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Cole Cassidy was not working with the Deadlock Rebels. Well, not technically.
He was still a mercenary. He was just a mercenary that with surprising frequency took jobs that kept him in the gang's territory, between Texas and New Mexico. He was just a mercenary that took jobs alongside the Deadlock Rebels. He was just a mercenary that was on the Rebels' tab, from time to time.
But if someone asked him, if someone asked the leader of the Rebels, they would both agree that Cole Cassidy was not working with the Deadlock Rebels. Not in any official capacity.
It just so happened that Cole Cassidy was there when the Deadlock Rebels pulled off an incredible heist that landed more money than most of them could have thought about. Even Frankie was too elated with the goods lifted from a convoy along Route 66 to bother pre-screening applicants for the purchase.
(They'd tightened that up. They tightened that up a lot after Cole and Ashe's screaming match about the fact that he found serial numbers that he remembered from one of their heists in the hands of terrorists that he faced off against in Blackwatch. It came after much poking and prodding, after why'd you stay? why didn't you even try to come back? after he doubled back around into their company a few times. Bez had heard it, advised people stay clear of that room for a while. Frankie and her drones had heard every last word.)
(But that was a while ago.)
The liquor ran like water that night. Where it came from, what it was. They drank dry the little bar near their hideout and went back to the liquor stores. It was a celebration to the nines the like of which would have gotten the law enforcement called if they were anywhere they'd have the audacity to come to. But the locals left the Rebels alone, and the Rebels kept an eye on the locals—it was easy enough to get along. And to ignore when they got a little rowdy.
Frankie sat on the couch next to Ashe, kicking up her feet. "Feels like old times, with Cassidy back around."
Cassidy gave Ashe a respectful berth around the hideout. He always did. Not too close, but respectful. They'd talked about that, too. They'd talked about that over a bottle of Jack Daniels.
How, you never liked Jack, and it was the closest I got to you, when I still missed you to you missed me? lead to we can't go back to bein' the way we were. It would complicate things. The fact that it would complicate things was the reason they had opted to obviate action for so long when they were young. Years, if Cole recalled. He didn't say that part. He didn't remark that eventually better judgement would be eroded like the silt of the Grand Canyon, if he stayed around. Both of them eschewed saying anything about that.
It would complicate things.
So Cassidy gave Ashe a respectful berth, even when he knew her eyes were locked onto him from where she was on the couch next to Frankie. Frankie, with her bright purple hair and bottle of mezcal that she'd been swigging from through the evening. He tried. He did, he tried! He put the effort in to give her her space but the fact about Ashe was that when she wanted something, she got it. When she wanted Cole to finally violate that broad berth he'd been giving her out of respect, she had ways to drive him to it.
In fairness, it started at the bar. It started at the bar before they drank every drop of swill the beleaguered bartender had to give them, when she'd stripped out of the black zipped leather jacket. The tank top hugged her underneath it as someone stashed it on their bike. It gave a glimpse of a tattoo on her back that he hadn't seen. It gave a glimpse of the lace that trimmed the black bra she wore under it. He'd looked at her.
Nobody else ever had the audacity to look at her. They knew better. They'd have their eyes plucked out like the thieves on the cross, but Cole was granted sanction. He was able to let his eyes linger on the hint of lace that peeked itself just a little above the thin white fabric against the full of marble-white flesh that he still remembered the taste of.
But they'd agreed it would complicate things, and Ashe was drunk. It was hot in the bar. He'd stripped himself down to the khaki-colored shirt hours ago. They'd agreed it would complicate things and Ashe was drunk and Ashe liked attention sometimes.
He took his tequila shot with lime to keep himself in his right mind. At least, a little. They'd danced around it before. They'd dance around it again.
But they weren't at the bar anymore. They were back at the hideout, and folk were starting to peel off. Some in pairs. Some in threes, and, hell, good for them. Cole was sitting, straddling a wooden chair with what he knew was probably bonafide moonshine in a mason jar because it smelled way stronger than any of the watered-down commercial shine there was to be had. He hadn't asked where it came from, trusting they wouldn't keep anything too dangerous around.
The greenhorn told him we use that'n for molotovs, with a smug look on his face. That was when he'd taken a swig to an expression of mild horror, and then a small round of applause. If he kept his attention on the new faces he was slowly starting to get to know—Boone and Wyatt, being the ones that didn't think he could drink the shine—it would be easier to keep his back to Ashe.
But Boone and Wyatt made their own retreat at last, and Ashe took the bottle of mezcal straight out of Frankie's hands, meriting some slurred protest in Spanish. He was fluent, but it was easier to parse through when he wasn't in a haze.
"You over here tryn'a impress boys, Cole Cassidy?"
Two empty, red plastic cups were upturned as she rest her elbow on the table they had been drinking around. He still straddled the wooden chair and cleared his throat, his right hand closing around the tinny lid that went to the jar. He tried not to look at her, really, but it was much like not looking at an oasis after days without water. It had been a while. It had been a long, long while, a dry spell stretching on as long as the deserts that he rode across on motorcycles with lev rims in his youth as a part of the gang.
It had felt easier to look at her when she wasn't where his impulses could lead to reaching out and touching her.
It had felt easy to write things off as delusions, as she swung her leg over the cherry-red chopper that he'd helped her bring to life in that barn. She was tight leather pants and a tight ribbed tank top over absolutely perfectly round breasts and a peek of black lace that made him just want to tear her shirt off then and there. There was no reason she had to arch her back the way she did when she revved that bike.
Liquor wasn't necessary for him to realize that she'd been teasing him. Testing him. It was the dog being presented with a fine cut of meat and being told to wait.
"Jus' gettin' familiar with the new faces is all." The cap on the bottle of molotov-cocktail-shine was tightened and set on the table alongside the knocked over cups. He saw the leather wrist-cuff bracelet she still wore. He saw the twisting of roses and thorns around the Deadlock Rebels tattoo that was identical to the one that had been blown off along with half of his arm shortly before he left Blackwatch. "Ain't interested in makin' things… complicated."
While his gaze did not lift to observe it, he could hear the roll of her eyes when she spoke. "Ain't no way for it not to be complicated." Before he was even granted the opportunity to protest, the weather-worn brown leather of his hat was removed and tossed onto the table. "You look at me when I talk to you."
Her nails raked across his scalp as he felt his heart beat quicken significantly. Through his nose he gave an audible exhale and yet he resisted. "I know what you're doin', Ashe. We said we weren't gonna go back to the way we were."
Frustration edged into her voice, and temptation chipped away at his resolve. Even beyond the liquor and the sweat of the evening, she smelled like leather and cherry. A favorite scent combination. One that always drove him just a little bit wild.
A tug at his hair begot a heavy, sharp exhale; her other hand deposited the pilfered alcohol enough out of the way that it was safe as she grabbed his hand that was still of flesh and blood. Maybe he wasn't too keen to resist. Maybe, deep down, he knew there was only one way this would end.
Proclamations that he had forgotten the adrenaline high that they both coasted on after a successful heist would be disingenuinous, at best. He knew. He knew that many of their encounters in their youth had been such situations, celebratory sex after the big score.
His hand was guided to cup her breast and he felt that resolve of his threatening to fold under the weight of liquor and lust. He could only hold his hand for so long before he had to decide if he was in or out.
The curve of her chest felt so damned natural in his hand that he finally lifted his face to look up at her. The smudge of black kohl around her rich red eyes, the same color as those red lips that he was familiar with the taste of.
He wondered if they tasted the same.
He wondered if it was still the same shade of lipstick.
Manicured nails curled around the neck of the mezcal bottle, lifting it up above him. Intoxication blurred her movements but she did not falter, her other hand tracing over his lip, hooking at the corner until his mouth opened half-obedient, half-obstinate. From her standing vantage point, she tipped the bottle enough that the flaxen colored liquid poured directly into his mouth.
Neither of them noticed it, but this was the point at which Frankie stood up from the broken-in couch and left the two of them to their fate. Neither of them noticed it, but she'd put in some effort through the prurient revelry of the evening to metre what she could. But they were left, now, to their own accord, as Ashe righted the bottle in her hand and Cole swallowed obligingly.
"You been lookin' away from me all night, Cole," her thumb traced along his bottom lip, chapped and worn, and the way she looked at him made him wonder if she was contemplating how mezcal would taste directly out of his mouth.
"Been tryn'a be respectful," stated the man, though his thumb traced the curve of her breast. "Keep it professional."
"I don't like it when you're respectful," and for just a moment as she drank directly from the bottle that had been pilfered from Frankie, he wondered who all had put their lips on that bottle. It lead to him wondering who else had put lips on her in his twenty-year absence and he felt a tingle at the back of his neck at the idea. "Government done took every bit of bite out of ya."
Grit. Teeth on teeth to the point he thought he heard them click because now, now the woman called into question his pride. His inhibitions were all but muted by way too much liquor that he couldn't keep track of any more punctuated by the sting of mezcal that was poured into his mouth. But his pride was still a wild thing, the stallion that Blackwatch couldn't quite bring under bit and spur; something still gnashing teeth at the bars of a cage that was too small.
It took twelve minutes before a stallion was considered broken, someone told him once.
But the fact of the matter was that the stallion could still kick down the fence if pushed to it.
Before he was even cognizant of it, his hand crafted of metal that he had carefully maintained over the years gripped the body of the bottle and slipped it from her hands—not to say that she by nature resisted it, but those cherry-red lips parted in what he recognized as surprise. He heard a lot of it before he realized what was being done. Metal on glass and the tumbling of the chair as he stood up, moving it out of the way with a kick. It would be fine. Scuffed, but fine. A swig of liquor in his mouth and instead of holding her breast he twisted his flesh and blood fingers into her bright-white hair: not blonde, or platinum, but pure, pure white.
She wasn't fond of when he was respectful, and she knew how to whip him up to a fervor to get him out of that.
Alcohol passed from mouth to mouth as she was pulled flush against him, almost immediately. The impact of a rock slide, fingers in her hair pulling until she groaned into his lips. His tongue chased the spill from the corner of her mouth down along the canyon of her neck, tasting salt. Tasting salt, smelling cherry and leather, feeling her hands scrambling across him for purchase. After a moment, he forgot what he was even chasing. He forgot he was pursuing anything when he tasted her after so long, when he smelled her after so long, when he felt her body, long and lithe, against him after so long.
They didn't have the privilege to not be complicated.
"There y'are, cowboy," slurred against his ear, the heat of her breath the only thing on his mind until her hand found its way between his thighs. Before he felt the press and squeeze through the denim of his jeans and realized how all of this had culiminated in the exact effect Ashe had probably wanted. "Good to see they ain't totally neutered you. Sent you back to me in one piece." She spoke. She spoke and he felt any remaining resistance yielding under the weight of an immovable force. "Bet you'd fuck me right here if I let you." Maybe I goddamned would. Maybe you deserve to be taken down a notch.
Anyone worth their salt had vacated the room. Frankie had. Frankie had probably herded the stragglers out for their own good, but they didn't know that. No, the world shrank, reducing itself to a microcosm that did not extend beyond the taste of liquor and salt, the smell of desert sun and perfume, the smearing of red at the corners of her lips where they had kissed: sloppy, wet, open-mouthed.
What did she expect when she gave a starving dog free reign to a fine steak?
"You into that?" was heady and hot against her ear, hands now groping freely, bottle long forgotten. Their surroundings were long forgotten, a smeared, unfinished painting: something left undone by the hand that made it. Now, the focus was upon them, and his focus was upon the red lipstick his eyes kept stealing to. His focus was on the labor of her breath as she struggled not to yield to him too easily. "Thought you'd be too prideful t' let folk watch ya get fucked."
His fingers gripped into the pliant flesh that lay beneath the leather pants she wore. The soft roundness of her ass, the muscle of her thigh.
Her thighs were always her Achilles heel, and he was pleased to find after all this time he was still gifted with Paris's aim.
"I don't give a shit who knows—or watches—or sees," as her hands twisted into his hair, he was reminded that she had so readily cast off his hat some time ago. Under any other circumstance, he'd put up much more of a fight over the treatment of the weathered pinch-front accessory. But right now, he wasn't sure he'd put up much of a fight on account of anything other than Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe.
But that's not who she was to him. No, she was always someone else to him.
"Y'want me that bad, Lizzie?"
Not once. Not a single time since he had found himself running the same tracks as the Rebels had he used that name. Too familiar. Too close. It was what she'd been to him, once: Lizzie, that girl that made his chest feel tight and his heart beat fast. Lizzie had been his girl, and he'd been her man, and they'd agreed not to muck it up with all that again.
Liquor brought forth the thoughts one would not speak sober.
Liquor had brought Lizzie back onto his lips, and she kissed him so hard he was worried she was trying to swallow the name whole. Voracious, as his fingers pressed into the muscle of her thighs. Voracious, as she hooked a long leg around his waist to draw him flush between them.
It was a place he'd missed more than he liked to admit.
"I want ya, Cole," formed by lips red as the cherries in the drinks she'd started drinking before moving to hard liquor, lips that he'd kissed and tasted whiskey and tequila, lips he'd shared messy kisses and swapped mezcal mouth to mouth with. Usually, it took a little more to get her to admit to it.
Maybe twenty years had been long enough to wait to hear it.
Maybe he was in a daze. Maybe he only half-heard the bottle of mezcal that had been passed around through the night like they were teenagers again who couldn't afford more than one bottle of bottom-shelf booze clatter on the table. It was empty enough not to spill over the table, and it didn't shatter when it hit the floor. He didn't hear it hitting the floor, though.
He was too lost in her grabbing his shirt and pushing him back against that table that the mezcal had thoughtlessly rolled off of. "Been tryin' all night to get you to say you want me, too. Tryin' all night to get you a little disrespectful."
It was a pendulum between them. To and fro, the ebb of control. It was reminiscent of the way the gang had been. Cole had never been too afraid to buck up against her, after a certain point.
In the same way he wasn't afraid to twist his fingers in her hair and apply pressure to urge her and her pretty red lipstick down to her knees. Not that he felt like she was fighting too hard against it.
"Well, look at miss Lizzie. Always gettin' what she wants."
In that moment, he was envious of air, of all things—the way it caught in her throat. The way she gasped for it. Ashe was beautiful. She'd been beautiful since the day she was hauled into the cell beside him, and she was beautiful with smeared makeup on her knees with her tank top tugged down enough to put the black lace of her bra on full display.
Nobody could make Ashe do anything she didn't want to do. Getting her down on her knees in front of him was something she fully and willfully allowed, even if there was just a bit of bite in the actions. She was aways a little bit of teeth and black leather and cherry perfume. She was snow-white hair winding around his calloused, sand-hued hands like spring runoff. She was…
… undoing that garish beltbuckle she said she couldn't stand without even being prompted to do so.
The relief of pressure was nigh instantaneous. He hadn't realized how tight his jeans were getting until she undid the button and unzipped the fly. He hadn't realized how hard he was until her hands were pulling him out of the denim that he was imprisoned behind.
He hadn't realized how bad he missed her on her knees until her eyes cut up at him as she dragged her tongue along the head of his cock. He wondered if she, too, was envious of the air in his throat.
"Same rules as old times." She'd spit on her hand, slicking it up against the sensitive flesh. "Don't you dare get it in my mouth or my hair."
"Ain't got so much hair to worry about these days. Less to hold on to."
She'd opened her mouth to make some sort of reply—a reply that was silenced by him urging her mouth along the length of his now exposed cock. They weren't being lovey. They weren't being respectful. Maybe if he kept his walls up with that game, he could convince himself it was just sex.
It was never just sex. Never had been, with them.
They didn't have that kind of privilege.
"C'mon, Lizzie. Put your mouth to better use. Atta girl."
Not that he was particularly prone to proclivities of the flesh. A few run ins, sure. Nothing committed. Nothing long term. He hadn't been in a position to commit to anything when he was involved in Blackwatch so he opted to avoid those attachments: careful, on the occasions something did happen. Wary.
Ashe had been on the pill, back then.
He wondered if she still was.
His hand served to brace himself against the table, the metal gripping it. As good as he was with that augmented hand, it wasn't his skin. It didn't feel. He didn't have quite the same level of control over it as he would the hand he'd been so sorely parted with towards the end of his tenure with Blackwatch. So he kept his flesh and blood on her, and his augmentation gripped the table as though it would do any good to lean on it.
The gang could afford better than this, but it got the job done. Their hideouts had always been pretty frugal, outside of that brief point they were based out of Lead Rose Manor herself.
Tension in his shoulders went slack and his lips parted, his head lulled back just a bit. Half-lidded eyes saw drop-ceiling tiles that were probably due to be replaced. Then his eyes didn't see much of anything as they fluttered closed, cherry-red lips down almost to the base of his shaft.
The lightning-quick thought that she might have practiced on some other man made him see all sorts of red (that same cherry-red as her lipstick) so he dismissed it for later. Not that it was any of his business. It was just sex.
His fingers curled around the shape of the back of her skull, not so much an amorous cradle as it was a notable hold. A grip that drove her mouth as far onto his cock as it could go in tandem with the slight push forward of his hips, braced by his hand on the table.
It was only when the palms of her hands dug into his thighs, lacquered nails of coal-black scratching at faded denim, that he relinquished the grasp.
His eyes fell down to see the perfection of her makeup further marred by smudges left in his own wake. The view was delightful.
Most importantly, the view was his.
The string of saliva mixed with silvery seminal fluids tied her oustretched tongue to him for just a fleeting moment, but it was a moment he caught. It was a moment he would remember, like he'd rembember that smudged black mascara and the way her chest heaved as she struggled to fill her lungs that he'd so forcibly deprived of air.
"Atta girl," as his thumb traced the corner of her lips, that smeared lipstick that had to be the same color that she had used all those years ago. Or one that was close enough to it. It was hard to know if that cosmetics company was still in business. "What a view. You keep doin' this, and I won't have a choice but to stick around."
Her tongue lulled from between her lips as she traced over the bottom of his erection, as if she did not know what else to say. Only once her mouth was fully wrapped around his cock and her cheeks concaved as his hand guided her in a pace that kept with the twitch of his hips did he hear anything resembling a reply, and even then it was just a low humming sound. If he tried really, really hard to decipher it, it almost sounded like good.
She didn't want him to go. She never had.
He was starting to feel the same way.
Both his breathing and heart rate quickened and words were, for a moment, lost to him. Only the sound of a low, gutteral groan, the punctuation of a sharp gasp. Enough relaxation in his muscles that she was able to slip from his grip, only a trail of white hair running through his fingers in memorandum.
"Nu-uh," and her voice was hoarse from sucking his cock, somehow even more attractive that her normal speaking cadence. "I said not in my mouth, Cassidy."
Sex-drunk and with eyes half-glazed, he looked down at where she was still on her knees. "S'fine. I can think of other places I'd prefer, anyway. You still on the pill?"
"That gonna change your plan?"
Sparks alight within the grey matter of his brain—something he would need to reflect on, but this wasn't the time or place for reflection. If he reflected too damn hard, he knew this wouldn't go anywhere. It wasn't the best idea.
It hadn't been the best idea when two teenagers absolutely incapable of fathoming their future had clumsily fucked for the first time on a couch in a hideout that was much smaller than this one, either. Cole Cassidy and Elizabeth Caledonia Ashe had never been the best idea and yet the fates and their infallible threads laughed as they wove them together—and tore them apart—and wove them together again.
It wasn't the best idea, but sometimes the best ideas were boring.
She staggered on her heels as she was hefted to them, as it was the cowboy who took control of the situation again. She wasn't merely lifted onto her feet. She was lifted off of them, perched and placed on the table where she was the exact height to slot himself into were it not for the presence of pants. Never more in his life had he thought them such a loathsome invention and nostalgia coursed through him for sundresses and haybales on the occasions that Ashe wore them when they were younger. The times they'd fucked in a barn with little finesse and her panties pushed to the side was nonzero.
Can't pull off a heist in a sundress, he reckoned.
Nevertheless, he persisted, her thighs opened on either side of his hips. The act of discarding her boots was thoughtless and careless: long zippers along the inside of her calf undone and pointed toes prompting the leather and metal to drop to the floor.
The leather pants were closed in the front with black laces. It felt a little bit like opening a present meant just for him.
His mouth had only just opened to instruct her to lift her hips off the table when she did it of her own accord: always a step ahead of him. It was her way of being. One leg was hooked around his hip to support the action and her palms were flat on the scratched and liquor-stained wood that he was damn sure they could afford better than. But with enough shifting and movement, the pants were peeled away like the second skin they were.
His thumb pressed against the soft, ivory-white of her inner thigh as he drawled, "Really, Ashe? Couldn't even bother wearin' underwear?"
Over the curves of her body, thicker and more matured, filled out in a way they hadn't quite been in their shared youth, his hand roamed. So familiar and yet so different and so damnable that he was so drunk he'd probably forget half of it. Might as well enjoy it, the way her hips lifted and her shoulder blades pressed into the table.
Her hair didn't spill across surfaces the way it used to. For a moment, he found himself nostalgic for old times.
"You gonna keep talkin' at me or are you gonna fuck me, Cole?"
He could fuck her. Every nerve in his body screamed at him that he could fuck her, slide right in between those legs where he knew he belonged and rock his hips until they were flush together, until there was the bite of his copper zipper against the pallor of her most intimate parts.
But that was putting hunger before appetite, and God only knew when he'd have another chance to eat.
It was his flesh and blood hand that pushed up the snug ribbed white tank top, that grazed over her abdomen. Over the curve of her chest, until his thumb and forefinger rest just under the angles of her chin, and tilted her head back slightly. He heard the inhale, ragged as the flags that flew outside the entry of their hideout. Unmarked, of course. Not to give them away, even though everyone knew Deadlock territory when they saw it.
"Could pay ya back the favor, Lizzie." Lizzie. His Lizzie. Nobody else's Lizzie. "Tease ya right." The mechanical hand rest on the inside of her thigh, spreading her legs open. His spurs gave the most percussive of sounds as he moved to adjust his stance, just a bit. As Ashe held her breath under his touch, though he didn't even grip her throat.
He just had to hold her face just right.
No, he wouldn't fuck her just yet. Instead, he shifted his hips, the warmth of his cock sliding against the slick that rest between her thighs. She all but trembled, hands grasping for any leverage on him, though their current situation permitted her only to grasp and claw at the table as he rut the bottom of his cock against her, pointedly avoiding the entrance with each movement. Teasing her and eliciting a salacious symphony from her lips. It wove together notes of curses and moaning, whimpers, his name, and at its apex when his thumb just pressed at the crux where her jaw met her neck, the thing he had been waiting for.
"Please," admitted, with more softness than she probably wanted, hanging in the air between them like something entirely too grounded and too real amidst whiskey, tequila, and mezcal. Something that deserved better than fucking on a second-hand table covered in liquor stains. Something that made him gather her up in his arms and draw her flush against him as her legs locked around him and his cock slipped inside of her.
Her breath caught with her head tipped back, smudged and painted lips parting in that way he always remembered. His face was buried aginst her neck, smelling sweat and leather and cherry perfume. A hand on the curve of her ass and the other between her shoulder blades he held her and for just that heartbeat of a moment they simply were.
It was when his teeth bared themselves against her throat and his hips began to move that the most basal instinct gave way over feelings unaddressed. Best left so, for now. That could be a problem for the morning. For now, all he wanted was to feel was the hot walls of her around his cock, the slick wet-velvet sensation. The way she felt better than he ever could have remembered, or imagined, or thought. The way her hips tilted to meet his and the feeling of her heels digging into him for leverage. The way she clung to him and the way she smelled like sweat, leather, and cherry perfume.
Her fingers were in his hair. "Cole," was heady on her lips as she pulled his head back, heavy-lidded eyes meeting hers. "C'mon, sugar, don't go quiet on me. Y'know I like it when you talk."
Each movement, each tremble of her walls around him was more intoxicating than the strongest tequila he'd ever had—and that was no small feat. But still he was who he was, still he managed that crooked smirk that he knew always hit her where it counted. "What'd'ya wanna hear, Lizzie? How I missed the way your pussy felt and the way you sounded?" The reaction was a shuddering moan and her hips pushing against him. She'd always liked it when he talked to her like that. How could he ever forget? "'Cause I did. Like I was starvin', I missed you."
She kissed him: his cheekbone, his face, all over. There would be smudges of carmine, a drag path across his face denoting her presence that she was here, and here, and here.
He mostly supported her, now. He held her weight against him because one hand bothered only with a feeble grip to his hair and the other was slipped between them, against the slicked folds between her legs, against the engorged bundle of nerves that lay in the center of that blossom.
"'at's my girl," lulled against her as her whole body trembled. At her own touch, at the movement of his hips, at that particular cadence and choice of words. My girl, my girl. "How's it feel?"
She seemed incapable of words at the moment, which always made him swell with pride. Staggered sounds—hk, gh—and panted breaths. Heels that dug deeper into where they had purchase on his back and hips. It was her body that was responding more than it was her brain and something about that was undeniably sexy.
Who was he kidding?
Everything about her was undeniably sexy.
"Can't even talk? Y'gonna cum for me, Lizzie?"
Her response was not verbal. It was not verbal, but it was a nod of her head, quite furious. It was a harsh drive of his hips into her as the slick heat around his erection trembled again and he knew he wouldn't last much longer, either.
That was when he heard an audible crack. It was the sound of one of the worn-out, stained and used table's legs giving way underneath them. Ashe managed a faint curse as she locked her legs around him even tighter. "Cole—th'—table—"
Her legs locked around him and he held her close, supporting as much of her weight as he could. His own breathing was haggard and he drug her down into one more kiss. "I got you," against her lips, eliciting a moan into his mouth. "Shoulda just fucked on the couch. Old time's sake."
"Cole," it was his name and painted nails wherever they could find purchase. It was need and want and heat and thighs around his waist seeking support while the table threatened to give way beneath them. "C'mon. C'mon, lemme feel it—"
His fingers dug tightly into the bare of her buttocks, pressing his nails against the soft skin. Smudged lipstick on his cheek and face didn't matter to him as he kissed her and kissed her and pulled their bodies as close together as possible.
It was her orgasm that brought him to his. The way her muscles locked around him and she parted her lips near to his ear to groan audibly, shamelessly.
Ashe had been on the pill as long as they had been messing around like this. The thought passed through his mind that she had neither confirmed nor denied the presence of it, but at this point, it was too late to truly care. He'd already cum inside of her, kissing the curvature of her neck down to her bared shoulder, paying no mind to the red-ringed bites that would, maybe, hopefully, assumedly be gone by sunrise.
Clarity did not come. Clarity would only come with sobriety in the morning, but he heard a slurred, "When'd you get so damn strong, Cole…"
Resting any weight on that table was a recipe for disaster. She barely perched her weight on it as she slowly unlocked her legs from where she held onto him to place bare feet on the floor.
"Well. Guess that's your sign to get a new table," punctuated with a laugh as she deftly, pointedly moved from his grip, retrieving the cast off leather pants which she promptly threw in his direction. Thoughtlessly, he caught them, with that lopsided grin. "Eh, it was a piece a' shit anyway."
"I'm gonna go n' clean up," she said. "And you're gonna go into my room and stay there. Ain't sleepin' alone after that. Take my boots with ya."
Grinning, the mercenary, who was most certainly not working with the Deadlock Rebels, stooped to reclaim his hat, taking a moment to tuck himself away behind denim and back into decency.
"I missed ya, Lizzie."
There was silence, though her bared feet stilled on the floor.
Then she said, quietly, "I missed ya, Cole. You ever leave me again and I'll put a bullet between your eyes."
Maybe, just maybe, the mercenary would end up working with the Deadlock Rebels on a more permanent basis.