90s draft 3 (here there be sex)

“I'm going to sleep on your floor. Okay, Boss?" 

Duke is behind me, sweet stoned gypsy that I'm sure would be more than happy to have his kitchen wench throw him to the ground and have her wicked way with him, but he's not mine yet. He hasn't given consent. That delicious thought lodges between my legs and pulses, warm and heady. I force myself deeper into the sleeping bag.

“Uh...yeah...” A drawer closes. “Of course.”

I'm not sure what noise I make, but I writhe myself as far into the sleeping bag as I can go, back to the rest of the room as people file in and out to use the bathroom and I can see Duke, see the Crocker Trouble sooty blood bubbles floating around him, and my treacherous brain is remembering all the sex we had during the school reunion when Robbie turned us into teenagers, and Sam's Trouble making us regress to seventeen, and oh my god I just want to feel him inside me it's not fair.

Duke goes into the bathroom. I can almost see him stripping, his taut skin and lean legs, and my hand is worming past the blankets but he'll be coming back out, no need for him to see what I'm doing if he finishes before I do. Roll over.

He comes back out and flops onto the bed. He sleeps naked. But he has company, he'll be in pants. That was too fast, I'm not...I'm halfway up the hill. He's not moving. Was the bathroom stash empty? Is he waiting until I'm asleep to dose himself?

“If you need to do anything, go ahead and do it," I say quietly. “I won't watch.”

He seems to be thinking before he says, “No, I'm good...pot...and all."

He says that now, but he's going to be hurting in the middle of the night. The noncommittal noise I make is interrupted by a needy whimper because I'm so close, head down on my arm muffling any other sounds because yes, but it's only a temporary reprieve, a snack when I'm hungry enough to eat the cow raw.

“What...are you doing?” Duke asks, and his voice is closer.

Oh god. Is he watching? Am I going to die of shame that my teenage crush, my gypsy, my husband is watching me fail to satisfy my shameless self?

“Making sure I don't jump your bones,” I practically whisper, owning my humiliation but not as boldly as I'd like to because he's right there, chocolate cake close enough to lick, but he's not mine. Not yet. And I want him again, burning from the inside, feeding the fire with my fingers but it's not enough, it will never be enough now that I've had him inside me.

The silence stretches. He isn't taking me up on the unspoken offer. Or does he think I'm a cheap lay, one-and-done like all the bitches in high school?

“You should be on the bed,” he says finally. “It's wrong to make a lady sleep on the floor.”

He's too stoned to pick up on things. I could cry with frustration.

“I'm not making you sleep on the floor, Boss,” I say with patience I don't feel. But I know he's going to argue the point. “The only way I'm sleeping on the bed is with you and if we're going to have sex, it needs to be your choice. So if you want to share your bed, I'll share it with you. Otherwise, I'll just sleep on the floor." A brief stab of amusement. "It's more than my mom would ever let me do, anyway.”

“I thought...” He trails off, precious stoned gypsy unable to string thoughts together. Luckily, I know where he's trying to go.

“I never got over you. I just got better at hiding it because I thought you wouldn't want me." And I'm tearing up at the thought that he might not want me now combined with the pain of my teenage years.

There's silence for a long moment before he says, “So, that's an actual 'yes' on wanting to fuck?”

Confession time? May as well. I turn enough to see him, lying on his stomach on the bed, peering down at me. “I've wanted that since I was sixteen and you were having sex with everyone except me.”

Duke stares, thoughts filtering through slowly. My fingers start wandering again because fuck he's hot. Then he pushes himself up to a sitting position.

“Julia,” he says, but it sounds apologetic. "Please, I'm glad to hear some things but mostly I should...I...I was inviting you up on the bed with me, to...” He might be trying to make a suggestive face; it's hard to tell. “...I kept thinking I was seeing what I wanted to see in your expressions because you were some Trouble manifestation tricking me, or that whole being high thing."

Fingers forgotten, I writhe around until I can sit up. But I still...I have to make sure. “So, is that a 'yes' on wanting to fuck?” I ask in a small voice, trying to be clever by throwing his words back at him, waiting for the answer my nethers so desperately yearn for.

“Get thee in the bed, wench,” he says, and it's everything I've wanted to hear since I was sixteen.

If the sleeping bag isn't torn with how fast I ripped myself out of it, I'll be surprised in the morning. Right now, the only thought in my mind is that he's mine, he wants me, and I want him more than I've ever wanted him in my entire life. I don't remember climbing into the bed but he's beneath me and my hand is in his hair, his gorgeous long hair, and my other hand is freeing his penis but he's not ready, he's high and stoned, he needs help and I am all too willing to give it.

Lick up, swirl him around as I slide him in. Suck lightly, pull up, paint the head with the tip of my tongue, tease the hole gently before taking him down, down, press and suck, up and hum, down and up and down and up and I feel him pulse against my tongue, velvet over steel, and it's time. His pants are down past his ass, good enough, and it's gee-up Crocker as I mount my stallion. At first I'm afraid I broke him, but a deep groan is seemingly ripped out his throat as I wiggle to seat myself, his hands on my hips sliding north towards my breasts as I start to ride, teasing myself now with the slower motions, savoring having my gypsy exactly where I want him. He tugs my stolen shirt up and I lift my arms grandly, Aphrodite rising from the sea, not bothering with modesty because fuck that, I'm the goddess of love and beauty, let all who look upon me worship and despair. The shirt is flung away from me, discarded like the lectures my mother used to give about the perils of sex, and Duke's thumbs on my nipples light my entire body on fire.

For a long, delicious moment I revel in sparkling pleasure crawling up and own every nerve in my body. Then it's time to get down to the business of getting off. In the back of my mind a bugle sounds, vibrant and wild, the William Tell Overture signalling the start of the race. I lean forward, hands planted on Duke's pecs like they're the withers of the Gypsy Vanner I once rode him as, and gallop my glorious steed as fast as I've ever ridden anything. Maybe in the morning I'll spare a thought to hope the Audreys can't hear me through the door, or that they're already asleep, but for now I'm not paying attention to anything but how good Duke's penis feels inside me as I drive us both over the edge and then lightning strikes and I arch backwards as it shudders through me, Duke crying out as it strikes him too, and my bones melt to leave me spread over his chest, cooling slowly into a person again.

It takes a minute or three before my breathing evens out to normal, and I quietly revel in the mind-blowing experience I'm sure I've just given Duke, because he's still lying there in shock and I somehow doubt he's ever experienced anything like a shameless wench who has regular sex with Duke Crocker the sex god. And I'm doubly certain that he's never even dreamed of anything like this coming from the fledgling kitchen wench who hasn't even grown into her wings yet. "Pot makes me horny," I announce with insincere petulance, kissing his chest and running my fingers lightly over his skin, as though that were the sole rationale behind my fucking him with wild abandon.

The muscles my cheek is pressed against shift as he tries to nuzzle my hair. “Should I ask how you know this?”

“It wasn't you,”I tell him, peppering his skin with more kisses, fighting the urge to lick and bite because I'm ready for round two, but he might need another minute to scrape his brain back together. “Can't tell you more than that though, unless you want to know about future stuff.”

He makes a disgruntled noise because he hadn't actually asked if it was him, but I've answered that anyway. “No, I did say 'should I ask'?”

The best answer to that, as far as my heated brain is concerned, is to just kiss up his long neck and along the jaw I'd fantasized about so many times as a teenager. He turns his head to catch my lips and kiss me properly, since we kind of skipped that part, and I rein myself in so that his first kiss with me isn't me trying to take his tonsils out. Three...two...one...good enough.

I go for the tonsils, and anything else I can get, and he's as eagerly hungry as I am, and then he's rolled us over so he's on top and oh, oh, I'm going to get fucked into the mattress, frabjous day, callooh, callay! No time to waste, it's easy to help him get where we both want him to go and he slides in smoothly, easy confidence at having done this a hundred times and it makes me suck in a giddy breath because no matter how many times Troubles give me the opportunity to have sex with Duke for the first time, it always humbles me. For about half a second. Then it turns me on.

I go for the hair. Tiny cheating wench knows all your turn-ons, Crocker.

It's everything my teenage self hoped it would be, fierce and frantic and desperate like salvation awaits with his orgasm, and I spur him on with my fingers in his hair, holding him to me like he might push me off the bed with the force of his thrusts, gasping because it's like stars exploding inside me every time he pushes in, internal combustion in my engine and I'm going to blow and then he goes faster, both hands anchored in his hair to keep me from flying away when I explode and I do, light fountaining up from inside, blinding me as I go supernova and the shockwave ripples across the universe.

When the stardust coalesces and I have hands again, I release Duke's hair slowly and snuggle up to him. I'm half asleep, but his hand in my hair makes me remember that he's going to be in a world of hurt later.

“Are you okay?” I ask laboriously, struggling to get the words out and not just sink into blissful slumber. “To go to sleep without...” Words fail me. I tap at the inside of my arm to convey 'without shooting up'. There's no answer. He probably doesn't want to do that in front of me, or maybe he's as sleepy as I am. “If you're too shaky when you wake up," I murmur, "let me know.”

There's a vague sound and then a blanket covering us and I snuggle closer, pressing my face into the crook of his neck, and let sleep claim me.