28th of Ophus, 2718
HOME in the Painted Ladies | AFTERNOON
She wasn't looking for an escape, she wasn't wanting to stop him, to stop any of this. Not this time. Even as his body tensed in anticipation of some kind of panicked rejection, Charity shook her head at him, her own petite form coiling tightly into his touch instead of away from it. He held himself together, the rhythm of her own explorations faltering as she drew her hands away and he whined. She leaned closer, assuring him in breathless syllables that this, all of this, was something she didn't want to run away from. Not this time. He felt it all, too, their relationship deeper than legal officialness in their magically tangled lives.
Far too familiar with each other, Rhys allowed himself a smile in spite of his own impatience. He closed his eyes at the sharp sensation of nails against the back of his neck, grateful as her fingers drifted from their teasing. His free hand moved to the delicate pianist's hip in some preemptive, knowing form of support with that tender timing of a far too aware lover, expression melting into a far more wicked grin when she finally unraveled in glorious fashion. The overwhelming warmth of her field and the rocking pleasure of her body was empowering, encouraging, and he might have cursed softly, sounds of approval and longing, syllables of satisfaction and surprise unable to be expressed in any proper fashion other than unsavory words and some crooked grin.
He didn't really have much of a chance to comment, her trembling hands reaching for him with some wordless needfulness that he'd perhaps set more ablaze with his touch. Demanding again, the tall blond hummed in obedience, smirking when she tugged him to stand and all but fumbling like some clumsy, half-mad idiot with her while they both attempted not to get in each other's way just to remove the last of his clothing without tripping over a chair or whatever other garments had been carelessly tossed to the floor.
The not-galdor gripped the table with one hand hard enough to rattle cutlery and plates, quick enough to shift the delicately balanced slices of pie, bent in need of balance while he kicked the legs of his trousers from their stubborn cling about his ankles, leaned forward just so he could kiss salty tears from Charity's cheek before whispering in her ear,
"I told myself it was so clocking selfish to miss you." Teeth against skin, his hands moved to curl gently into the pale curves of her hips and lift her from just leaning to actually perching on the table, "But I did."
They'd both let caution and resentment have so much power in their lives over the past few months, fear and worry consuming them in such different ways. Gods, how he just wanted to wash it behind them now, here in their kitchen. There was far too much ahead of them, after all, to keep anything between them any longer.
Everywhere her hands wandered burned with sensation and he sighed as her arms snaked over his shoulders to pull him back toward her lips. She sobbed, freer now than she'd been in weeks, and all he could feel was the heat of their bodies radiating in such proximity in the relatively cool emptiness of the kitchen. His palms trailed upward over her flushed curves, fingers light over her arms, guiding them downward, wordlessly begging the delicate pianist to continue taking the lead instead of just assuming he had permission to do as he pleased. He still yearned for the invitation, every nerve thrumming with so much desire to the rapid rhythm of his pulse.
They'd talked and they'd talked. They'd touched, sure, but she'd pushed him away and he hated that it'd stung far more than it should have. She'd had every right to require her time and space for healing from a different form of traumatic harm, and he'd tried so hard to be patient while broken bones knit and bruises faded. In the end, he was far more of a creature made for touch than he'd been aware of, this putting together of everything that had been shattered having created an insatiable need for intimacy.
Rhys couldn't help but groan against her hungry lips, tugged so close that his hips moved needfully to press them closer still but he hesitated even now, "Please, no more waiting." He begged again as if he hadn't begged enough, tilting his head to meet her dilated violet hues, panting the words, admitting his weakness, vulnerable in his longing for this very physical form of reconnection, this bodily restoration of what was otherwise already theirs.
It felt so very weak indeed, but gods he was so far beyond being sorry for how much he needed her now or ever. He'd move with her permission, however, wanting her guidance in bringing their bodies together on her terms instead of his, but he'd finally stutter and sob a few incoherent words of what could only be some kind of gratitude once she did, holding Charity's gaze as best he could and carefully attempting not to completely fall apart at the first slow, gentle thrust of his hips.
Or the second. Or the third—godsdamnit.
Just right away at all, honestly. The difficulty of his otherwise respectable endurance was written all over his face, teeth digging into the scar of his lower lip as if to hide the stupid grin threatening to consume his handsome face,
"I'm sorry in advance—" He teased, voice wavering and arms trembling while he made obvious attempts not to rattle the table again and not to come undone while just speaking so deviously. His eyes fluttered heavily, scrambling to keep some semblance of focus when every other fiber of his being was already halfway over the edge already.
Honesty everywhere. Saying whatever came to mind here as if Rhys felt suddenly a little freer, too. Maybe he did, a bit of his more usual devious humor creeping into his tone.
"—if I'm not up to par in this moment. Perhaps I'm a little out of practice."