Before I Forget

Snow on the Beach

Cody knew he was too drunk, and he also knew why.

The first bottle of Champagne, well, that he could justify as being a good host, of wanting to offer Sky something nice. But the second one—

There was no other reason than his nervousness, his hope to prolong this night so that it would last forever, so that they would never stop talking, never stop laughing, so that when this moment came and she asked him to take off her clothes, he would be so drunk that he wouldn't care.

It hadn't worked out quite as he had hoped.

Instead of caring less, he now cared more. Instead of wanting less, he wanted more. Instead of thinking that this was just another night, just another girl, he knew this was the first time he felt like this, the first time it really mattered. He was lost, lost, lost, so utterly lost in everything that Sky was, and he knew it was pointless and it was hopeless and it was sad, but there was nothing he could do about it.

When his lips crashed to her mouth, her fingers brushed through his hair, he knew - even with the alcohol clouding his thoughts - there was only one way this could end.

That thought did nothing to stop him.

His hands were gentle when he opened the buttons of her shirt, untied that cute Ravenclaw tie, he tried to keep his fingers steady, but couldn't help the small tremble, the drunken clumsiness of his movements. She didn't seem to notice, maybe because she was at least as drunk, maybe more, which lead to the thought—

I shouldn't be doing this.

He knew he should stop, to tell her he really was too drunk, but—

But what if this is the only night? What if this is the only time I have her here, in my bed, what if this is the only time she'll want me?

So he let her rip off his shirt and open his belt, pull him onto the bed with her. He kissed her and her body was soft, her skin was hot, her scent of vanilla and roses and Champagne was in his veins, making him burn, making him hard in his pants, and it was like a dream, the best dream he had ever had, but the worst one too because he knew there would be a morning, the sun would rise in a couple of hours, he would wake up, and this would never, ever happen again.

Under the pale moonlight, he undressed her. They were both impatient, hands clumsily ripping off clothes, gripping the naked skin that was revealed. His lips found her neck and she moaned and sighed, her body squirmed under him. Gone was her skirt now, and his jeans. She had a tattoo on her left shoulder, a big phoenix bird, and when his lips devoured that painted skin, he felt a scar of some kind, a star-shaped hollow in her skin under her collarbone. His fingers on the back of her shoulder felt another scar, hard, rough skin that felt so different from the rest of her.

He brought his face up, met her eyes.

"What happened—?"

"Don't ask—" she breathed, and pressed his face against her neck again. And fair enough, she didn't want to talk about her past. He couldn't blame her, for he didn't want to talk about his past either. So he didn't ask more, he didn't speak, he just kissed her again, kissed her neck and her chest and her belly.

When his hand slipped into her panties, and her back arched as he found her clit, he already knew he wasn't going to fuck her tonight. His erection was stretching his underwear, pressing against Sky's hip, and he was so drunk, so high on her scent, her closeness, that he knew he'd fail miserably if he even tried to make love to her. He'd come after the first couple of strokes, and no, no, no, he couldn't do that to her, he wanted this to be good, so good that maybe, maybe, she wouldn't want to walk away from him in the morning after all.