Fallout: Fury Blood

Chapter 127: A Bit Of Slap And Tickle

It was with a mounting dread that Kelly waited in the gloom of the Elder's quarters, her confinement-in the steel, in the warm wedge between the cool wall and his body-a willing prison. She had prepared herself for the arena of sleep resistance, where she would staunchly fight away it's edges threatening to fall over her vision, but she found she was far too anxious to relax anyway.

When his breath tapered off into a steady, rhythmical routine, Kelly began to move her fingers in her vest pocket, tightening them around the Jet inhaler. The scrape of skin on fabric made the loudest sound in the space, and she froze, listening to his breathing.

It remained level.

Praying to Atom, if only to mock herself for the level of stupidity she was about to commit herself to, Kelly turned onto her back, keeping her legs folded on her side to avoid rumbling the mattress too much.

She almost startled when Maxson's eyes flew open to greet hers. The shock bolted through her spine, but dissipated out through her vertebrae. He's not stupid, you are. Either he had feigned sleeping, or she had woken him.

In the muddy dark, she couldn't discern where his pupils ended and where his irises began, but she could see the whites of his eyes clearly. He wasn't groggy from an abruptly ended slumber. He doesn't trust you. Why would he let himself sleep with you next to him? You're an idiot.

Swallowing the anxiety that riddled her body, Kelly knew what she had to do. Her arm closest to him moved, seemingly of it's own accord, then with purpose to breach the minor divide between them. Her hand made contact with his face, arm tucked up like a backward wing. The coarseness of his beard flecked her palm while the suppleness of his cheek encouraged her fingers to mould finely around his bone structure.

The danger in his eyes evaporated. Suspicion remained, an unpolluted presence, before she saw revelation gloss over them, then the embers of desire take root in the dark.

Kelly conspired closer to him, until she felt the breath from his nostrils on her upper lip. Maxson didn't move, one arm tucked up beneath his side of the pillow to prop it for his head, the other limp over his waist, leaving himself room for defensive measures. Kelly wriggled closer like a belly-dancing siren until the edge of her hip touched his abdomen, into the open fold of his coat. He didn't even flinch.

She needed his mouth open. With her lips, she brushed his, a subtle movement, like a curious animal sifting the ripples on the surface of water, testing for predators. His lips were warm, firm. She smelled the richness of the whiskey on the brittle fringe of his beard.

She tried again, a quicker brush, insistent. His eyes refused to close as hers did. She sent her hand down the centre of his chest, travelling over each muscle of his abdomen until she smoothed her fingers over the crotch of his fatigues.

The grip in her pocket tightened with anticipation. It wouldn't be long now. She knew this side of him. Knew he wouldn't be able to resist her for much longer.

When she brushed his lips for the third time, she kept her eyes open to his. The intensity of it made her draw breath through parted lips. That was when he made his response, arm moving from his waist to span across her stomach. Her muscles tightened. Kelly flashed the inhaler from her pocket just before he grasped her far hip, hiding it at her back as he turned her body toward him.

Too close. He could have seen it.

But his eyes bore into hers. Her jaw was in his bare palm-he had removed his gloves. His hand grazed back through her hair, slowly, evoking gooseflesh on her scalp and the nape of her neck, until he gripped the back of her head in a makeshift ponytail. As he pulled her to his mouth, his kiss was a full and tongueless embrace.