.
The deep breath he takes doesn't go unnoticed, but you've not time to taunt him before your eyes meet, his nose pressed against you. Looking away seems the last thing on his mind, gaze fixed on you as his tongue works over your slit. Like his kisses, it begins exploratory rather than pleasurable; along the shape of you, tracing your lines, seeking your clit. When he finds the nerves, though the touch is fleeting, your fingers hold his a little tighter.
It's all he needs. Javier works his tongue around your clit in circles, until the strain must make his eyes squint with the effort and they close, briefly, as he laves over you. The absence draws more need than his attentions. You can feel the blood pooling, how you've grown tense with anticipation. You relax your legs, move a hand to rest atop Javier's head. The heat of his mouth licking along you, his tongue pressing in and evidently savoring you, starts to work at your patience.
"Do I taste good?" You ask, breathy.
Javier delves further in response, his hum vibrating against you. He parts from you with a loud inhale, one so desperate air you can't help but laugh. His cheek brushes your thigh where his smile broadens it. His eyes linger on your skin as he collects himself.
"Yes," he says, after a long pause, and then his face softens, gazing up at you. "There aren't words for it."
You wonder if he's thought about what he'd flirt with, or if he's simply found his footing. On the matter of you, Javier swings between quick-thinking and near incapable of doing it. The easy way he goes with what you ask of him makes you wonder. Javier makes his own request, silent, brushing your hand off his to reach behind his head and take his hair down, the tie around his wrist. Snaking his arm back around your leg, he lavishes you in kisses before refinding your clit, far more focused. A pleased sound is muffled against you as you thread your fingers into his hair. It's damp where it'd been gathered up, and you comb it out, Javier grunting when you hit tangles. Your nails scratching against his scalp earn another soft noise.
"You're louder than I am." Your voice is strained enough to show his effect on you, but Javier flicks his eyes towards you. The bitterness is playful, but he can imitate irritation real well. It does nothing but prompt a smile and another tease. "Can't even take your mouth off me to bite back? That good?"
You're careful not to let your expression waver as he trades circling your clit for sucking at it, and not too kindly. The sound that crawls up your throat is quiet enough a pop of the fire obscures it, you hope. Javier's brows draw tight in concentration, apparently trying to get revenge through appeasement. You sigh, fingers curling in his hair, and shift to dig your heels into the ground. His nostrils flare in pants, the heat of it condensing on your skin, and his hands move down to dig his fingers into your thighs, clipped nails sharp in spots.
Pressing into your feet, you nudge your hips up into his mouth. The dirt slips some, but Javier moves to support your legs with his hands splayed under your thighs, encouraging you to roll up against his face. Another noise, as though you're touching him. You write the sudden hitch in your breath off as a side effect of using your core, even as Javier uses his strength to still your hips and works over you with a renewed passion. It draws a proper moan from your lips, and then the restraint you had is gone, crass sweet-talk slipping fast and low from you: how good he looks, how smart he is with his tongue, more playful prods at his masculinity that he does not refute, too preoccupied.
He breaks away panting, finally, raising his head. The light of the fire glints off his face, chin and mouth wet. He's dark with flush, the sharp lines of his cheeks hazy. You let go of his hair and it falls to hang in his vision.
"Aren't you pretty," you coo, tugging at his shirt.
Javier comes willingly, only resisting when you try to pull him in for a kiss. "But I just—"
"It's my pussy," you interrupt. It's clear he spoke without considering your likely blase attitude, because there's no surprise in response. "I don't care where your mouth was."
He snickers at the vulgarity and lets you pull him in by his collar. Any timidness comes about when you lick into his mouth, intending to taste yourself on his tongue. He shifts onto his forearm, other hand sliding beneath your shirt and up to your ribs, then follows the curve of your side. In the lull, you think it'll be nice to know what Javier does as an idle lover. Will he be touching you constantly, seeking out your hand? Wanting to trace your curves, like this, as if it soothes him?
His hardness brushes your leg, and you take advantage of the position to throw your ankle behind him, pulling him closer. The discomfort of denim and metal zipper against your thighs is menial compared to the sound he makes into your mouth, nothing but the thin fabric of his drawers between you. Your skirts are getting wet beneath you with slick and spit, but you couldn't care less. Javier scrabbles to even his breathing.
"You've been so selfless," you say, intending to continue after you coax a response from him.
His voice is hoarse. "I loved it."
Watching the apple of his throat move in a dry swallow, you glance beside you and see his neckerchief discarded in the grass where you had laid him down. Briefly, you try devising a plan to push at his restraint, but come up empty-handed. Not with his gaze fixed on you, so intent, and his face so honest. He's easier to read to you than to others, but to find Javier honest is close to impossible. It feels special to be beneath it, even if it's the least a man can be.
You stroke the scratchy skin at his jaw. Though you'd like him with a shadow all the same, his tight hold on his appearance is part of his handsomeness. Your thighs are starting to feel a little raw from being scratched his cheeks, the night air chilly on your skin where fabric cannot heat it the same as his mouth. There's something drunken about him as you run your thumb over his lips, tacky with drying dampness.
The docility about him prompts you to pry. "What got you worked up? Was it more than you said when you was sputtering around?" It's delivered soft enough to smart less. It could have been the proximity, sure, but there's been plenty of times you've had to pile one atop the other in close quarters, stumbling into hiding on jobs or lacking room in wagons. It was tense each time, but he's one of the most disciplined of the gang in every measure.
"You smell good," Javier admits. No hint of shyness in his expression, only the same intensity that's been there all the while. His hoarseness is trying to fade into a lingering thinness. Lips press a kiss to the pad of your finger. A sliver of his hotheadedness rears. "Wasn't sputtering, either."
"Just that?" You ask, ignoring him grasping for those straws.
"Yes."
Nudging his shoulders downwards, he goes. Javier's amusement is cut with a plainly visible affection. Which idea is most laudatory, you're unsure: that Javier cannot abate his desire to treat you like the finest thing he's ever seen, or that he's behaving on purpose. Without the distraction of his touch, however momentary, you feel the uncomfortable roughness of the ground under you and want the spoiling of his hands on you again, his arms around your legs, asking you to trap his head.
The shadow of him looks good after you bend your knees, his sharp face upturned to watch you even with your body sprawled underneath him. You love this gentleness, how he leaves you all the room despite the tension in his jaw. Tracing it with your fingers, Javier huffs. It probably aches. He's not the sort of man to deal with things he does not want to deal with out of obligation, so far as you see it. Fingers move from his jaw, to his temple and into his hair, let him have the reprieve of laying his cheek on your lower stomach to catch his breath. Javier seems content to be there, and you realize now there's no urgency to get any attention on himself. It feels a little cruel. There is undeniably, too, an opportunity to torment him more.
"Don't you want something, Javier?" You ask.
"I can wait," he says. He breathes in, raises to settle between your legs again. A hand curls back around your thigh, stroking at the broad side. "I've waited a long time already."
He intends it to be romantic, but you only think of your frustration in how he danced around courting you. Though you understand it and you enjoy the hesitance from a man most would not expect the respect of hesitancy from— there's a little devilishness in it when you brush your other knee against his side.
"The least I can do is let you take care of yourself, then, isn't it?" You run your nails against his scalp, and Javier leans into the touch. "Sure it won't take long, with how worked up you are."
The curl of his lips is unbelieving. "You're cruel," he says, fond as ever.
"You can ask for more." Offering is unlike you, but you know it'll fluster him to choose to debase himself when he's gotten the chance to have fuller relief.
"No," Javier says, as you expected. His lashes look long from here, laid against his cheeks. It might be funny that he's looking at your pussy in consideration like this, if you weren't so keenly aware of the lack of space between him and your pleasure. "I want to finish with my mouth on you." The words come out in a rush, not antsy to have them said but to have them heard.
To say you didn't know he had it in him isn't true by any margin, but the sincerity of the vulgarity makes you bite your lip. What tension had cooled off during your kiss rewinds itself. As the air starts to chill your calves, Javier shifts to straddle your leg, seems to stop and contemplate. He shoves his jeans down, and you're aware of what a tangled mess the two of you are, out in the open. Owanjila isn't infrequently traveled by. The thought had completely slipped your mind as soon as pouncing Javier became a possibility, but you have the sneaking suspicion he wouldn't care if you brought it up. You must not either, if the worry had missed you this long. The night's been quiet and lonesome enough.
You bite the inside of your cheek when Javier presses up against your shin. His hand is strong where it grabs the backside of your leg, keeping it steady. His drawers are damp, sweat and precum staining them, but he does as you said and begins to grind against you. The shape of him, hot and wanting, as he works his hips in heavy, slow rolls and the sound of his breath instantly falling harder lead you straight to fantasizing. Shifting to your elbows, easier to card through his hair that way, you can't help watching the thumb's width of skin showing where his shirt and vest ride up, fall down, ride up.
Not only rutting around on the ground but doing it half-clothed. It's such a debauched image that you almost want to laugh, and then his mouth is on you and the weight of his cock is enrapturing in comparison to something so meaningless as risk or decency. The lull refreshed your nerves, but they hadn't lost their sensitivity. In fact, Javier drawing his tongue along you is twice as nice and he is twice as confident in wandering. It pushes inside of you, his stubble prickling your sex where his cheeks and chin press up to it. With his mouth opened so wide, the groan he lets go of is plain as day.
Your muscles twitch, that familiar tightness building behind your navel as he exhausts his interest in thrusting with his tongue, as if deeply kissing, and then works his way up, seeking your clit. The hand not on your calf is squeezing your thigh, your hip, shifting blind and grabbing whatever it can as Javier moves. He's a stoic, cold sort of man; to provoke him into wanting is a rarity, but to get him like this pushes your ego into a blossom. He's an ardent lover, you knew from the moment he first took a liking to you, on account of his inability to hide it.
Your lips part, mind focused now on working yourself towards your climax. You fall silent, save for panting. Half of it is the goodness of having Javier completely at your whim, and half of it is the eagerness with which he's licking at you. For a few moments, here and there, he parts to rake in breath and then returns to you, a man starved for the taste, the sounds you make. Losing yourself in ideas — what his hips might feel like carving into yours, if he'd be louder than the grunts falling between your legs, how you might pay back this favor — slips into narrowing on the tug at your gut as he works your clit. The sensation sharpens, fades, then re-emerges softer, until you know that even a moment of change will lead to you working up another orgasm from scratch.
Prying his fingers off where they dig into the flesh of your hip, you lace yours between them, wanting something to hold. Exhaling a warning, he works his mouth harder, noises of effort starting to come from his throat. It's an awkward angle for your wrist and for his neck, but neither of you move from it, not until you have gone quiet and then groaned his name. You can feel your muscles pulsing, but the sensations of his tongue and lips and hips on you blur into one good feeling as Javier works you through it.
The night's quiet is sharper when you catch your racing breath, Javier's cheek now pressed to your inner thigh. His breath fans hot, his hips limp atop your leg, and you enjoy the warmth of his closeness before jumping into teasing, which you doubt will hit its mark regardless. You're too clearly sated, sagging onto your elbows, then onto the ground entirely, looking down at Javier beneath lidded eyes.
"Surely you aren't done for?" You draw it out, feel Javier's hand slide from yours as he untangles himself from your legs to lean over you.
"Not until you say I am." Still, the hoarse quality has taken his throat once more.
A spark of pleasure that goes through you at that earnestness. "Got off and now you've sprouted a backbone, huh?" You ask, smoothing your voice. It's softer all over, not much energy left with which to be bold.
This one lands as you wanted it to. He winces, but there's a good humor about him. "Does it make me less fun to pick on?" He returns, as if his pride is nothing, should he be less of interest to you.
"No," you say. That much is true as can be. You run your hand up his arm, feeling not-so-subtly at his bicep through his shirt sleeve, and Javier tilts towards the touch. "More, in fact."