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Considering it was summer, the weather in Western Washington didn’t understand the concept of heat. It had been raining solidly for days, a cold drizzle accompanied by just enough wind to demonstrate that the gods were having a good time. It was supposed to be her vacation, a week of camping and hiking in the mountains, a getaway from computers and phones, anything that jangled, rang, or buzzed. Finally, a week alone together to concentrate solely upon each other, longed for, planned for, and paid for, dammit. And here she was, driving to the airport to fetch him, the windshield wipers making a mockery of the careful plans they’d made. “Should have brought waterproof lube,” she muttered angrily, glaring up at the sky while laying on the horn at the lumbering mini-van ahead of her on the slick freeway. “Ohhh, c’monnnnn, I’m going to be late” she hissed at another car that suddenly veered into her path.
They’d met a year ago, talking for hours online, learning the ways of their minds and the songs of their souls, cybers that lasted for hours. Gradually, they’d realized they needed to meet away from keyboards and bells that announced, “you have mail.” The craving for physical touch had grown daily, and not even her disappearance, with a painful, jagged edge, had diminished its demand for answers. The question was, what were the questions that needed answering? After much soul searching, they decided to go at it as they did with everything else they shared–full on, with no room for distractions. And so they had meticulously planned the week, hiking paths that would take them far away from prying eyes and ears that shouldn’t hear what was intended to noisily be intended for only them. “Just us,” were the last words they’d said before he left for the airport and she began packing the ancient Suburban she’d borrowed from a friend, with enough camping gear and backpacks filled with food and sundries to last them, returning only to the camp at night to *ermmm* sleep, she’d thought.
Now, inching up towards Seattle, traffic looking like a slow-moving herd of metallic cattle, she cursed herself for not planning on the inevitable slow-downs, and hoped his flight was late. Glancing cursorily at her watch, she knew it would be very close. This brought a freshly minted surge of desire and nerves to the forefront, which she swept aside when the small foreign jobbie just about did the same thing to her bumper, sliding sideways around a turn as the traffic sped up. Swerving as she lifted her foot instinctively off the pedal–raised in the midwest, you learn not to accelerate when you’re sliding–time slowed down to the thickness of being underwater, and she could see the whites of his eyes widened with adrenaline. Time gratefully sped to its normal rate as he lifted his finger in an obscene salute. Shaking her head, she pushed the old behemoth forward, towards Seattle, towards the airport, closer to him…..
She swooped into a parking spot (as much as an old Suburban can swoop) near the front, luck luck luck, and had she had time, she’d have kissed the steering wheel. Grabbing her wallet, she sped into the terminal, glancing quickly at the board to see if his flight was on time–it was. She had five minutes to get to the other expanse of the terminal. Taking off her Birkenstocks, she clenched one in each fist, her wallet tucked under her arm, and took off, long brown hair flying behind her. At the security check, she stopped–and kept going, thanks to her socks, skidding into the person ahead of her, who glared hard, but said nothing. And time slowed down to molasses again, she fidgeting, hopping from one foot to the other, glancing at her watch, willing them to get her through faster, faster. Heart pounding, knowing his plane was just landing, he was so close so close so very close now, she could almost smell his animal heat like a beacon in the thick fog of people keeping them apart. “Soon, soon,” she repeated, not caring if she looked like a madwoman. Blowing her hair away from her face with one hard puff, she slapped her wallet, keys, and Birkenstocks on the conveyer belt into some realm where they could see the insides of anything, and wondered if they’d detect her moist thighs as she walked through the metal frame. The wand they held, brushing over people in a haze of heightened security looked obscene, and she grinned. “Well, it has been a long time,” she rationalized, not realizing she’d muttered the words out loud. Several people moved cautiously back as she shifted from one foot to the other again.
Finally through, she began to run, then skidded to a stop, trotted back and grabbed her things from the conveyor belt with a sheepish grin, then took off again. Counting arrival gates as they whizzed by, closer closer closer…then only two to go, and she slowed down, unable to get by a huge group of teenagers. Whether they were arriving or leaving was impossible to determine in the squealing adolescent crowd, the distinction not mattering anadolu yakası escort to her as she tried to move through them. Stopping, she shook her hair into some vague semblance of order, put her Birkies back on, and pursed her lips to smooth out her crimson lipstick, smoothed her dark blue t-shirt, and began to look for him. So many people, she thought dismally, looking around slowly, forcing her breathing to slow, willing her heart not to thrust itself clean out of her chest, which would not be terribly appealing, although it would be apt, if it were to land on her sleeve. She scanned the crowds of people, looking for the man who was looking for her. She’d seen enough pictures of him to know she’d recognize him, if not simply sense him, that feral prowess.
Suddenly, she stood stock still, and felt a presence behind her. Not just a presence, but a force, strong and powerful and watchful. For what seemed forever, she could not move, feeling–knowing–he was behind her, his presence immobilizing her, rooting her to the moment, savoring the seconds before she turned and time would speed up and their week beginning, evolving into whatever it would form into, a sort of male-felmale Darwinism. Slowly she turned, and time again slowed, the blur of everything as her body turned, people mouthing in silence things that would never matter to her, as she saw him, and then time simply stood still, limbs seeming to swim in slow-motion, which she didn’t even notice except with a faint sense of awareness.
There is a word for what he looked like, several words, in fact–all contradicting, as usual. Leaning against the wall, below a wood engraving of a salmon, he managed to look insoucient, eyes laughing, having watched her sliding ascent towards him. Those eyes, sweeping across her, both insolent and amused, piercing her with a force that made her gasp. Broad shoulders leaning back against the wall, bag by his side, a concentrated study of masculinity and raw power. Laughing at her, delighted and slightly shaking his head at her entrance, his soft laugh low and throaty, reminding her of a cat before it dives in for the merciful bite to the throat, managing to be both commanding and light-hearted at the same time. Her eyes riveted onto his hands, his arms unfolding as he bent to pick up his bag.
They walked slowly toward each other, each drinking in the sight of the other, each thinking their own thoughts, holding their own passions tightly at bay, expectations tucked in pockets that would be opened a little at a time, like oscar nominations for those left breathless in anticipation. As they drew near, yet as from a distance, she heard his voice, “I’ve waited long enough for this that I don’t want to hold you here…let’s go.” She nodded mutely and they moved to walk side by side as if they’d always done so. Suddenly, she realized they were in sunlight, the terminal at their backs, and she winced at the brightness, no sun having pierced the clouds for days. She looked at him suspiciously, as if he’d simply ordered it to be so. Glancing at her, drinking her in, he chuckled again, and she shivered. Silently they got to the Suburban, made way for his bag, another chuckle at the massive amounts of things she’d crammed into the vehicle, just in case they needed it. And then they were gone, the keys in his hands, sliding her into the passenger seat, then coming around to get behind the wheel. “Been a long time since I was here,” he said, low and evenly. She noticed he was breathing heavier than his voice portrayed, and smiled a slow, wicked smile. They knew each other well.
Heading for the mountains, she put Aretha Franklin in the tape deck (a cd player in a 20-year-old Suburban? puh-leeezzzzeee), and leaned back to watch him, listening to him tell her about the flight, interspersed with baritone humming. Her eyes locked on his hands, and was grateful she wasn’t standing, her knees weak at the sight. Strong, powerful, massive. These were hands that had known the worst of fighting and the most tender of touches, and everything in between. Thick fingers, large knuckles, squared abruptly at the ends. They were dry, she noted, aching to massage lotion into them, making mental notes. They were hands that could inflict damage or intense pleasure, graceful even as they were rough and primal, she thought. She had no idea….
His face was just as roughly hewn, as if his features emerged from a chisel instead of a paint brush, his lower lip more full than she’d anticipated, his eyes so dark blue they startled her when he turned to look at her, words dying on his lips at the smoulder in her own eyes. It was all she could do not to reach one finger up to trace his ear, dragging it down to the side of his neck. She wanted to slip her fingertips inside the collar of his denim shirt, her nerves screaming to touch his skin.
They lapsed into silence, the distance on the broad seat between them brief and small ataşehir escort but the pressure to close it like steel jaws pushing it closed, yet it had become a concerted effort on both of their parts to first get to the mountains and make camp, get that tent up and close the world out. They’d waited this long, they could wait a little longer. He slowed the Suburban down as they entered the park, trees still dripping sunlit diamonds of rain, the green painfully intense and rich. Rolling down the windows, each taking deep gulps of air, filling lungs as deeply full of the scent of pine needles, earth, and the tiny things that sustain themselves there. Leaning back in, more relaxed, beginning to talk more as the trappings of modern life distanced behind them.
They made camp in a small clearing, having hiked in about a half a mile, lugging things back and forth. Finally, a fire going before the tent, bedding in the tent with a thick, meaningful presence, they began to prepare dinner. A small stream nearby produced a chilled bottle of white gewurtztraminer, the smell of good cooking and the nearness of each other making mouths water and fingers itch for the texture of heated skin. He crossed to where she was and pulled her gently, slowly to him, his eyes darkening even more into an indigo of passion that needed no words. But then, he was a man of actions, far more than words.
He wrapped his massive arms around her and she felt swallowed, small, utterly protected. She could feel his heart pounding against her breasts, and she turned her head to press her lips to the hollow of his throat, feeling his pulse echoing against her mouth. She sighed deeply, eyes closing, her arms wrapping around his waist, slipping her fingers under his t-shirt, the shiver he offered making her sigh all the deeper. One of his large paws moved up to tilt her head up, a soft offering of her mouth waiting for his. “Claim me,” she whispered before his mouth closed over hers. It was a kiss that engulfed, slowly and surely, dropping miles and time and distance in the slow-burning hunger that was being stoked with lips that parted, tongues that touched and danced as their kiss deepened. She could feel his hardness pressing into her, her hips moving of their own accord to rub against his. Their arms tightened, heads dipped, kissing grew more steadily into the rythms of lovemaking to come. His hand moved under her t-shirt and she felt his rough hands over her side, sliding her shirt up with a shiver that felt more like a tremble. Over her breast, the cool air on her skin, his hand sweeping over the side of her breast as he’d done in cyber so many times, but this was here and now, and the full, ripe woman-fruit beneath his fingers was his and his alone.
They were so lost in that kiss that they didn’t hear them coming. At the last few seconds before the three men crashed with gangling, ungraceful limbs into their camp, his instincts and training took over and he broke their embrace before she even knew what was happening. Thrusting her behind him, she almost stumbled, stunned, looking from him to the men who faced them. They were drunk, all of them. Where they’d come from was a mystery, but here they were. With a furious blush, she pulled her shirt down over her breast, and adrenaline began surging where passion had just been. They were still gaping at her bra-clad breast, eyes roughly assessing them both; sizing him up, lolling eyes roving up and down her body, a feast to fight and a feast to fuck, she thought, and time again slowed down as she backed up. One of them, thick, long hair almost as long as hers, skinny and quick, dashed around him, his hand reaching out to grab his shirt but barely missing it as the man ducked to the side, then surging forward, reeling in an instant into her, knocking her almost to the ground. He reached behind her with surprising agility as drunk as he clearly was, and she realized he had her hands around her throat, thumbs pressed hard at her windpipe.
They all turned to the two men half-crouched and coarse, before him. As immensely powerful as he was, he slowly pulled himself up even more, arms away from his body, fingers half-clenched, the muscles on his back taut, stance from his professional fights tensed and waiting, yet somehow at ease. This, he thought, I know how to do. And the cold anger began to grow at his insides, not reaching his head. Behind him, the man holding her began to thrust himself at her, skinny hardness making her nauseous as she tried to control her own rage, holding still, trying to be silent in the face of the fight unfolding before her.
As the three of them faced each other, the other two men looked suddenly strange, not quite so drunk, not quite so horny, not nearly so agressive. From her lover came a noise, beginning low and soft, reaching all of them clearly. The cords on his neck stood out, and the noise grew louder. He was growling. Deep, deep, from his baritone ümraniye escort voice, he was growling with anger and territorial threatening, and protectiveness of the woman behind him, he growled. Both men rushed at once, a knee-jerk reaction of fight or flight. And it began. Time was still slowed and liquid, so she could see one’s hair, not quite brown or blonde, as dirty as his shirt, the whites of his eyes large as he pummeled his way in, first swinging and hitting his companion. The growl turned to a slow laugh that held more menace than the growl, yet her eyes were locked on his arms that swung sure and lightening quick, his body twisting to kick with resounding smashing sounds, fists that met flesh so hard she thought the trees shuddered at the percussive impact.
In front of her, she could see that they were no match for him; it was almost an unfair battle. Behind her, she could no longer feel the man’s scrawny erection, his fingers around her throat suddenly unsure, and she moved, pretending to faint, then turning quickly to kick him in the groin before he was grabbed in huge paws and pummeled into unconsciousness.
Time had begun to speed up as she watched him work quickly and efficiently; she ran to the Suburban and grabbed the cell phone, grateful she’d grumblingly brought it–just in case. They were still drunk and in no state to move even if they’d wanted to when the police finally got there. And just as suddenly, it seemed, they were gone, the smell of him still lingering near her, the ground scuffled, bits of someone’s bloody nose the only real evidence that they’d been there, and slowly the air became theirs again, the energy closing and cleansing around them, unwilling to be denied just as they would not relinquish the night ahead. She turned to him and he was still angry, though more under control. As she looked at him, his eyes, grey with anger, had the unnerving appearance of ashes. She had the impression that if she blew a puff of air at him, the ashes would scatter, leaving red embers. His face was still tight, his fists red and scraped, his shirt torn where one had grabbed at it as he fell. She moved to him, but he held her away from him while he pulled the shirt off and dropped it, noticing her looking at the tear. He pulled her to him roughly, feeling her quickly and surely to reassure himself that she was alright, hard rush of breath, the hard relief that comes from letting go of something so raw. Yet he was still hard and angry, irrationally so. Pulling her close, he could tell she was feeling the same way, and they both let go of the tight control they’d felt since the airport.
He buried his hands in her hair, wild and thick, and pulled it back, forcing her head back before closing his mouth hard on hers. This kiss was rough and bruising, their mouths savagely seeking comfort, finding hard resistance and panting breath. His hands pulled her shirt up trapping her arms above her head, gripping both her wrists with one hand, feeling the bones of her wrists, careful not to be too rough–but just barely. With his other hand, he closed as much of his large hand over one breast as he could, his mouth finding the nipple of her other breast over the satin bra she wore, the scent of gardenia filling his nostrils, and he growled again.
With her hands held tight, her passion raging as hard as his, she twisted to free herself, feeling her wrists grind hard. Leaning forward, she sunk her teeth into his shoulder with a groan, and he grunted deeply to bite her neck. The woods spun round and round, the fire crackled and spat, and they wrestled with seriousness, each trying to kiss, lick, bite flesh, hungry for the very core of the passion they felt. No planned first gentleness would do this night. Slowly, they made their way to the tent, the last light fading, replaced by vast starscapes above them, witnessing the oldest struggle known. He grasped her by the waist, crushing her to him, while he bent them both down to pick up and toss a few logs on the fire. The pitch hissing and snarling, he wrestled them both into the tent.
They half-fell to the bedding, already pawing at clothes, hands moving so fast and hard that she couldn’t really tell who’s hands were whose. His body was so totally masculine, his presence so dominating that she could only respond with gasps and matching aggression. He pushed her back, sliding his hands to her jeans, half-pulling, half ripping them off her body, her panties and socks coming off with them. He kneeled astride her with a growl similar to the ones she’d heard before, then inched up, undoing his jeans at the same time. Rolling half off-her, he managed to get his jeans off, both of them hotly naked, wildly horny, and she gazed long and hungrily at his cock, hard and large and impossibly stiff. He again got astride her, moving above her as she grasped his cock with one hand, stroking slowly as the other thumb rolled over his head. Tipping his head down, kneeling on all fours, watching her as she closed her mouth over his cock, sucking slowly down until he could take no more and began thrusting his hips back and forth, one of her arms around his waist, pulling him even deeper into his mouth. Her head bobbed back and forth as his rocking became faster, knowing he’d cum soon if he didn’t stop soon.
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