Page 55 of Night in a Waste Land

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It was a common occurrence to wake in the middle of the night – but she was usually alone when it happened. This time, she opened her eyes to the dark, to the faint glow of a night light slanting across a bit of unfamiliar wall: a calendar she didn’t recognize tacked up to the concrete. Woke to the heft of a large arm across her waist, and the heat of a body against her back.

In the first moment of awareness, she thought,Beck. But the shape of him was all wrong, as was the scent of sheets, and sex, and skin. Comforting, yes, but not Beck.

Lance, instead.

She let out a slow breath and settled into the knowledge. Found that she didn’t hate it; it didn’t fill her with longing. The grief was still there, because it always would be, but it was compact and containable, bundled up in the back of her conscience. Now she was alone in the dark with someone else – someone good, and kind, and sexy, who cared for her. And she was sore in all the right places, deliciously languid, and everything was alright. For now.

She hadn’t thought she’d made any noise, but Lance stirred behind her. Let out a deep, tired – but awake – breath against the back of her neck that left her shivering pleasantly. His arm tightened a fraction, hand pressing flat to her stomach. “You okay?”

She laid her hand over his; felt the faint, steady bump of his pulse through the veins that laced the back of it. “Yeah,” she said, and meant it.

They lay like that, fitted together like spoons, for a few long, quiet moments. It didn’t feel awkward, like she’d expected. Fucking had been an admission and a necessary crescendo of tensions all at once. There was no pretending now that they weren’t attracted, that there wasn’t some caring on both sides – though she suspected more on his than on hers. Still. It felt like an accord had been settled. Felt like it was okay when she started to trace the backs of his fingers with the tips of her own.

“What you said before,” she broached, “about next time…”

He thought a beat, and then snorted against the back of her head, his breath ruffling her hair. “I shoulda known.” His voice was different like this, freshly awake; rough and throaty in a way that made it hard to concentrate on what he was saying.

She twisted around, still under his arm, so she lay on her back and could look up at him, his hand sliding to fit into the inward flare of her waist. The nightlight’s glow caught the edge of his nose, his cheekbones, the curve of his lower lip; shone faintly in his eyes. “Should have known what?”

He teeth gleamed white when he grinned. “What is it they say about it always being the quiet ones? You’re already asking about the next round?”

She punched him in the shoulder, which was like hitting a brick wall.

He laughed. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” He shifted over her, hand tightening subtly at her waist, and his voice shifted into an even lower gear, smoky and full of promise. “You won’t hear me complain.”

“You say that now,” she muttered, before he kissed her.

It was unhurried this time. After coming together once, they already knew that they could, that it was good, and they could take their time, now – just as he’d promised he would, hours before.

Heat kindled in her belly, but Rose followed his lead, gladly.

He explored her mouth, alternating bold, deep strokes of his tongue with gentle teases of his lips against hers. He was playing with her, his fingers strumming lightly over her ribs like guitar strings, and he was damn good at it.

Her contentedness quickly turned to impatience, as heat and tension built in the pit of her stomach. She pressed her thighs together, and strained upward into the next kiss; caught his lower lip between her teeth.

He chuckled against her mouth and pulled back far enough to say, “Holy shit, I was kidding before, but it really is the quiet ones, huh?”

“Asshole,” she accused, without heat.

His grin was a wide, glittering slice in the shadows. He kissed her again, harder, nipping at her lip in return on the pull-back. “Here. Turn over.”

The way he said it, the way her belly clenched in response, left her wanting to complyimmediately. But she said, “Why?”

“Just do it.” He patted her hip. “I know what I’m doing, trust me.”

She rolled her eyes theatrically – but turned over onto her stomach. “You don’t strike me as the creative type.”

His hands smoothed up her back, thumbs digging at the tension beneath her shoulder blades a moment. “Well, I’ll take that as a chance to prove you wrong about something.”

“That’s not a challenge: don’t gettoocreative.”

He chuckled. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He spent a few long minutes giving her a back massage. A good one, actually. Despite the size of his hands, his touch was precise, and he applied just the right amount of pressure. He quickly had all her muscles unlocked, until she went limp, and thought she might melt right down through the mattress, or fall asleep again.

Then his touch shifted lower. He kneaded at her lower back, where she carried tension after the end of an op; where she ached after too many hours on her feet.

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