Strange Aeons [Book 1]

25. Doomsday [I][part III]

Maybe it was true that they didn't have to go over everything with a fine-tooth comb, that words were, after all, nearly useless. Because when he took three resolved steps towards her, put a hand behind her head and one behind her back and kissed her, she didn't feel like talking or explaining, at all.

She threw her arms around his neck, keeping him closer than they had ever been. They just stood there, in the middle of a messy living room, filled with the sounds of the city coming from the open windows and the questionable smell of Chinese cuisine, making out like the two teenagers they had made abundantly clear they weren't, savoring every second of their mutual exploration, their lips touching and rubbing, their tongues entwining in the first, awkward steps of a new dance.

Nobody moved first. They moved together, without separating one inch, this time. They found their way to Banshee's room and found themselves lying down on the bed, side by side, still entwined like tropical vines.

In the distance, the noise of a pick-up truck engine revving up and disappearing in the night got lost in the many sounds of Boston.

Someone would have thought that, after all that time, they would tear at each other like rabid animals, finally able to discharge instincts and desire kept in check for so long. On the contrary. They moved slowly in the arms of one another, kissing, touching, letting their hands adjust to bodies they still didn't know but had ached to know. Their clothes fell, finally discovering their skins. Garaham's well-kept, but clearly not pristine body against Banshee's muscular one.

He rolled over her and kissed each inch of her skin, as she passed her fingers and nails on every detail of his muscles, or lack thereof, mapping him with her fingertips. It was, and felt, absurdly awkward. They ended up hurting each other in the clumsiest ways. A jab in the wrong place here, a nudge on a sore spot there, with frustrated sighs and amused laughs interrupting the endless shower of kisses and caresses, in between those gawky episodes.

Then, they adjusted to one another. Slowly. And when they finally lost themselves in one another, Garaham hid his pleasure grunts against her softly moaning mouth.

It was probably the most boring and unskillful lovemaking they both have ever experienced. But after they climaxed, looking into each other's eyes they simply knew that it had been the best.

He turned towards her sleeping figure. She was laying on her stomach, softly snoring. She had snored like a bear for half of the night, and he had started gently nudging her, but ultimately had to resolve to a well-placed back kick. She had slept like an angel ever since.

He could finally focus on her tattoos. The one on the arms, he knew well. But he had never seen the one around her right calf: a Claddagh with the name "Killian" written inside the heart. On her back, there were six lines of St. Patrick's Breastplate, a prayer he had heard her recite quite often, especially before prepared fights.

The splendor of fire,

The speed of lightning,

The swiftness of wind,

The depth of the sea,

The stability of the earth,

The firmness of rock.

He couldn't help but put a hand to caress her bare back. He had always thought himself better than his colleagues, who shamelessly slept around.

Problem was, that wasn't fun for him. At all. The light of day put him in front of what he usually scolded others for not wanting to face: consequences.

They had passed the point of no return. There was no direction, but forwards.

But forward, there was no road.