paper rings (l.h.)

62

Mary's head fell back with something like a groan escaping her swollen lips. She laid beneath him, his body's every move carefully plotted to ensure he didn't accidentally hurt her more than she already was. She didn't care. She tried to pull him down atop her, tried to move the same way she did before everything happened. And although she said nothing, he heard her soft whimper of pain and her body tense up beneath him. "We should stop," he'd breathe, his chain necklace falling to hang directly beneath them.

"No," she responded, grabbing that chain and pulling him down closer to her. "I'm fine," but he knew better than to believe that.

He said nothing. His curls nearly fell in his eyes as he leaned over her. God, he had only been gone a month and it felt like a decade. So many things he wanted to say, all lost somewhere in the space between here and LA. So although he began to speak, he said nothing. Instead, he watched her lips press together as her fingertips dragged themselves across the skin of his jawline.

"Shh," she whispered, her lips brushing against his. She had learned a thing or two since she had last seen him, more than likely spent her lonely nights thinking about all the things she'd do to him once she was back in his bed — just as he had done back in LA. She ran her tongue along the skin of his bottom lip, whispering against his mouth. "Ignore it."

He almost forgot who he was, that someone at the door was knocking at all as her breath met his. God, she acted so proper in public and with their friends. He would never have guessed that a girl who wore sundresses as often as she did and rode around on an antique bicycle with a wicker basket on the handle could kiss him like that. Could make him forget time, force him to lose his train of thought, like that. 

His eyes fluttered open as she pulled up for air, her hands on his chest as she slowly moves her hands down to the hem of his shirt. Chills cover every inch of his body, he became more aware of the breaths she took. Of her touch; after going so long without it, and it being the only thing he really wanted... he tried to burn the sensation into his brain. So that he may carry it, whenever he may go. When the inevitable happens, and he'll be time zones away from the home they make, he can remember it.

He watches her hand as it imitates everything, as her fingers move to his crotch to toy with the zipper of his pants.

"Mary," he borderline whimpers, his head falling to press against her temple. "Maybe your Grandma forgot her key or something."

And then another knock echoes throughout the apartment. Her eyes roll to the back of her head in surrender, as she removes her hands from him. Luke couldn't ignore how much he hated the absence of her touch, of her pure unadulterated attention. Not that he didn't already receive it most of the time. But like that, when she could convince him that they were the only two people in the planet... he felt the heat in his cheeks as he turned towards the door.

God, six months with Mary still kept him weak and breathless. Almost just as much as he was that very first time, if not more.

"This isn't over," he manages to half-stammer-half groan in her ear before planting a kiss to her forehead. "If I have to carry you to a hotel over my shoulder, I will."

Luke pulls himself off of her, immediately missing the warmth of her body pressed against his. Laughing, she sits up and straightens her shirt out. Luke couldn't pretend that his hands weren't exploring, too. "Bet on it," she says simply, her eyes fixed on the door as he pulls open the locked front door and exposing the screen one between them.

He could have known who the man was just by the way his stature filled the space between them. By the way he straightened up when Luke's eyes met his. He couldn't help but wish he had taken the time to straighten his hair, his clothes, too. There was no denying what was happening when Luke realizes his lips are probably as red as his cheeks are.