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Title: don't you know i showed you my neck, just to see if you would kill?
Author: redbrunja
Fandom: Blade: Trinity
Pairing: Abigail Whistler/Hannibal King
Rating: R
Warnings: Explicit sex, violent imagery.
Summary: King hadn't dreamt this much about Danica back when she was undead. Not even during the five years he'd been under her heel. And now that she was dead-dead, his subconscious wanted to play resurrectionist?
King hadn't dreamt this much about Danica back when she was undead. Not even during the five years he'd been under her heel. And now that she was dead-dead, his subconscious wanted to play resurrectionist? If King hadn't already known he was a sick fuck, that would have proved it.
The dreams about Zoë were one thing. He'd kinda been expecting them, actually, expecting to jerk awake with cold sweat clinging to him, his stomach in knots. He'd killed kids before, once or twice, when Danica had starved him until the thirst grew so strong that he'd barely hesitated when she shoved some crying child into his arms. When he's asleep, each one of those kids has Zoë's face, it's Zoë's little fists pummeling uselessly at his head while he drinks and drinks and drinks, and Danica laughs, psychotic and amused, and that sarcastic voice inside his head that not even torture could stamp out comments about what a fucking worthless piece of shit he is, to suck down some poor little brat instead of having the spine to die.
So, those dreams are pretty much unrelieved awful.
But there's a cold comfort to them.
When he wakes from one of those dreams, it's a hot shower and a hard workout and avoiding sleep for the next day or two, which seems like a really normal reaction. King doesn't have many normal reactions, so he appreciates the few he's somehow managed to acquire.
The dreams about Abigail, though. They're different. He's chained up, and Danica drags Abby to him, Abby's face already bruised, lip split open and dripping sweet blood down her chin.
"I brought you a snack, lover," Danica will purr, while Abby digs her feet futilely into the floor, until she's close enough for King to grab her, to pull her down to him. And he can't tell himself that it's the thirst winning, not when he moves slow enough to see fear and betrayal bloom in Abby's eyes. She'll end up under him, legs around his waist, and he can't tell if she's trying to buck him off or pull him closer. Either way, she'll be grinding against him, sparks of lust bursting from his crouch all the way up his spine. He'll have one hand tangled in her hair, and he'll use it to wrench her head back, pulling her neck into a delectable arc.
He'll run his lips down the line of it, just his lips, and Abby will make these little pleading sounds, her nails biting into his shoulders.
"Please," she'll say, in a voice Abby never uses, high and light and pleading. "Please," she say again and he'll tug her hair a little harder, just to hear her pulse jump, and he'll bite. She tastes delicious, because there is nothing on Abby that isn't delicious, and she'll moan as he rips her neck open. He'll drag his tongue across the wound, lips slick with her, desperate to get every drop of her, of her life, even as the blood pools under her. Abby will jerk, desperately, trying to cling to life, until her hands fall from his shoulders, until she finally stills.
And then Danica's cold fingers will be around his throat, a counterpoint to his mouth, so hot with Abby's blood, his lips almost bruised. She'll squeeze, smiling as he chokes. "Feel better now?" she'll ask. "Of course you do. We both know this is what you've always wanted to do to her."
And King wakes up, gasping for air, so fucking turned on that his hand is on his cock before he finishes getting his eyes open. He yanks himself, roughly, the pleasure skewering into pain and then back, thinks about what Abby would do if she knew what he dreamed about, if she knew that he got himself off thinking about her, had for years, a hundred fantasies that had kept things interesting, even when it is just him and his right hand, even before this awful string of nightmares.
His hips jerk as he comes, spilling across his fingers, and after a few minutes of wallowing in bed with his underdeveloped but undeniably existent sense of shame, he stumbles to the bathroom to get cleaned up.
As he brushes his teeth, he reminds himself that Abby is about four times as good as he is on her worst day, that if she'd been able to put him down back when he was vamped, she could do it in her sleep now.
He splashes water across his face, carelessly rubbing it dry with a towel, the fabric rasping harshly across his skin, his beard, stinging where he presses it against the still-healing wounds on his face.
"Pretend Danica didn't permanently fuck you up," he tells his reflection, and then makes finger-guns at the mirror. It would be easier to fake it, if dream!Abby's pleading little cries hadn't been echoing in his ears.
He pads on bare feet out into the rest of their lair (and it's totally a lair, even if it's on water), follows the sounds of impact to where Whistler is steadily beating the crap out of a punching bag.
She's wearing capri work out pant and a sports bra. Her tattoo and the sweet skin of her belly were glistening with sweat, tendrils of hair curling and sticking to her temples. King wants to get on his knees before her, trace her tat with his tongue while he slowly inches her pants down. She doesn't look up at him but he knows she knows he's there.
She's clearly been at this a while; he wouldn't go so far as to say that she was moving sloppily, but her normal crispness was missing. Abby circles around the punching bag with her fists up, looking annoyed that it wasn't hitting back. He'd seen that expression on her face during hunts that went too easy, when she didn't want to admit that she'd been bored.
If it weren't for the dark circles under her eyes, Abby's clear frustration with the punching bag would be funny.
King might not've been sleeping much, but he didn't think Abby had been sleeping at all.
Abby had been throwing herself at whatever was in front of her like she was trying to burn herself up. She'd argued with him when he'd helped her dispose of the bodies of their team (she'd lost), she'd tried to get him to "rest" instead of helping her clean the blood up (she'd won, but only because someone had to keep Zoe away from the showers until her mother's blood had been washed away).
The first time he made dinner for Zoe, Abby wouldn't even let him in the galley until he'd named five vegetables. Zoe, standing behind Abby, showed heretofore undiscovered talents and managed to mime both 'eggplant' and 'broccoli.'
It was the most animated Zoe had been since her mother died. Abby pretended that she hadn't seen the entire thing in her peripheral vision and let him make Zoe french toast for dinner.
When Abby was setting up Zoe's schedule - or clarifying what Sommerfield already had in place - it took King forty-five minutes to convince Abby he could be trusted to walk Zoe home from school, and Abby still stood over him and watched as he put reminders into his phone.
At this point, he's pretty sure he is going to remember what time he needs to pick up Zoe from preschool until she's in high school (right now, it's a couple minutes after noon, he had another two and a half hours before his ass better be waiting right by the school parking lot).
King crosses his arms, waits a couple of minutes to see if Abby is going to take a break from attempting to beat an inanimate object into fighting back.
Nope, doesn't look like it.
He spots her earbuds and iPod, sitting abandoned by her open laptop. It's odd to see her working out without them.
Well, it's not like he needed more clues that something wasn't right.
He ambles over to her computer, starts clicking around. The fact that she doesn't immediately come over and kick his ass is slightly less scary than the fact that she'd deleted all her playlists, but only slightly.
Looks like her iTunes library is mostly intact, though.
"Abby, Abby, Abby," he says and makes a show of shaking his head. "Are these depressing covers of motown standards I see here? We've talked about this before." King manages to get the trackpad to click obnoxiously under his thumb (what can he say, he has a gift). "I want you to know, I'm doing this for your own–"
Okay, he'd expected the takedown, but that didn't mean he'd heard her coming. Like, at all. One second he was figuring out which songs Abby really didn't need to be listening to and the next he was flat on his back, Abby's knees pinning his shoulders to the ground, her hands around his wrists. It wasn't the strongest hold; if he really tried, he could probably kick her in the head or get a leg around her throat but her weight on his chest, the way she had his hands pinned to the ground, loosens something inside him, even as it made other things come to attention.
"If you were naked and about six inches further up, this would be perfect," King says, which is god's own truth. Abby naked and with her knees bracketing his head would be objective perfection.
"You're not as funny as you think you are," she responds.
"Oh, I'm exactly as funny as I think I am," he says, and then the penny drops. "Did you think I was joking?"
He's made it so clear he'd crawl over glass for the slightest chance to get into her pants, she can't have thought he was joking.
Abby frowns, starts to slowly shift away, releasing her grip on his wrists.
"I wasn't joking," he says, runs a hand up her thigh. Abby has the tiniest frown on her face, but he knows that look, that's what she looks like when she's trying to decide what to do about something. Please fuck let her decide to do him.
"You look like you could use a distraction," he says, looking up at her. He'd like to think he was staring at her beguilingly, but he is pretty sure he just looks predatory. "And I can be very ....distracting." He curls the word in his mouth.
Abby holds herself very for a moment, and then nods, quickly. She scoots off of him, strips her bra off.
"Fuck me," King breathes and follows her. She tugs off her pants and underwear, no hesitation, he's seen her yank off band-aids with that kind of merciless efficiently.
King curls his hand around the back of her neck, lowers his head. He kisses his way from her collarbone down to her tits, sucks one of her nipples into his mouth, teases it.
He can't tell if Abby's breathing hard because of her quality time with the punching bag or what he's doing, but he takes the way she's plucking at his shirt as a good sign. He yanks it off, tosses it aside, and then rolls onto his back, keeping one hand on Abby's thigh.
They clearly had the same idea about where this is going to go, because all is takes is the lightest urging of his hands and Abby is straddling his head, knees at his ears, calves tucked along his shoulders, spread open. He kisses his way up the inside of her thigh. She's still holding herself just a bit away. He strokes the sweet curve of her ass, nuzzles the crease at the top of her thigh, and then licks her.
Abby sways. He puts his hands up and she grabs them without hesitation, threading their fingers together. He listens to her suck in air as he explores her pussy, her fingers tightening and then releasing as then tightening more. He circles her clit with the tip of his tongue, laves it, and then retreats, licking down her slit.
In his fantasies, he'd imagined that Abby would be quiet during sex, and she is, probably the quietest person he's ever fucked, or been fucked by, but it makes the noises she does make about fifty million times hotter. Her breath catches, she bites back moans and swallows down gasps, like she's so used to fighting that she can't quite stop, even with him, even with sex. He fucking loves the way she hisses almost silently when he does something she really likes.
"Oh, god, there," she chokes out at one point and he smirks, lips slick and beard wet and doesn't stop.
He can feel each one of Abby's reactions, her calves tense against his shoulders, her heels digging into his sides. The muscles of her thighs tighten and tighten as he eats her out. She's trying to hold herself still, he can tell, but she keeps making these little bucking motions with her hips, fucking his face, pushing against his hands, making the blood throb in his dick.
He's so fucking hard. He's on his back, his hands busy keeping her balanced, his dick pressing uncomfortably against his fly, no way to get any decent friction, any relief. But that's fine, that's fine, he can use that, work with that, honestly the frustration just makes it better, just makes him better, and Abby's close, he can tell. He flattens his tongue, presses it hard against her clit and she climaxes, cunt fluttering against his mouth as she cries out.
After, Abby slumps to one side, stares at their hands as she slowly lets him go, like she has to concentrate on getting her fingers to straighten.
He just watches her, memorizing the way she looks, flushed and gorgeous.
She meets his eyes, blushing a deeper red, runs her thumb along his bottom lip, swiping away some of the slickness. He nips at her thumb playfully and Abby's eyes darken. She leans in, kisses him, greedy and open mouthed. He groans and Abby starts to unbuckle his belt.
He forces himself not to rush as he pulls his wallet out, gets a condom. He takes the time to get the firmest grip (oh, deliciously perfect phrasing, with Abby reaching inside his pants, wrapping her small, callused hand around his cock and stroking) he can on his self-control.
He wants to make this last as long as he can.
King kicks his pants off, rolls the condom on, and then Abby settles herself in his lap, sinking down on him, biting the inside of her check as she wraps her legs around his waist. She lets him set the pace, rides him nice and slow, dragging it out. She feels amazing around him, all heat and strength and slickness.
His hands are on her hips, her hands resting on his shoulders. She pays attention, Abby does, her eyes fixed on his face, discovering what he likes, what makes him swear and dig in fingers into her skin. She's amazing, exquisite, and he tells her so, breathing the filthiest, sweetest things he can think of into her skin.
King sets his teeth, holds his orgasm back as long as he can, not ready for this to end, not ready to lose Abby's eyes fixed on his face, Abby's pussy clenching around him, Abby, smelling of sex and sweat, moving against him. He lasts until she rakes nails demandingly across his shoulders and leans in to take his mouth, kissing him like ruin.
His hips jerk as he comes and Abby holds him tight through it, stroking the damp hair at the nape of his neck, making soft, wordless sounds in his ear. He swallows tightly, closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers.
He doesn't need to see Abby to feel her pulling away from him as her breathing settles, her typical reserve settling around her shoulders.
They part. King goes to dispose of the condom, comes back to see Abby gathering up her clothes. He tosses her his shirt without thinking twice about it. There's no one but them on the boat, but there's still no way that she's going to stroll au natural back to her room, and that way she wouldn't have to wrestle back into her bra and workout pants.
"Thanks," she says, pulling it on, not quite managing to look at him. The hem skims the top of her thighs, and he ignores the surge of possessiveness that digs claws into him at the sight of Abby - flushed, well-fucked, hair tangled - wearing his shirt and nothing else.
He frees the ends of her hair that have gotten tucked under the collar, because he can't not touch her, and he knows that pulling her back down to the floor for round two isn't going to happen.
Abby opens her mouth to say - and then yawns. She tries to bit it back, muffles it against the back of her mouth.
"Sorry," she says. She gives him a quick glance, like she expects him to be offended. He'd be more surprised by that if he hadn't eavesdropped on several conversations between her and Sommerfield about her ex-boyfriends and their fragile egos.
"I didn't get much sleep.... last night," she decides to go with, even though he fucking knows she means, 'since Dex and Hedges and Sommerfield died and I took down Dracula and basically adopted a six year old.'
"Yeah, I heard that's going around," King says. He kinda wants to wish her sweet dreams or even better, tell her to dream of him, send her to bed like she is now, wearing his shirt, his sweat on her skin, but Abby is already looking at him like she's not quite sure who he is, so he steps back, smirks at her. Tries to pretend that this didn't - that this won't - change anything between them.
Author: redbrunja
Fandom: Blade: Trinity
Pairing: Abigail Whistler/Hannibal King
Rating: R
Warnings: Explicit sex, violent imagery.
Summary: King hadn't dreamt this much about Danica back when she was undead. Not even during the five years he'd been under her heel. And now that she was dead-dead, his subconscious wanted to play resurrectionist?
King hadn't dreamt this much about Danica back when she was undead. Not even during the five years he'd been under her heel. And now that she was dead-dead, his subconscious wanted to play resurrectionist? If King hadn't already known he was a sick fuck, that would have proved it.
The dreams about Zoë were one thing. He'd kinda been expecting them, actually, expecting to jerk awake with cold sweat clinging to him, his stomach in knots. He'd killed kids before, once or twice, when Danica had starved him until the thirst grew so strong that he'd barely hesitated when she shoved some crying child into his arms. When he's asleep, each one of those kids has Zoë's face, it's Zoë's little fists pummeling uselessly at his head while he drinks and drinks and drinks, and Danica laughs, psychotic and amused, and that sarcastic voice inside his head that not even torture could stamp out comments about what a fucking worthless piece of shit he is, to suck down some poor little brat instead of having the spine to die.
So, those dreams are pretty much unrelieved awful.
But there's a cold comfort to them.
When he wakes from one of those dreams, it's a hot shower and a hard workout and avoiding sleep for the next day or two, which seems like a really normal reaction. King doesn't have many normal reactions, so he appreciates the few he's somehow managed to acquire.
The dreams about Abigail, though. They're different. He's chained up, and Danica drags Abby to him, Abby's face already bruised, lip split open and dripping sweet blood down her chin.
"I brought you a snack, lover," Danica will purr, while Abby digs her feet futilely into the floor, until she's close enough for King to grab her, to pull her down to him. And he can't tell himself that it's the thirst winning, not when he moves slow enough to see fear and betrayal bloom in Abby's eyes. She'll end up under him, legs around his waist, and he can't tell if she's trying to buck him off or pull him closer. Either way, she'll be grinding against him, sparks of lust bursting from his crouch all the way up his spine. He'll have one hand tangled in her hair, and he'll use it to wrench her head back, pulling her neck into a delectable arc.
He'll run his lips down the line of it, just his lips, and Abby will make these little pleading sounds, her nails biting into his shoulders.
"Please," she'll say, in a voice Abby never uses, high and light and pleading. "Please," she say again and he'll tug her hair a little harder, just to hear her pulse jump, and he'll bite. She tastes delicious, because there is nothing on Abby that isn't delicious, and she'll moan as he rips her neck open. He'll drag his tongue across the wound, lips slick with her, desperate to get every drop of her, of her life, even as the blood pools under her. Abby will jerk, desperately, trying to cling to life, until her hands fall from his shoulders, until she finally stills.
And then Danica's cold fingers will be around his throat, a counterpoint to his mouth, so hot with Abby's blood, his lips almost bruised. She'll squeeze, smiling as he chokes. "Feel better now?" she'll ask. "Of course you do. We both know this is what you've always wanted to do to her."
And King wakes up, gasping for air, so fucking turned on that his hand is on his cock before he finishes getting his eyes open. He yanks himself, roughly, the pleasure skewering into pain and then back, thinks about what Abby would do if she knew what he dreamed about, if she knew that he got himself off thinking about her, had for years, a hundred fantasies that had kept things interesting, even when it is just him and his right hand, even before this awful string of nightmares.
His hips jerk as he comes, spilling across his fingers, and after a few minutes of wallowing in bed with his underdeveloped but undeniably existent sense of shame, he stumbles to the bathroom to get cleaned up.
As he brushes his teeth, he reminds himself that Abby is about four times as good as he is on her worst day, that if she'd been able to put him down back when he was vamped, she could do it in her sleep now.
He splashes water across his face, carelessly rubbing it dry with a towel, the fabric rasping harshly across his skin, his beard, stinging where he presses it against the still-healing wounds on his face.
"Pretend Danica didn't permanently fuck you up," he tells his reflection, and then makes finger-guns at the mirror. It would be easier to fake it, if dream!Abby's pleading little cries hadn't been echoing in his ears.
He pads on bare feet out into the rest of their lair (and it's totally a lair, even if it's on water), follows the sounds of impact to where Whistler is steadily beating the crap out of a punching bag.
She's wearing capri work out pant and a sports bra. Her tattoo and the sweet skin of her belly were glistening with sweat, tendrils of hair curling and sticking to her temples. King wants to get on his knees before her, trace her tat with his tongue while he slowly inches her pants down. She doesn't look up at him but he knows she knows he's there.
She's clearly been at this a while; he wouldn't go so far as to say that she was moving sloppily, but her normal crispness was missing. Abby circles around the punching bag with her fists up, looking annoyed that it wasn't hitting back. He'd seen that expression on her face during hunts that went too easy, when she didn't want to admit that she'd been bored.
If it weren't for the dark circles under her eyes, Abby's clear frustration with the punching bag would be funny.
King might not've been sleeping much, but he didn't think Abby had been sleeping at all.
Abby had been throwing herself at whatever was in front of her like she was trying to burn herself up. She'd argued with him when he'd helped her dispose of the bodies of their team (she'd lost), she'd tried to get him to "rest" instead of helping her clean the blood up (she'd won, but only because someone had to keep Zoe away from the showers until her mother's blood had been washed away).
The first time he made dinner for Zoe, Abby wouldn't even let him in the galley until he'd named five vegetables. Zoe, standing behind Abby, showed heretofore undiscovered talents and managed to mime both 'eggplant' and 'broccoli.'
It was the most animated Zoe had been since her mother died. Abby pretended that she hadn't seen the entire thing in her peripheral vision and let him make Zoe french toast for dinner.
When Abby was setting up Zoe's schedule - or clarifying what Sommerfield already had in place - it took King forty-five minutes to convince Abby he could be trusted to walk Zoe home from school, and Abby still stood over him and watched as he put reminders into his phone.
At this point, he's pretty sure he is going to remember what time he needs to pick up Zoe from preschool until she's in high school (right now, it's a couple minutes after noon, he had another two and a half hours before his ass better be waiting right by the school parking lot).
King crosses his arms, waits a couple of minutes to see if Abby is going to take a break from attempting to beat an inanimate object into fighting back.
Nope, doesn't look like it.
He spots her earbuds and iPod, sitting abandoned by her open laptop. It's odd to see her working out without them.
Well, it's not like he needed more clues that something wasn't right.
He ambles over to her computer, starts clicking around. The fact that she doesn't immediately come over and kick his ass is slightly less scary than the fact that she'd deleted all her playlists, but only slightly.
Looks like her iTunes library is mostly intact, though.
"Abby, Abby, Abby," he says and makes a show of shaking his head. "Are these depressing covers of motown standards I see here? We've talked about this before." King manages to get the trackpad to click obnoxiously under his thumb (what can he say, he has a gift). "I want you to know, I'm doing this for your own–"
Okay, he'd expected the takedown, but that didn't mean he'd heard her coming. Like, at all. One second he was figuring out which songs Abby really didn't need to be listening to and the next he was flat on his back, Abby's knees pinning his shoulders to the ground, her hands around his wrists. It wasn't the strongest hold; if he really tried, he could probably kick her in the head or get a leg around her throat but her weight on his chest, the way she had his hands pinned to the ground, loosens something inside him, even as it made other things come to attention.
"If you were naked and about six inches further up, this would be perfect," King says, which is god's own truth. Abby naked and with her knees bracketing his head would be objective perfection.
"You're not as funny as you think you are," she responds.
"Oh, I'm exactly as funny as I think I am," he says, and then the penny drops. "Did you think I was joking?"
He's made it so clear he'd crawl over glass for the slightest chance to get into her pants, she can't have thought he was joking.
Abby frowns, starts to slowly shift away, releasing her grip on his wrists.
"I wasn't joking," he says, runs a hand up her thigh. Abby has the tiniest frown on her face, but he knows that look, that's what she looks like when she's trying to decide what to do about something. Please fuck let her decide to do him.
"You look like you could use a distraction," he says, looking up at her. He'd like to think he was staring at her beguilingly, but he is pretty sure he just looks predatory. "And I can be very ....distracting." He curls the word in his mouth.
Abby holds herself very for a moment, and then nods, quickly. She scoots off of him, strips her bra off.
"Fuck me," King breathes and follows her. She tugs off her pants and underwear, no hesitation, he's seen her yank off band-aids with that kind of merciless efficiently.
King curls his hand around the back of her neck, lowers his head. He kisses his way from her collarbone down to her tits, sucks one of her nipples into his mouth, teases it.
He can't tell if Abby's breathing hard because of her quality time with the punching bag or what he's doing, but he takes the way she's plucking at his shirt as a good sign. He yanks it off, tosses it aside, and then rolls onto his back, keeping one hand on Abby's thigh.
They clearly had the same idea about where this is going to go, because all is takes is the lightest urging of his hands and Abby is straddling his head, knees at his ears, calves tucked along his shoulders, spread open. He kisses his way up the inside of her thigh. She's still holding herself just a bit away. He strokes the sweet curve of her ass, nuzzles the crease at the top of her thigh, and then licks her.
Abby sways. He puts his hands up and she grabs them without hesitation, threading their fingers together. He listens to her suck in air as he explores her pussy, her fingers tightening and then releasing as then tightening more. He circles her clit with the tip of his tongue, laves it, and then retreats, licking down her slit.
In his fantasies, he'd imagined that Abby would be quiet during sex, and she is, probably the quietest person he's ever fucked, or been fucked by, but it makes the noises she does make about fifty million times hotter. Her breath catches, she bites back moans and swallows down gasps, like she's so used to fighting that she can't quite stop, even with him, even with sex. He fucking loves the way she hisses almost silently when he does something she really likes.
"Oh, god, there," she chokes out at one point and he smirks, lips slick and beard wet and doesn't stop.
He can feel each one of Abby's reactions, her calves tense against his shoulders, her heels digging into his sides. The muscles of her thighs tighten and tighten as he eats her out. She's trying to hold herself still, he can tell, but she keeps making these little bucking motions with her hips, fucking his face, pushing against his hands, making the blood throb in his dick.
He's so fucking hard. He's on his back, his hands busy keeping her balanced, his dick pressing uncomfortably against his fly, no way to get any decent friction, any relief. But that's fine, that's fine, he can use that, work with that, honestly the frustration just makes it better, just makes him better, and Abby's close, he can tell. He flattens his tongue, presses it hard against her clit and she climaxes, cunt fluttering against his mouth as she cries out.
After, Abby slumps to one side, stares at their hands as she slowly lets him go, like she has to concentrate on getting her fingers to straighten.
He just watches her, memorizing the way she looks, flushed and gorgeous.
She meets his eyes, blushing a deeper red, runs her thumb along his bottom lip, swiping away some of the slickness. He nips at her thumb playfully and Abby's eyes darken. She leans in, kisses him, greedy and open mouthed. He groans and Abby starts to unbuckle his belt.
He forces himself not to rush as he pulls his wallet out, gets a condom. He takes the time to get the firmest grip (oh, deliciously perfect phrasing, with Abby reaching inside his pants, wrapping her small, callused hand around his cock and stroking) he can on his self-control.
He wants to make this last as long as he can.
King kicks his pants off, rolls the condom on, and then Abby settles herself in his lap, sinking down on him, biting the inside of her check as she wraps her legs around his waist. She lets him set the pace, rides him nice and slow, dragging it out. She feels amazing around him, all heat and strength and slickness.
His hands are on her hips, her hands resting on his shoulders. She pays attention, Abby does, her eyes fixed on his face, discovering what he likes, what makes him swear and dig in fingers into her skin. She's amazing, exquisite, and he tells her so, breathing the filthiest, sweetest things he can think of into her skin.
King sets his teeth, holds his orgasm back as long as he can, not ready for this to end, not ready to lose Abby's eyes fixed on his face, Abby's pussy clenching around him, Abby, smelling of sex and sweat, moving against him. He lasts until she rakes nails demandingly across his shoulders and leans in to take his mouth, kissing him like ruin.
His hips jerk as he comes and Abby holds him tight through it, stroking the damp hair at the nape of his neck, making soft, wordless sounds in his ear. He swallows tightly, closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers.
He doesn't need to see Abby to feel her pulling away from him as her breathing settles, her typical reserve settling around her shoulders.
They part. King goes to dispose of the condom, comes back to see Abby gathering up her clothes. He tosses her his shirt without thinking twice about it. There's no one but them on the boat, but there's still no way that she's going to stroll au natural back to her room, and that way she wouldn't have to wrestle back into her bra and workout pants.
"Thanks," she says, pulling it on, not quite managing to look at him. The hem skims the top of her thighs, and he ignores the surge of possessiveness that digs claws into him at the sight of Abby - flushed, well-fucked, hair tangled - wearing his shirt and nothing else.
He frees the ends of her hair that have gotten tucked under the collar, because he can't not touch her, and he knows that pulling her back down to the floor for round two isn't going to happen.
Abby opens her mouth to say - and then yawns. She tries to bit it back, muffles it against the back of her mouth.
"Sorry," she says. She gives him a quick glance, like she expects him to be offended. He'd be more surprised by that if he hadn't eavesdropped on several conversations between her and Sommerfield about her ex-boyfriends and their fragile egos.
"I didn't get much sleep.... last night," she decides to go with, even though he fucking knows she means, 'since Dex and Hedges and Sommerfield died and I took down Dracula and basically adopted a six year old.'
"Yeah, I heard that's going around," King says. He kinda wants to wish her sweet dreams or even better, tell her to dream of him, send her to bed like she is now, wearing his shirt, his sweat on her skin, but Abby is already looking at him like she's not quite sure who he is, so he steps back, smirks at her. Tries to pretend that this didn't - that this won't - change anything between them.
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