Rain
a Pretender smut biscuit
by Jill Kirby

This is "plot? What plot?" at its most egregious. Mea culpa. It doesn't fit with canon, doesn't fit anywhere in the timeline, and is absolutely most decidedly rated NC-17. If you're under 18, go read something less frivolous, please. Hell, I should be writing something less frivolous.

If I owned these characters, don't you think I'd be doing something with them besides writing this Showtime-esque soft core? Don't own 'em, not making any money off 'em, please don't sue me. Do not archive, though archive links directly to this page are welcome.

Believe it or not, I actually had a beta-reader on this, bless her heart. Thank you, Karen. :) And special thanks to Ty Herndon's song "Steam." ::ahem::

I'm always hot for feedback; you can send it to kirbyfest@yahoo.com.

***

It is raining when he comes to her.

The room is dark and warm, heavy with summer humidity that the central air conditioning never quite clears out of this old house. Body temperature is barely different from air temperature, so when his hand touches her leg it hardly registers at first.

But his hand is not air. It is not a dream.

She's flat on her stomach, covers long ago kicked irritably to the foot of the bed. With just the sheet and her silk nightshirt touching her, she should be cool. With the rain falling strong and steady outside, she should be cool. She's not.

It is raining as his hand moves up her calf.

The faintest of smiles touches her lips. It's hardly a smile at all, really, but he can't see it anyway; her face is turned away from him in the dark. His hand, sure and steady, is rubbing, massaging away tension. She would purr, would let him know how good it feels-- but not yet. That's not how this plays out, and she is loath to break the routine, to change any part of this.

His right hand is on her other calf now, working the same muscles. Both hands manage to stay just away from the back of her knee, where almost any touch would result in helpless, inappropriate giggles. He knows this, and avoids that particular sensitive spot.

When he moves up to stroke the backs of her thighs in long, languid passes over her skin, she feels like she has become entirely boneless and fluid, all pooled relaxation on the grey cotton sheets. It is not sexual, this particular sensation. It is sensual. Not arousing, but relaxing.

The rhythm of the rain outside changes slightly, becoming more insistent, and a low growl of thunder sounds many miles away. His hands respond to the alteration and slide up, smoothing over the skin of her buttocks, pushing up the thin silk to give him uninterrupted access. He works her lower back, pressing carefully, finding knots she didn't know she had and making them disappear, all with just the touch of his fingers. His hands are under her nightshirt, and she can hear the hiss of the silk on his skin and hers.

The bed dips with his weight as he finally sits next to her; his arms are long but this is easier for him-- and his warmth next to her is welcome, no matter how hot she already is. She has hardly breathed until now, but as his hands press up further to her shoulder blades, she hums low in her throat with pleasure, with contentment. The hum must travel through his hands and he responds by intensifying his focus on her shoulders, gentle and insistent at the same time. The tension, the knots are gone too quickly, and her back becomes as soft, as pliant, as content as she is.

His hands slip down her sides and brush the swell of her breasts, pressed against the mattress. She starts at the touch, though she knew it was near, and a new part of her awakens and readies itself.

The drumming of the rain on the roof is like music as he hooks his hands under her nightshirt and slides it up. She raises her arms to help him remove it entirely, rolling over to face him. The sheets are cool on her back as he tosses the silk off the bed. His face is hardly more than a silhouette; not even a generous flash of lightning intervenes to give her a clear view as he bends to her.

Lips on her stomach make her breath catch, but she keeps still as his mouth moves up her stomach slowly, as if time has no particular meaning. He slides his hands along her sides while his tongue teases her skin. The movement of his hands is slightly uneven because her skin, his hands are damp with sweat, and it's almost more than she can bear.

When his mouth touches her breast it is like an electric shock, and she can't help the noise in the back of her throat. His lips curve against her skin in response, then continue along the soft underside of her breast, moving slowly but surely to take the nipple in his mouth.

It's already hard, and he teases it with his tongue as she lets out a long, ragged breath, luxuriating in the sensation. For the time being, she doesn't address the tight knot of need that's building inside her. There will be time for that. Now she just waits as his mouth shifts to her other breast, giving it the same careful consideration.

The tips of his fingers trail up her sides, flicking over the sensitive skin on the underside of her arm, leaving a trail of gooseflesh behind. She whimpers at the combination of sensations-- fingers and mouth and tongue; it's too much and not nearly enough. Her body is heavy; she feels blurred with want.

It's not just her skin that's wet now, and her movement toward him is unconscious-- born of need, not thought. She wants his skin on hers, not just his mouth, and she reaches out to tug at his shirt. He's wearing his usual t-shirt, though it's so dark in the room that the shirt could be any one of a number of colors. That doesn't matter. All that matters is that his shirt come off so that she can touch him.

She gets it started and he pulls the shirt over his head; he's barely got it off his wrists when she's sitting up, her hands on him, running her fingers through the hair on his chest, tracing the sharp outline of his muscles in the dark.

The urge to touch him is strong, and he seems to understand. Though his breathing is rough, he stays still as she moves her hands over him, mapping out his body. His skin is warm and soft, damp in the hollows, and she leans forward to breathe him in. He smells of rain and sweat and cheap motel soap; the strange bouquet makes her light-headed. Pressing her lips to the base of his throat, her tongue darts out to taste him, to feel the rapid pulse underneath his skin, as her hands move down to the button of his pants.

For once, he's not wearing jeans, but pants of some kind of heavy cotton fabric. She gets the button undone, but lets him move away to take them off entirely. He's only off the bed for a minute, but it's an endless time, filled only with the sound of the never-ending rain, the roar of it sluicing down the gutters. She crouches on the bed, watching his shadow. Waiting.

He's hardly back on the bed before her hands are on him again, strong and sure, moving down his hips with satisfaction. She loves the shape of him, how her fingers know him, how he reacts to her touch. Sliding her hands around, under his buttocks, she pulls his body to hers, smiling against his lips as she feels his hardness burning against her. Her palms continue their glide over his body as he kisses away her smile with the heat of his mouth, the play of his tongue with hers.

A rumble of low, distant thunder punctuates their kiss. She moves to take the rich heat of him in her hand, reveling in his shuddering gasp. But it's too soon, and he grasps her wrists, taking them away from him and pushing her gently back onto the bed. The sheet sticks to the slickness of her back as she lies back down, and it takes all her will to stay silent as his fingers graze her body. His mouth chases a bead of sweat trailing between her breasts, his tongue licking it off with exquisite, unbearable care.

Moving down now, his hands touch her thighs and she whimpers, her breath quickening with anticipation. His fingers tickle the tender skin on the inside of her thighs, teasing her, before moving to where she's wanted him to be since he first touched her.

She is ready for him, and his fingers are quickly damp with her moisture. He is gentle but certain, stroking her gently, dipping in and around her center. She's all raw sensation now, all untempered vulnerable shattering need, and she moans out something that might be his name, might be a plea for relief.

Suddenly his mouth is on her, hot and wet. She barely has time to lace her hands through his sweat-damp hair before it hits her and she stiffens, suspended, hardly able to breathe. The release washes over her like waves, black and wet and intense, and still he doesn't stop. She can't stop herself from crying out as it goes on and on, past pleasure on towards pain, leaving her limp and exhausted as it subsides.

Breathing heavily, she blinks in the dark, wishing for a moment that she could see his face. He's moved up beside her on the bed, and from the angle of his shadowed face looking at hers, she wonders if he's wishing the same thing. He reaches out and gently traces her lips with one finger, temporarily ignoring the need that is certainly as insistent as hers was just a few minutes ago.

The finger trails down over her neck, to her breasts. Something inside her gathers itself in, anticipating. Her hunger for him never seems to fade; as he spreads his hand flat and runs it over her stomach, down to touch her again, she knows the same is true for him.

His mouth is finally back on hers, tasting now of salt and something that must be her, and she loses herself in the kiss for just a moment before sliding one hand to the back of his neck and reaching with the other to guide him inside her.

It is wordless, gasping, and their bodies are so drenched in sweat that they might as well be coming together outside in the rain that pours down in insistent torrents. It is so loud that she can't hear the sound he makes. It doesn't matter; she knows the sound is there, feels him arch against her, any softness in him temporarily absent as his body tenses with his release, his moment.

For that moment, she feels complete.

Afterwards, despite the heat, she falls into the circle of his arms, nestling her face against his chest. He will be gone when she wakes, but that doesn't matter right now. His leg is between hers, his arms are around her, and his face is buried in her hair. It's not right, but it is.

She wonders when it will rain again.

It is always raining when he comes to her.

***

Jill's standard disclaimer: this is fiction. These characters are really smart people who, in real life, would be using a condom.