Nobody Sees, Nobody Knows [Jensen Ackles + Misha Collins | Cockles | mxm]

Chapter Twenty-Seven

I kick madly and resurface, heart pounding and shocked senses screaming in protest as I seethe at Jensen.

"I could've drowned," I sputter, spitting lakewater out of my mouth. "I could've fucking drowned, Jensen."

But he's totally relaxed and carefree, leaning against the upturned canoe with an amused twinkle in his eye. Each drop of water echoes the contours of his muscles, flowing beautifully with the lines of his body.

"Jeez, Mish, lighten up. Water's only up to our hips out here."

Crazy bastard's laughing. How could he be laughing?

I turn away brusquely, trying to hide the tears prickling at the back of my eyes. Jerk.

I hear the slight slur in his deep voice, know that the alcohol is already loosening his tongue. I curse myself under my breath for ever listening to Jared. But maybe I am overreacting.

"Come on, man." Jensen claps a hand on my back when I don't respond. His voice is almost imperceptibly softer now. "I'm sorry, Mish."

For what, I feel like snarling, but don't. For trying to kill me or being an asshat towards me for the last week?

I don't say anything, don't laugh, don't turn around. Mainly because his hands, warm and wet, have settled lightly on my biceps. My brain quietly implodes. His weight around me, warm and pleasant against my back, is an enticing press of bare arms, denim-clad thighs and hard chest as he draws closer. A frisson of head explodes over my face, racing down my spine and oozing through my limbs.

"Stop," I manage to croak, quiet fury underlying the façade of composure.

He lowers his head slowly to the crook of my neck. "I'm sorry," he mutters again, so close I can smell the beer on his breath, feel his stubble tickle the shell of my ear. I glimpse the most kissable looking mouth, a dark rosy hue next to my ear, feel his body all nicely muscled-out chest and proportionately solid arms and legs around me. My eyes flutter shut and I breath in sharply.

"I said-"

"Shh, I'm helping you relax."

He splays his hands over my shoulders and digs his thumbs in. "You're like a freaking rock, Mish. Too wound-up."

He moves even closer and I feel my neck go limp, letting out a long, shaky breath that somehow ends in a moan. The water laps softly around us, and I think idly that our shirts are floating somewhere nearby, soaking wet...

"Jensen, stop."

His hands work deftly, systematically, slowly but surely releasing the tension in my muscles until they soften under his touch. His voice is a growl in my ear.

"I'm going to damn well finish what I started, Mish."

I push into his hands, making an involuntary, shuddery little sound of encouragement that betrays me completely.

Jensen hums smugly, working outwards before coming back in to the nape of my neck. His hands glide lower, thumbs pushing against my spine. He works down the length of my back, a mass of knotted muscle that smooths out under his touch and elicits slow, appreciative humming noises from somewhere in my throat.

"Feel good?" He rolls his thumbs just under the points of my shoulder blades, his breath hot in my ear.

Yeah, it does, but I'm loathe to tell him so. His touch feels more than good. It feels like everything I ever wanted wrapped up in two strong, calloused hands. I don't know how to tell him or why it's so; it's just a fact carved into my bones, it seems like. I need this. My body needs this touch, reacting in defiance of my better judgement.

I make a soft grumbling noise, my bones shifting underneath my skin. His mouth latches onto my neck, lips smooth and moist as he bites down gently. I shudder helplessly in response, spine arching and his name slipping from my lips. Embarrassing. Under his ministrations, I feel like a Hollywood starlet from the silver screen.

Jensen chuckles softly and rubs his fingertips in small circles, burrowing them deep, skin brushing silkily along my back. His lips are still sucking on my neck and my shoulder droops instinctively lower to give him more access. He works his way down to run his hands over my hips, kneading light fingers along my skin until I'm reduced to breathless little groans.

Fuck. This is not the sixth-grade-level PDA I'm used to from Jensen. This is no Valentine's Day card

or pie in the face

or cheek caress.

This feels different from what I'm used to, and I have no idea how to deal with it.

Jensen's lips move upwards to the skin just behind my ear, licking experimentally along my hairline, sending bolts of electricity shooting through my core. He starts working in earnest, his tongue rasping downward along my neck, hot against the clean sweep of my pale skin, his cheek pressed against my perpetually-tousled dark hair.

"Mish, you are so fucking gorgeous," he whispers huskily.

The thrill of the murmured endearment sparks over my nerve endings in pleasant bursts of electricity, and I shudder as he drags his mouth down my shoulders, trailing it further down as he follows the edge of my spine.

I know what I would say, how I would deflect the compliment with a saucy grin, if this were any other conversation between us.

You really think I'm all that?

And a bag of chips, Jensen would wink in reply.

This is not any other conversation between us. 

Jensen's hands slip into the water now, tracing the slope of my back and the final curve of my spine before he smooths his palms over my waist.

Cautiously, he uncurls his tongue enough to lick over the hot skin at the back of my neck in a slow, deliberate slide, making me rock my hips back against him.

His fingers are digging into my flesh and I'm arching back into them, my voice breaking on his name.

"S-stop."

His legs are bracketing mine now and I reach a hand back to card messily through his hair, breathing ragged as he rolls his hips forward and slams into me. My every breath tapers off into a sort of pitiful moan, hair curling slightly from the sweat.

Carefully, Jensen disentangles my hand and I shudder, shoving my whole body backward into his grip until I can't tell anymore where I end and he begins. He drops his head back into the crook of my neck and his voice is a low growl against my skin.

"Feeling better?"

I should turn around and face him, but I find that I can't. I don't want to look at him right now. I hate to look at him and I can't live without the sight of him and I'm so confused. I want him so much it physically hurts just to breath the same air as him. Not trusting myself to speak, I make a vague noise of assent instead. "Good."

Slowly, almost mechanically, he removes his hands from my hips and peels himself off of me.