Ivan Press

[Hilary Durante] A guy like Ivan has a sailing buddy or two already. He's got drinking buddies and clubbing buddies and he always has, even before his Change. The bed on his yacht is not pristine. Nor are other parts of it. And Hilary intuits this without discussing it. She isn't doing this to feel special to someone, or even to be naughty and get away with it. Ivan asked her at the hotel a couple of days ago why she was there. Why she was doing this with (to) him. And all he got was the truth, infuriatingly simple:

he makes her wet. Very wet, if memory serves. He makes her want to fuck. She wants to play with his cock. All simple, all true, all astonishingly vulgar.

It would be suspicious if he avoided her in public. If they didn't make eye contact, didn't laugh at one another when they were genuinely amusing. It would look terrible if she vanished for a few hours on a day she might normally go sailing with her stepson and his friends and didn't tell anyone where she was going or what she was doing.

Cordelia wasn't around to hear anything but the tail end of Mr. Press offering Mrs. Durante a ride, and she couldn't tell for a moment that they were anything but brief acquaintances -- and she's normally such a perceptive young girl, despite not knowing the primary language of this country's elite and upper-class. They hide in plain sight.

Hilary smiles at him, that deliciously half-pleased, half-coy smile. It always looks like she's unexpectedly amused at whatever it is she's smiling at. How quaint. How lovely. How charming. "Alright," she says, amicable as that, leaving the patio by way of weaving through the restaurant, bag hanging from her hand at her side.

She waits for him at parking, to see which car he's driving today. She assumes he has his choice, as she does. They are, after all, of a kind in respect to wealth and privilege. When she sees him enter his own car, she slips into the Maserati -- summer will end anytime now, take advantage -- and follows him

Wherever.

[Ivan Press] It turns out to be the Lamborghini again today. The truth is it's a little more driver-friendly than the Bugatti; and besides, the Bugatti is fugly. Ivan's always thought there was something alarmingly Volvo-ish about its looks. Its only draw is in, well,

how fucking fast it could go.

Anyway: he gets in his car. She gets in hers. He waits until he sees the Maserati pull up behind him, and then he leads her out onto the streets of Chicago. For what it's worth, Ivan isn't an asshole about it: he stops when lights turn yellow; he slows down when someone cuts between them; at turns, he signals well beforehand.

They head north; a ways out from the city, in fact. About ten minutes out of the city, her phone rings. It's Ivan's number; whether she's saved it or not, the Manhattan area code is telling.

When she picks up: "How does the Northbrook Sheraton sound?"

Luxurious, that hotel, to suit both their tastes. But large and anonymous, too; unremarkable, a chain establishment with so many travelers in and out each day that their arrival and departure would hardly be noticed.

It would be faster to take the freeways, but Ivan's noted Hilary's preference for the scenic route. They're driving up the lakeshore, the waters deep blue to their right.

[Hilary Durante] Boys and their toys, is all she thinks of cars like the Bugatti. Showing off how rich he is and how fast he lives, like the motor on his yacht. His watch, his clothes, his sunglasses, his mistresses, his flings, of which she knows she could very well be considered one now. Which is alright. Hilary drives the Maserati

-- well, like a bitch. And not because she's secretly a racer. She's not even that skilled. God only knows how many wrecks she's gotten into because she calls someone up while she's driving and she goes through yellow lights but she's still following Ivan, just going slower than he is because,

-- well, because she had three fucking martinis with lunch.

So Hilary shouldn't be driving at all and Hilary shouldn't be calling the housekeeper -- hands-free or not -- to tell her to tell Tomas when he gets out of the shower that she'll be late for tennis this afternoon because she's going to go shopping for his father, but he should go to the club anyway and she'll see him there.

Miraculously, Hilary does not throw the Maserati around a lightpole to see which way it curls. She answers her phone and mildly says, "Ivan, you know it's not safe to phone and drive." Though just as likely he's hands-free as well at the moment. Perhaps she just likes scolding him. One way or another it's decided, though. The Northbrook Sheraton:


where the valet takes one luxury Italian-made car and then another, a few minutes apart. Two separate young men in their brightly-colored vests silently saying ohmyfuckinggod as they slide into the driver's seats, still warm from one Russian-made Fang and one... other Fang. Who speaks three languages and wears more than twice that many diamonds at any given point.

Hilary gets a bag from the trunk this time. She was going to the club for tennis, after all. But the racket stays behind.

[Ivan Press] "I'm sure if I were to crash and burn," was his blithe reply, "you'll stop and come to my aid. My heroine."

And so it's decided: Northbrook Sheraton. He gives her the address for her GPS. He tells her he'll go ahead and get them a room, and then -- showing the fuck off, or perhaps simply tired or driving so slowly because Mrs. Durante had one too many at lunch today -- floors the accelerator, snarls around two sedans and a minivan, and is shortly thereafter out of sight.

About five minutes before Hilary arrives, she gets a text. The title is just a number. The body is blank.

The lobby is spacious and quiet. Some people waiting on friends or colleagues; some people having afternoon coffee with friends or colleagues. It's only barely check-in time, and no one bats an eyelash as she crosses directly to the elevators.

When Hilary finds the room, she finds the door ajar -- the security bolt clipped between door and frame. When she pushes it open, Ivan's doffed his coat and stands at the window from which he can see the parking lot, could have seen her walk in. Hands braced, one foot crossed behind the other ankle. There's a tumbler on the sill, two fingers of some amber liquor in it.

When he hears her come in, it's another second or so before he turns. She can't see the beat of hesitation, and then the small, wry smile he gives himself. Then he's facing her, picking up his glass in that same smooth pivot, leaning back against the windowframe as she shuts the door.

Ivan watches Hilary. He watches to see if she'll lock the door; if she'll take off her shoes, put down her things. His keys are with the valet and his wallet is in his pocket. He has no other things here. The room is untouched other than the one tumbler removed from beside the ice bucket; his coat slung over the back of the desk chair. He watches her and then he takes a last sip of -- whatever it is. Cognac. Brandy. Scotch. He sets the glass back on the windowsill and pulls his shirt off.

Knit silk has a different weight and drape than cotton. It slides over his skin, coming off. It drops to the floor with a little more gravity.

"How long 'til you need to be somewhere?" he asks, and starts to undo his belt.

[Hilary Durante] "Oh, indeed," she says drolly, and ignores the address. When they hang up, she tells her GPS to find the Northbrook Sheraton, and it does, and talks to her in a nice, calm voice, telling her where to turn so she doesn't have to think about it. It's quite pleasant. She barely even notices that Ivan takes off like he does. Maybe he's in a hurry. He does seem so eager sometimes, after all.

The text is deleted. Not that anyone else ever really messes with Hilary's, well, anything, but best be safe. The fact that it's just a number and a blank body is suspicious. She's looking at her screen as she walks inside, heels tapping on the gleaming floor, taking her sunglasses off and slipping them into her purse.

She ascends.

And she enters, flicking the security bolt inside again so that the door shuts and locks with a neat click. Standing there in her slacks and blouse and heels and carrying both purse and club bag, she looks at Ivan from behind

and then Ivan. Her eyes are lifting as he straightens; they had been on his body before. She's just standing there, both her hands occupied, head tipped slightly to one side. She watches him begin to undress, and drags her gaze over his chest as it's bared to her, silhouetted against the light coming in through the windows.

"My, you are lovely," she murmurs, casually dropping her bag and sliding her purse off her shoulder to set atop it. She takes a few steps forward to meet him inside the room, loosely looping her arms over his shoulders -- and she's done this before, only this time she's not just wearing lingerie and heels and jerking him off against her stomach, but holding her body back a bit while he undoes his belt. She looks lazy. Satisfied, in a way. Or anticipatory, mingled with her own confidence. "What is it, one, one-thirty?" she muses, her wrists near his neck smelling of some slightly warmer perfurme than last time, some kind of vanilla-floral mixed with her own scent.

"I have a tennis reservation at our club --" which means somewhere up there on the North Shore, whichever country club she's a member of, "-- at three, but I can be late."

And she kisses him, is the first to kiss him this time, moving in a step closer.

[Ivan Press] Ivan's mouth slants faintly; he doesn't return the compliment. It barely felt like a compliment anyway. More a statement of fact. A comment, the same way one might comment: my, it's a warm day. my, that's a loud scarf.

Then she's before him, and her arms are looping over his sleek, bare shoulders. He turns to suck a kiss against her bicep, his hands never leaving his belt. The buckle clinks open. "One-seventeen," he confirms, his eyes skating briefly to the clock radio on the nightstand, then back, and

this is when she kisses him, taking that step closer that presses his knuckles against her stomach. He dips his head to meet her, and up until now he's made such a show of coolness, of casualness, that the ferocity with which he catches her mouth on his -- his inhale sudden and sharp -- is almost shocking.

When it parts his eyes are open, keen and vivid on hers. He follows her: lays another kiss on her mouth, smaller, as though to seal it.

Then he lowers his pants. His boxer briefs are two-toned today, light gray and black.

"If we leave here at half-past-two," he says, and the tone is still cool; the tone is a lie, "we can swing by my watchmaker's. Get you some quotes." Not even a beat of pause here -- "What's your mate like?"

[Hilary Durante] A compliment, a comment, a consideration: my my my, look at you. It doesn't mean it wasn't sincere. She quite openly adores his body with her eyes, though with less untouching detachment than the other day, sitting idly in her chair while he undressed for her. Her eyes remain on him while he flicks his over to the clock, allowing her to see him momentarily in sharp profile. The corner of her mouth curls into a wry half-smile, her arm flexing slightly when he puts his mouth on it.

Right before she puts her mouth on him, and he responds so vividly she makes a small sound of mild surprise -- oh! --and her eyes close for the duration of it. This is no slow, melting, summery thing though. She endures his kiss. And she bites it right back into his hungrily searching mouth, a low chuckle curling in her throat just as it's ending, and he's pulling back.

Something about the second kiss makes her -- with her twinkling eyes -- shiver. Delightedly, perhaps.

"Oh, let's not set a deadline," she purrs, putting her heel on his pants to push and hold them down while he steps out of them, her linen-clad knee soft and small between his legs. "It wouldn't be the first time I've been late for te--"

What's your mate like?

She blinks, more disconcerted by the seeming interruption than by the mention of the man she's married to and should be breeding with. Her head tips to the side. She's still fully dressed, just like she was the first time as he lost article after article of clothing. "Spanish," she says wryly, as though that explains everything.

[Ivan Press] Ivan's head lowers to watch Hilary step his pants down to the floor. It doesn't take much effort. The slacks are relatively loosefitting, the fabric soft and cool. He steps out of them. His shoes were left at the door. His body is as it was: unscarred, smoothskinned, lean and long and sleek and beautiful.

He looks at her knee between his. The light comes from behind him this time. It picks out the gold in his hair; limns the fine hairs on his arms and legs. Casts an iridescence into his skin, healthy and vivid.

His hand falls to the inside of her thigh, caressingly, before he bends to peel his socks off. Then, straightening again, the edge of his mouth moves. There's something vaguely hard about that smile; not much humor, in truth.

"Garou?"

And he hooks his thumbs under the lowslung waist of his underwear and pushes that down, too. This hasn't changed either. He's hardening already from nothing more than undressing for her. Kissing her like that.

[Hilary Durante] Hilary's eyes flicker closed for a moment when he touches her leg. There's a dusting of gold along her eyelids, accented with an orchid color. Like her arm when he kissed it, her leg flexes slightly under his fingertips, against his palm. He bends and she steps backward, taking her arms off of him and removing her jade bracelet. And one ring. After another. This time she takes them off, stepping over to the dresser to lay them with soft little metallic notions against the top.

"Yes, Garou," she says patiently, with an undercurrent of laughter as though she means of course, as though she means obviously, oie ridicule. A woman like her, bred of Silver Fangs, so lovely and so pure, given to a mere kinsman? Perish.

She looks over her shoulder at him as the last of his clothing comes off, her gaze coming to his cock again and lingering there for a moment while she reaches up and takes the sticks from her hair, letting it fall and tumble in loose waves that are a little messier and more wild than the ones he saw her wearing the first time he met her, or the day he saw her on the boardwalk at the yacht club. A little like --

well. Not quite like she looked after he'd thrown her on the bed a couple of times. Flipped her over. Fucked her. Mussed her up, gotten her messy, turned her filthy.

She looks so far from that right now -- even now, preparing to have sex again with a man not her mate or husband or anything, while her stepson waits for her to play tennis -- that it's hard to imagine the way she was then, the way she was right after. It's hard to remember that it was even real.

Hilary scuffs her hand under her hair, loosening it and shaking it out as she watches him. "You like talking about my husband that much?" she quips, her wrists and fingers bare now, her hair down, her earrings glinting gold whenever the sun hits them. "Or are you thinking about the last time you stuck that thing in my pussy?" That thing. Disdainful words, spoken with something almost like fondness.

Like lust.

[Ivan Press] "I'm wondering why you're not faithful to him."

That was blunt. And perhaps she should be insulted. Then again, she should have been insulted the first time he came on to her. The first time he made it unapologetically clear that he would like

very much

to stick that thing in her pussy. And fuck her. And pound her until they were both screaming and sweating and mad with it, mad with lust, mad with pleasure.

When he finally did fuck her, it wasn't how he thought it would be. Not that he imagined champagne and roses, but -- still. Different. Frightening. World-bending. And now here he is again. Couldn't even wait the week he gave himself. No patience.

She's taking off her rings this time. He's naked already, standing in the middle of the floor, watching her with his cock hardening as he thinks about fucking her; thinks about her hands moving soft over his body, hard in his hair. And his mouth moves a little; a hint of a smile.

"I'm not passing moral judgment. I don't have the right. Wouldn't even if I did. But I am ... curious."

[Hilary Durante] Her brow flicks at the word faithful. Amusement, perhaps. Maybe even insult, cleverly or easily disguised as amusement for the sake of politeness and sociability. That's why Ivan wanted to know what her mate -- her husband -- is like.

Is he bad in bed? Is he cruel? Are you bored? Does he know and not care? Do you hate him? Is he wonderful and kind and you're just a neurotic whore? What is he like? Why aren't you truly his mate, body and soul and heart?

Or something like that. Hilary doesn't analyze the questions that might underly him questioning her on Espiridion. She doesn't explore Ivan's motives. When he explains himself -- he's not passing judgement, he doesn't have the right, he's curious -- she just looks vaguely bored, sighing as she leans back against the dresser and watches him.

This lovely young man. With those sleek, lean muscles and that smooth, shockingly soft skin and that talented, dirty mouth. Who could not wait a week to fuck her again, who couldn't wait three days to fuck her again.

Hilary doesn't say anything, though. She doesn't voice her annoyance, if it's not just that brief flicker he almost saw just now. She uses the dresser as a handhold and steps out of her heels, which are taupe, and then removes her slacks. Easy work. A couple of buttons, a hidden zipper, a soft rush of fabric to the floor, with nothing in her pockets. She is wearing rather plain panties today, compared to the ones she had on when she knew she was going to see him.

And fuck him.

They're low-slung on her hips, slimly cut, pale rose. "I don't," she says quietly, and tugs her silk blouse up over her head and off, taking it with her as she crosses the room to lay both across the back of the armchair, "want to talk about our real lives and our deep dark feelings and complex motivations, Ivan." Not Mr. Press or her little falcon or dove or anything like that. The name she moaned over and over and over while he was fucking her, when he was making her come.

Her bra is white, and there's a little rosette between her breasts, then it's not between her breasts because she's unclasping her bra, her back to him, shoulderblades tugging together and then smoothing away from each other again. She bends, enough to set it on the cushion, and enough to place herself

oh so casually

on display for him, her hands on the seat of the armchair for a moment.

Hilary straightens back up again, turning to look at him. Eyes first, over her shoulder. Then her upper body, and the sides of her breasts, and her torso, and her hips, and all of her, facing him again. "I don't know about you, but it's not one of my turn-ons."

[Ivan Press] Ivan watches, of course. His head tips at the mild, faintly feral angle it so often takes when he sees something he wants.

Which is an interesting word. Perhaps a little deeper than desire, while simultaneously carrying less emotional impact. People want things. Objects, toys, vehicles, houses. People desire other individuals.

They don't really connect as individuals, though, Ivan and Hilary. She talks about him in body parts and physicalities. Beautiful body. That thing. Big, nasty cock. He asks her questions about her husband, her mate, and it's not so much a sudden spat of guilt as it is -- well.

Something like a test, maybe. He wants to see if he sees anything in her but boredom.

And he doesn't.


So he crosses the room to her while she's putting herself on display for him. When she straightens again, he's behind her, warm and naked, his fingertips touching her lower back and following her around as she turns, faces him. His eyes are on his fingers, her skin; the faint indent where his fingers press into her. When she's facing him again, they rise. Opaque green and amber: he looks into her eyes for a moment; watches to see how her eyes change, if they do at all, as his hand follows her body up to her breast.

His thumb rubs over her nipple. Moves over her, around and around, until her nipple hardens and pulls in on itself. Then, still watching her, he bends to her

and so slow, so lingeringly, licks his tongue over her.

"I don't get you," he says. "Every other married woman I've fucked has a reason. Their husband is abusive. Their husband is boring in bed. Their husband is old fat and ugly. Their husband is never home, or their husband banged some 18 year old cocktail waitress. Their husband won't fuck them the way I would."

A pause.

"Is that it?"

[Hilary Durante] Looking closely at her as she answers his question -- as she strips her clothes off and turns to face him, the sun behind her and her nipples that same pale, alert pink -- Ivan sees a momentary dimming of her lust. This conversation isn't turning her on. It isn't merely boring her in general. That boredom is, in turn, lowering her interest in this entire tryst, making it

so mundane. So dull, so regular, so let's share, let's talk, let's get to know each other when she's looking at his naked body and remembring what he did to her with it last time, how good it was.


And for Hilary it was so very, very good. The way she screamed, the way she got so wet even before he pinned her down and fucked her the way he did, the way she came because of it all. But after that, too. That moment when she curled between his chest and the mattress, her face turned to the side and her eyes closed, warm for a moment and almost tender. The moment after that, when she had rolled with him to their backs and touched his face, whispering to him that it was lovely,

which, for once, sounded like it meant something real.

She was starting to become this cool, beautiful, distant woman all over again in the shower where he was rubbing her back and shoulders where he'd pinned her to the bed and she had this... soft little smile on her face while he did, looking over at him sort of sidelong before her eyes closed and she let herself relax into the touch.


Hilary doesn't want to talk about Dion, about why she cheats on him, and she says as much. It's a turnoff. Deep dark emotions. Motives. Understanding each other. It bores her, and he can tell, but he keeps talking about it. But he's over in front of her now, touching her, and she steps closer as he does. She watches him as he runs his palm up her slender torso to cup her breast. Her breathing is getting a little faster, as he strokes her nipple like that. Her painted lips separate.

The fact that he still watches her as he lowers his mouth and licks her makes the corner of her mouth tug out, tight and wicked in her amusement. Ooh, she mouths with pursed lips and furrowed eyebrows, trailing her fingers across his scalp. But he stops.

To talk about not understanding her. Again.

Hilary tips her head to the side, letting her fingertips drag down the side of his head, bending his ear as they pass then letting it spring back. "Do you want me to have a reason other than wanting you?" she asks, musingly. "Or do you want me to tell you how my husband fucks me?"

[Ivan Press] "No."

And that's musing, too. Not offended, or defensive, or -- anything but quiet; thoughtful. He's golden in the sunlight. They like to fuck during the day. Perhaps that's just the fact that it's much harder for her to explain staying out late, and not with those gossiping friends of hers. Perhaps it's that they like it like this: sunlight through the windows. Everything in sharp detail. Visible. Arousal may begin in the brain, but covetousness begins in the eye.

"No, I don't really care about how he fucks you. I don't really care about him."

He straightens again. Shadows shift velvet over him: between the sleek spread of his pectorals; down the center of his abdomen. At the sides, where his obliques meet his hipbones, and lower where his torso joins his thigh. He uses both his hands now, pushing her panties down.

Following them down, going to his knees, drawing them off her ankles. Then he looks up at her body. He begins to touch her: not her cunt or her clit or even her breasts, but just: her. Her thighs. Her knees. Her stomach and her wrists, watching how her flesh gives gently under the pads of his fingers; how her slender tone resists pressure, how it springs back.

Her breasts, small and shapely as they are, are softer. They have a different weight in his hands when he finally cups them in his palms.

"I'm curious about you," he says. Or confesses. And that's what his hands on her body say, too: I'm curious about you. I'm exploring you. "I'm curious because I can't read you. Or figure you out. Or figure out if there's even anything there to figure out. You seem so ... empty."

Perhaps that's unkind. But then perhaps Ivan doesn't think Hilary is the type to require kindness and coddling, those sweet little lies that every other woman in his vast experience requires at one time or another. His hands turn her around. He runs his palms up her back, relishingly, and then he pushes her down. Bends her over the armchair.

"Except right after we fucked. You were different then."

He spreads her cunt open and puts his mouth to her.

[Hilary Durante] The way he thinks of this and the way she thinks of this are so far apart sometimes it would be like clashing cymbals together if they spoke of it. He likes to fuck her in the daylight. Likes seeing her, likes the sharp lines and hard shadows and being able to see every inch of that sleek body of hers gleaming in the sunshine, gleaming with sweat. Likes the way it makes her hair shine.

Hilary hadn't really thought about how they like to fuck, because she hasn't really thought in terms of they. Of we. Of us. She's fucked Ivan once, in a hotel room not entirely unlike this one. And she assumes he's been fucking other women, too, even in the two days or so since she had him. She assumes that even if he hasn't, he will. She thinks:

I want you. I want you to fuck me. which is what she's said to him, and it's as plain and as simple and finite as that. He looks at her and sees it going no deeper than these words she says so forthrightly, so honestly.

There should be more to a person than there seems to be to her.

Hilary doesn't hold onto him while stepping out of her underwear. She does spread her legs somewhat while he touches her after he gets the panties off, though. There are no bruises on her, not even the marks on her wrists anymore, the bruise his hand left on her shoulder from last time. If she were purely human she would be marked. Her skin would show him, remind him, what happened last time he got naked with her and almost, almost let himself go. She runs her fingers through her hair while he runs his hands over her.

She looks out the window. Ivan touches her breasts and presses against her thigh to watch the way the muscle reacts and he strokes her wrists and she hears him speak but she's looking out the window.

You seem so ... empty.

Her head tips to the side. Ivan can smell her. He can tell that she likes it when he turns her around like this, slides his palms up her spine and exerts just enough pressure to tell her to bend over. One of her hands indents the cushion, one of them presses against the back. So relaxed, so far. So mild. She hasn't told him no yet, she hasn't resisted him yet, she hasn't tried to push him to the breaking point

yet.

Hilary just gasps when he starts to lick her, jerking slightly at the first touch of his tongue but then settling back to his face, letting him hear one of those low, soft noises that is more murmur than moan. She winds her hips slightly, and she doesn't answer him. He didn't really ask a question.

[Ivan Press] And he doesn't say anything else either, after that. Not for a while, anyway, and not about --

well. Whatever it is they were talking about. He was talking about. She wasn't really talking, or conversing. She didn't seem to understand what it was he was asking or looking for or wanting, and truth be told, neither did he.

This is simpler, though. And unmistakable. He makes a low sound, low and wanting, as he pushes his mouth against her. She's perhaps not so wet this time. He hasn't kept her waiting as long yet. He's been talking about things that are of no interest to her; that bore her and turn her off, as far as he could tell

which, ultimately, wasn't very far at all.

Still. That's no longer on his mind. His hands are on her ass, spreading her open for him. He's licking at her like a fucking connoisseur, taking his time, savoring; his tongue tracing from her clit all the way up her slit; pausing and returning the other way. He laps up her slick as it flows from her, dipping his tongue into her, fastening his lips around her clit and sucking.

There's something paradoxically selfish about the way he fucks her with his mouth. It's not precisely physical pleasure he gets from this, but he's getting something from it. Some charge, some erotic energy, perhaps, or -- simply the taste of her and the scent of her all over him, inundating his senses. The sensation of wanting

and taking

and having what could never be his.

[Hilary Durante] The question she'd asked him was genuine: is that what he wanted? Did he want to hear her tell him about this at least currently absent husband and how he is in bed while being the one to fuck her himself? Did he want to revel in and relish the wrongness of it, the badness, pleasuring himself in her while knowing that she's an unfaithful wife, an utter criminal to ideals of loyalty.

It wouldn't surprise her if he had wanted that. It doesn't surprise her that he doesn't. Her lack of investment, noted the first time -- so far the only time -- he's ever fucked her, seems to be an all-purpose buffer against such bothersome feelings as surprise, embarrassment, or concern. Empty, he called her, and rather than recoiling in revulsion,

he turned her over and started doing this. Started enjoying this. Which is interesting in its own right, that he takes as much selfish pleasure in this as she took in running her hand up and down his cock, making him groan and feeling the hot, silky hardness of his erection grow slick when her palm caressed the head, caught precum, smoothed it over him. She enjoyed that.

And she enjoys this, too, though he did, precisely, all but bore her away from the idea of sex with him this afternoon. Though he called her empty. Though he said that after he fucked her that it was different.

Hilary gasps when he sucks on her, twisting as best she can to look back at him, watch him lap at her like a thirsty animal, pantingly eager for it. "Do you want to fuck me on the chair?" she asks, her thighs quivering with the effort to keep her legs spread. Obediently.

[Ivan Press] His eyes are on hers when she twists to look at him over her shoulder. Over her shoulder and down the long lean line of her back. Past her ass, to where his hands grip; to where his shoulders spread behind her, and to where his face is, plainly put, buried against her cunt.

There's a spark of something rather like amusement, wicked without quite being sinister, as she asks where he wants to fuck her. He laughs against her cunt, and then his eyes close on a ferocious suck against her clit, and then he draws back and smooths his hand over her ass

and then smacks it once, lightly.

"Would you let me if I said yes? Or would you put up a goddamn pretense of resistance just so I'd have to pin you down and pound you again?"

[Hilary Durante] Especially in the sunlight, his hair is so much like burnished gold, tarnished brass. That brow of his is heavy, his changeably-colored eyes half-hidden by shadow even when he tips his face up to smirk, to charm, to put himself on display. His mouth is curvy and delectable and oh,

his body. His long, soft fingers and his lean, tight abdominals and the subtle sloping curve of them up to his pectorals, the winglike spread to his shoulders, the tautness of his biceps which she might have held onto, had he put her under him but facing him to fuck her. If he wasn't, of course, holding her hands down against the mattress. If he wasn't, of course, moving too fast, fucking her too hard, for her to get a grip on anything.

Hilary likes looking at Ivan enough that she requested him to undress for her. Politely. Demurely. Even submissively, including in her speech that little if you don't mind. This time she didn't have to ask. Ivan stripped his clothes off as soon as she came in the door and locked it behind her. He was hardening for her already and that, first of everything, sent a thrill of lust up through her, thinking about that thing inside her again.

Thinking of the way he fucked her last time.

A small cry leaves her when he gives that last hard suck on her pussy, but when he slaps her ass once, not too hard at all, she just gives a little gasp, trailing to a quiet oh, just like that, neither quite startlement nor shock but definitely not pain, either.

Would you let me

and she's arching her back slightly, which is a hard groan of yes that doesn't make a sound.

pin you down
pound you
again

and she's biting her lip, breathing more heavily, slick coating the folds of her lips, the cunt he was just licking at, sucking on, mauling with his mouth.

"Yes," she whispers, though it's not clear to which question until she adds: "Yes, Ivan, fuck me like that. Pound me."

And maybe even then it isn't clear.

[Ivan Press] Ivan considers her for a moment. He considers this for a moment. His eyes are shadowed now, holding his cards close to his chest; it's hard to say what he thinks of fucking her like that. Of how wet she gets at the very thought of him fucking her

like that.

She can see his chest moving with each breath. The way the shadows change, and the way the sunlight hits him at an oblique angle; glances off his skin; penetrates and scatters to give him a sort of radiance, a sort of faint sheen. Her skin is too light for that. She keeps it so. He remembers her on the flybridge of her hundred-and-two-footer, standing in the shade, wearing a robe, eyes hidden behind sunglasses and face shielded with her wide-brimmed hat as though she were genuinely concerned about modesty; as though she didn't want to parade herself in a tiny little bikini; as though she didn't know every last one of those boys splashing around down below

and the young man on the seventy-footer that pulled up alongside

wasn't thinking about peeling that robe off of her and laying her out under the sun.

Well. He has her here now. And she has tennis at three and before that he'll make sure they at least swing by Friedrich's, will at least make sure Friedrich sees her and knows she's there to buy a gift for her husband and this young friend of hers, this distant cousin, they might tell him, very thoughtfully recommended this shop. Which leaves them --

plenty of time. Not the first time she's been late to tennis. No need to set a deadline, dove.


Fuck me like that, she says. And he, after that pause, that silent and guarded consideration, shakes his head no. "Not yet," he says,

and puts his mouth back on her.

[Hilary Durante] Though he's tried more than once to see deeper into this woman, to tell if there's anything below the surface at all, Hilary's shown no such impetus to understand him. She hasn't asked him why he's going after a married and mated woman, why he gets so fucking hard when he sees her, when he knows they're going to fuck, why he couldn't wait til Saturday when he was the one who decided to put a week in between trysts, why he wants her so badly that he didn't pull on his pants and get the hell out of the hotel room if he meant it when he said what he felt frightened him.

The fact that this werewolf, though one of low rage and quick wit, admitted he wanted to hurt her doesn't seem to have registered in her mind. Stretcher, he said. Body bag. Bend her. Bruise her. Break her. Wanted to fuck her like that so badly that it scared him, that it felt dark and mad to him, rushing through his mind til he quite literally could not contain it and pulled out of her, moved away from her, told her to go find someone who could fuck her the way she wanted.

Hilary, of course, would have been fine letting him eat her pussy all afternoon if that was what he liked. She would have laid on her back and held onto his back and spread her legs and let him kiss her while he moved in her. She would have gotten atop him in that expansive bed and bounced on his lap like riding a goddamn pony, crying out with every slick slide of his cock into her. She would have had sex with him like a normal unfaithful wife, and she would have enjoyed it.

But oh, look at what it does to her when he talks of holding her down and pounding her. Look at her cunt. Look at how wet she is for him at the mere mention of it.

Ivan knows how Hilary really likes it. He doesn't know if she's fucking him because she saw something in him he didn't know was there, if she played at resistance that first time to see if there was something like that there, or if that's just how she is. It matters less and less what he doesn't know, the longer they're here.

She cries out in protest, plaintive, a sound he's heard before when he's held back from her. "Ivan... just rub it on me," she gasps, even as he's making her cunt tremble against his tongue, even as he's making her buck slightly, holding onto the back of the chair now. "Tease me with it. Let me feel it."

Begging. In a way.

[Ivan Press] -- which makes him laugh, low and dark and muffled against her cunt. His eyes close again and he holds her by the hips and he eats at her heavily, ungently, using his mouth on her as though he very much wants to eat her up. Literally.

And he goes at her for a long time. He eats her pussy and he holds her against his face and whether or not she orgasms doesn't seem to make a difference here. He'll fuck her with his mouth one way or another. If she comes, he doesn't stop. If she comes and comes down and writhes and claws --

he doesn't stop then, either.


It's minutes on end before he's had enough. Minutes on end before he's satisfied whatever want it is he was satisfying and draws back, sitting back on his heels, sliding his fingers between her lips and into her. He watches her cunt take his fingers in, one and then two, and as he does his lips part. He exhales a sigh, a quiet little groan that furrows his brow and quirks one corner of his mouth.

"Look at that hot little cunt," he says, softly, half-distractedly, as though she could see herself. His eyes flash up to hers. He leans in and he licks at her again; licks his own fingers as he draws them out, rubs them up and down her cunt and over her clit. "Look at how wet you are. Do you feel that?

"Mrs. Durante," and this is quieter still. Musing. "So fucking cool. So fucking cold. And then you think about getting laid out and held down and hammered, and..."

His thumbs spread her open again. He licks her once, hard, draggingly, groaning muffled against her cunt.

"...just look at you now."

Ivan stands, then. He stands up behind her and he steps into her and he wedges his cock against her, fucks along the cleft of her ass, the slickness of her pussy, with long firm strokes of his hips. The sensation seems to hypnotize him for a while. His eyes are fast on the seam between their bodies; the slick that gets all over his cock. He fucks her just like that for a while, which is to say, without fucking her at all,

and then just like that he steps back.

"Turn around and suck this cock clean," he says. "Clean me up so I can rail that tight little pussy."

[Hilary Durante] Like she's a feast, like she's a plaything, Ivan eats at Hilary -- who he stripped for once, feeling her eyes on him, feeling like he was the plaything for once -- until he reaches some point of satiation for himself. And she does come during it all. Drenchingly, gripping the back of the armchair and tipping her head back as her legs spread wider and his tongue fucks her into orgasm. Mrs. Durante is noticably, notably flexible, bending her body while standing into this delightful arch so that she can present herself better to him.

So beautiful, he called her, as he rose up over her body and told her she made him

so hard, like he is now, though this time he isn't stroking himself while he touches her. While he licks her. While she comes on his mouth, mouth open with gasping but otherwise nearly silent cries. Her hips jerk and buck in a sort of hypnotic rhythm, and he's still going, sucking her cum off her clit as it runs out of her, grabbing her by the hips when she tries to squirm away and keeping her there so he can keep licking her when she's

so sweet.

Ivan's mouth is on her when she starts to come down, though she never quite comes down all the way from that. He keeps pleasuring her, and there's no pause between his mouth leaving her and his fingers entering her. She shudders, her pussy clenching down on one finger, then two. No, she can't see her own cunt as he murmurs about it. To it. She can't see his eyes because she's leaning her cheek against the back of the chair, panting for breath.

There's a thin sheen of sweat on her lower back. The backs her thighs, the curve of her ass, her shoulderblades, her breasts. Everywhere. Looking at her stretched out and bent over he can see her chest moving every time she takes a deep but quick inhale. The things he's called her tonight. Empty. Cool. Cold. She doesn't flinch from a single word. She doesn't argue or deny. She doesn't seem to register them, but right now

that can be excused.

"Oh god," she groans, the blasphemy higher than the vowel in pitch, her fingernails digging into the upholstery. He's taking his fingers out of her. He's licking them as he goes, licking her as her pussy gets that much wetter, as though in its own separate pleading, as though to try and show him she's ready, as though to say

that word she's only used in conjunction with moans of more and yes and Ivan!

But Hilary herself doesn't say it. She shivers as he strokes her cunt, rubbing her own slick back onto her. She lets out a short cry when he licks her again, his tongue covered in her wet now, her pussy quivering when he opens her up and licks her like that. When he groans into her, like tasting her satisfies some deep and abiding need in himself that has no other alleviation. She makes noises like she's overcome with her own wanting, even after coming once for him, but he knows, from last time, that it takes more than that to satisfy her needs.

Her real needs.

When he stands she breathes in raggedly, opening her legs wider, expecting his cock. Hoping for it. Readying herself for it, for him to give it to her and not tease her but fuck her the way she wants him to, stick that cock in her and pound her like he all but promised when he said Not yet. And Ivan does give her his cock. He gives it to her enough to make her scream a little as the head slips past her slit and doesn't push inside. Enough to make her grip the chair and moan, working herself back against him to try and get him to fuck her.

It's wanton. It's obvious. It's such a far cry from the cool, cold, empty woman he keeps calling her out to be that it's surreal. She's just gasping now, slick glistening on her ass, on her upper thighs, everywhere his body and his cock and his fingers have been smearing it. "Oh my god, Ivan, Ivan, oh god, p--"

whatever that was ends in a harder, more edged cry of something like rage and need as he steps back away from her. Her cunt is clenching on nothing, wanting, when he tells her to suck his cock. Get it cleaned up for him. Do this, and I'll fuck you. Do this, and I'll put this hard, nasty thing inside you like you want me to. Do this, and I'll do to you what I did last time. I'll fuck you the way you beg me to.

Small wonder, then, that Hilary's answer is not cool, cold, distant, empty, collected, toying. Shaking with lust, she turns around, puts herself on her knees so quickly they thump on the carpet, and

to be blunt, and crude, and rough,

all but swallows his cock.

[Hilary Durante] [his mouth, her own open with... that should read]

[Ivan Press] She didn't suck his cock last time. She asked him to undress for her, and then she kissed him softly, chastely, while he grew harder and harder and more and more uncertain.

He didn't know what to expect when he came to fuck her. That's part of the fun every time, but this time, that time, it was like a gulf opened under him and pulled him down. Down and down and deeper and darker and suddenly there was an entire side of him he wasn't aware ever existed. There was a side to him that wanted to use her. Call her horrible names and say horrible things. Wanted to make her not merely a plaything but a toy, an object, a passive sweet little vessel for his lust. He wanted to put her beneath him and mount her and hammer her, fuck her until he took his pleasure from her whether or not she gave it; fuck her until he came in her and was satisfied and

fuck what it did to her.

He had to stop because it frightened him. Because he felt himself slipping past some point of no return into something black and dangerous.

And then -- he had to start again, a little more careful but not much, because it drew him.


He wasn't even sure he wanted to see her again until he said it. He didn't think he could stand to see her again within the week until he saw her today,

so fucking cool and pristine again, with her lovely face and her pleasant smile and her barbed little tongue, snarking it up in that genteel way of hers until he knew he wanted her just like this: on her knees, his cock in her mouth shutting her the fuck up.


Ivan pushes one hand over his face, over his short hair. Clasps that hand on the back of his neck and gasps, thrusting against her mouth now, putting his hand on her head and pushing her back until her mouth slides off his cock. Now he's slick and wet not only from her cunt but from her mouth as well, and he slides his cock over her face with slow rocks of his hips, telling her to

"Kiss it. Yeah, that's it. Lick it. Use your tongue, baby,"

before dropping his hand to the base of his cock and shoving it back in her mouth.


He lets her suck him for a while. Lets her suck him until he's sweating, until he's all but staggering on his feet; until he's hard and seeping precum across her tongue; until lust is making the muscles at the base of his spine tense to aching, and until his cock feels full and his balls tight from want, from wanting her, from wanting to come in her mouth and fuck it down her throat.

Ivan steps back. It's abrupt. He pulls his cock out of her mouth quick and final, and he grabs her by the arm and hauls her to her feet. He doesn't kiss her mouth, but he kisses everything else: a wild run of his mouth over her neck, mauling her breasts, all the way down to her navel before he straightens again

and all but flings her over the edge of the bed.

He's on her an instant later. Pouncing like a panther. His hands are on her shoulders, pushing her down, and he doesn't tease her this time; doesn't slide his cock over her cunt again and again to make himself wet with her. He kicks her feet apart and she can hear him panting as he fits himself against her; groaning low in his throat, snarling, as he fills her in one hard stroke

and starts fucking her wildly, mercilessly, pounding her from the very start while his hands press on her back, grab at her sides, pin her by the shoulder and grip her by the hips.

He doesn't look like the sort of man that could, or would want to, do this. Look at him: young and smooth-bodied, smooth-jawed, pretty-faced, with his dark green-hazel eyes and his roguish charm. Look at him, with his straight limbs and lean musculature, his silver fang nose and his sweet grins.

Look at him fucking her like a savage, like two, three days was already too fucking long to wait for this.

[Hilary Durante] Some part of her has to know -- as some part of him knows -- how wrong this is. How wrong it should feel. How it shouldn't make him so hot, how it shouldn't make her come so hard. Some part of him has to wonder if she realizes how serious he was when he said he wanted to hurt her, if she realizes how much truth there is in these experimental steps he's taking with her past the line between what he knows and

whatever the fuck this is.

They both have to know that they shouldn't want this. Maybe if it were playful-rough, it would be okay. If he were paying attention to how deep he thrusts into her, if he cared about not gagging her on his cock when he does. Maybe if she were reaching out to him somehow, connecting with him in all of this

at least, before the gasping end, when he can barely move and she can barely breathe.

Perhaps that's why they let themselves. Why he holds her head so his cock stays deep in her mouth, then pushes her back and pulls his hips away, thrusts so it rubs over her mouth and her cheeks and she's

taking it like that, her eyes closed and her mouth open, trying to lick him. Trying to get him inside of her again, groaning for it even as he's saying such filthy things to her, calling her baby though it's not an endearment. And this time she's obedient. None of that No shit, none of that coy resistance. She wants him. She wants him so badly to fuck her the way he did before that she'll do anything, and

he knows it.

Hilary has her hands on his thighs, on his hips, panting. Her eyes open, looking up at him as he grabs his cock and fills her mouth with it again. She groans as soon as her lips close around him, her eyes closing again. The next thing he knows this lovely older woman with the genteel tongue is sucking on him with such enthusiasm, such eagerness, that it starts to seem like she's been hungry for it since he sat down in that chair at her table. It starts to seem like she must have wanted to, even then, lean over and take his cock out and bury it in her mouth. And the truth is:

she did.

A gasp for air, not a gasp of surprise or lust, when he pulls away from her. Hilary staggers but doesn't lose her balance. She wouldn't. Especially when a half-second later he's grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up, biting kisses and searing licks all over her flesh. Hilary barely has a chance to react before she's thrown her face-down onto the bed, bent her over just like the first time he shoved his cock in her. Just before he leaps onto her body, Ivan can see Hilary -- her face turned, her eyes closed as they so often are, her hair tossed over her cheek and her mouth open just to breathe -- grabbing a hold of the bedspread, clutching and wrinkling it in her soft, smooth hands.

She likes rough sex. She likes him when he's saying such dirty, awful things to her. She likes the way he holds her down and she likes the way he fucks her like this, immediately hard and hammering, grabbing her hips to slam her back against his cock again and again. She likes him eating her cunt the way he does, like he doesn't even care if she comes. She likes it all. She's going to come again, and god he knows she's going to because he can already feel it in her, feel her pussy clinging to his cock needfully, achingly.

But it isn't quite the same as what rises in him when she brings this out. It isn't quite that dark. For her there's at least some measure of playfulness to it. Maybe she'd get off even if he didn't fuck her rough and hard and angry like this, maybe she'd still come three times on his cock while screaming his name and writhing under his restraining hands. Maybe. He doesn't know. It's starting to look unlikely that he'll ever slide gently between her thighs and have slow, sweet sex with this woman

who drives him to this.

But the truth is: she needs whatever this gives her. Whatever it is about it that leads to the way she was different afterward last time. She needs it, and she doesn't know why she needs it, and so she refuses to think about it. Moreover, she refuses to deny herself.

Her hands are still free. She clutches at the bedspread for what seems like dear life as she opens her body and gets fucked like a plaything. She's even gasping to him: yes

yes, fuck... that's it. give it to me. make me your little fucktoy. come in me, baby, fuck me

which he does, wildly, growling as he holds her to the bed and feels that hot, wet pussy bearing down on him tighter and harder on the precipice of her orgasm. Again. He can't stop it, couldn't even if he wanted to: it rises in a wave, sudden and steep and twice what he felt when he was licking her. Ivan feels it on his cock, smearing over his balls, when she comes, when his cock fucks her cum out of her. And all he can hear is this long, loud groan from the woman underneath him. The plaything. The object. The toy.

And this shouldn't be making her come like this.

And he shouldn't enjoy it.

[Ivan Press] [ack! i got booted! but i'm here! i can see your post :] ]
to Hilary Durante

[Ivan Press] I'm not like this, some part of him wants to protest. I don't do this. I never did. I don't like this. I never did. I'm not like this,

but it gets a little harder to make that claim with every brutal throw of his hips against her. Every thrust of his cock into her hot, tight, wet little cunt, making her grab for the bedspread, making her cry out for him. Or more to the point: for what he's doing to her. And giving her. That she needs.

So he fucks her, his hand heavy and hard on her; hammers her pinned between his body and the edge of the bed, slams into her over and over where, quite frankly, she can't even move away if she wanted to. There's a danger in that, too. And a dark, deep thrill in it that fuels his lust and his hunger and -- let's admit it --

his brutality.


She comes on his cock. She comes the way she did last time, the way he knew she would this time: like she can't help it. Like she can't hold it back at all. She comes pinned beneath him, groaning and gasping and telling him to fuck her just like this, like she's his little fucktoy, like it's not wrong and twisted and fucked up, what they're doing here. Or more to the point: what they're getting out of it. What they want out of it.

She comes, writhing, and there in the middle of it all, there when she's completely fucking lost in her own release and he's fucking her like a thing, like a toy, like a depersonalized warm wet hole that he can use as he likes --

right there, right then, he bends down to her. He pushes his hand into her hair and he turns her face to the side. He seeks her mouth with his, eyes closed, lips open, and it's just as rough and just as reckless, but:

he kisses her.

Hard, hungry, searching, while she's screaming into his mouth. He kisses her while he hammers into her and all but nails her to the edge of the bed, planted on his hard cock, while her cunt spasms and shudders and clenches all around him, her cum slipping out around his cock as he pushes deeper; groans into her mouth at the feel of it.


A second or two of pause, then, is all he gives her. Then he's pulling out of her again. He's flipping her on her back, and he likes how she's so fucking pliant like this, how she's quivering with mingled lust and release, how her thighs are trembling when he hooks her knees over his forearms and drags her to the side of the bed.

He likes how she reacts when he slams into her again. He's watching her now, his lower lip caught between his teeth, that surprisingly heavy brow furrowed with concentration or exertion; sweat on his temples, sweat at the hollow of his throat, sweat down his chest. He's watching her while he fucks her, not her shaking thighs or her writhing torso or her pert, bouncing little tits but her face,

and all the expressions that may scatter across it,

while he stands at the edge of the bed and jackhammers her with his cock.

[Hilary Durante] A part of him wants to convince her no, no, no and a part of him wants to yank her head back by the hair and bite her hard enough to hurt, fuck her hard enough to hurt, and somewhere in the middle is this. The way it actually is. Where he exercises some modicum of restraint over his darkest impulses and Hilary loses all sense of herself. For a little while, at least.

She gasps when he kisses her. Instead of biting her. Instead of wrenching her body into some new and unpleasant shape. Instead of pulling out of her again, running from himself again, he bends over her as she's coming and kisses her. There's no lack of his brutality here. There's no gentleness. And he can't even be called free of cruelty because the part of him that is getting off on this is getting off on using her and the prospect of hurting her just as much as -- if not more than -- the sensation of fucking her.

The way she feels when she comes on him. The heat of her mouth when it was on his cock. The softness of her breasts in his hands. The arch of her back when he enters her. All of that.

And all of this: the way she sounds when she screams for him, the filthy shit she says to him, the way she begs for him to use her just the way he wants to. The way she squirms and bucks but can't quite move because he's driving himself into her so very deep and so very hard it has to be making her sore, if she can feel anything but pleasure at the moment.

Later, maybe. When she showers away the sweat and the scent of him. When she comes down from whatever heights he's taking her to right now. Heights that are, in truth,

actually quite rare.

There is something about her that sets her apart from mortal women, even to mortal men. Wealth, beauty, privilege, a wedding ring -- all of that, yes, but there is something else that they can't name. They don't fear her, they don't lust for her because of her breeding. But they notice her. Their hearts beat a little faster even if she's not their type, if they like women with large breasts or pouty lips or a curvier ass or if they're addicted to blondes, there's just something about her that makes them careful with her and drawn to her in equal measure.

The men who will do this to her are, in actuality, quite few and hard to find, even more difficult to keep around without them becoming possessive, wanting her to leave her husband, not understanding why she can't just get a goddamn divorce like everyone else in this country and leave his ass so she can come be their little fucktoy all the time. Be theirs.

The men who will do this to her who are beautiful in their youth and strong in it too are so few and far between that they're comparable to the gems she drapes over herself every day. Moreso. You can't just go to Tiffany's and buy them. They're even harder to get rid of than the grown ones.

He wants to know why she's here. If her husband won't fuck her like he does. She won't answer him. It is enough that he fucks her like this, and that she wanted him even before she knew he would.


"Nnno--!" she's protesting, ragged and wild and furious, when he starts to pull out of her, even with her cunt still spasming and holding onto him. He flips her over and her eyes fly open, black with lust and hunger and frustrated need for more, then snap shut again as he slams into her once more, as she arches, as she grabs at his hands where he holds her, wherever he holds her. She gasps his name, almost a whisper this time, just

"Ivan..."

[Ivan Press] "Open your eyes," he says the instant they close.

And he's letting her knees slide from over his arms; letting them fall to wrap around his hips or his waist or his ribs. His hands are coming down on the mattress on either side of her and he climbs onto the bed, climbs up over her and plows her up along the mattress until her hair spills over the opposite edge.

He's atop her now, weight on hands and knees. Braced over her as he starts pounding her again. Just as hard. Just as relentlessly. A different angle - harder on himself. Strain makes the veins running the crests of his biceps bulge. It makes sweat break anew over his chest, running in streaks down the side of his face, and as many women as he's fucked, as many and myriad his affairs and conquests and whatever the fucks,

they were not like this. They never made him want this, nor simply want so very badly.

"Look at me," he says, and it's quiet but god, there's an undertone of dominance there. And demand. And want. "Look at me, Hilary. I want you to know who fucks you like this."

As if he could have any doubt with the way his name spills from her lips. As if there could be any doubt at all; but he wants her eyes on his anyway. He wants

that connection.

[Hilary Durante] This time, she's been so obedience. She's let him bend her over and she's spread her legs without him even suggesting it. She's begged him to fuck her, begged him to pin her down and pound her, begged him to stop teasing her and give it to her just the way he is now. She has sucked his cock so hungrily it was as if he'd never demanded it, as if she'd made that leap all on her own.

And the fact remains that he's a monster. That she had damn well better obey him or she'll be going out of here on a stretcher, or in a body bag.

Sweeping that to the side, though, is the other fact that remains constant through all this: she's here because she wants him. She's not here because she couldn't say no, she's not here because she couldn't resist, she's here because she didn't want to resist. Every play at defiance has been an urging for him to bring her back into line. It doesn't take much. She's so very willing with just the slightest exertion of dominance.

To think. He's only spanked her pert little ass the once, too.

Somehow when he lets her legs down off his arms it seems that it could be more intimate. That with her legs wrapping around him and his body coming down over his it might be connected. Her legs don't wrap around him, though, but they hug to either side of him while he pushes her further up on the bed and rails her.

The bed is taking his abuse, too, jostling just like the one in the other hotel, jerking on its moorings while he fucks this woman with everything he has. Everything that's left in him. Her hands are on his biceps but she's too delirious to enjoy them. Hilary is holding onto him as though she'll collapse in on herself like a dying star if she lets go. Which may, in fact, be the truth.

If there were some part of her she were protecting from this -- from him -- she would tell him no. She'd refuse, turn her head to the side, shut her eyes tight and not look at him. But if there's something in her worth protecting, she doesn't know it.

Hilary opens her eyes, locking on his, and reaches up, grabbing the back of his neck to pull him down to kiss her. Again.

[Hilary Durante] [she's been so OBEDIENT]

[Ivan Press] There's very little pulling needed. He comes down over her almost as soon as she begins to pull and they meet in the middle and this kiss is more tooth than tongue. His teeth catch her lip, and then open -- his mouth opens as though to swallow her whole and their tongues tangle and

it's a world away from that first, tasting kiss on the stairs in the club a week ago.

Their eyes are open throughout. When he pulls back his close for a second because he's bowing his head and fucking her, a series of thrusts so hard and fast the sound of their bodies coming together ricochets through the room. Then his eyes are open again and he takes a handful of her hair and pulls her head back and puts his mouth to her neck, sucks and bites at her there, lets go her hair as he's moving on to her breasts.

He mauls her there, too, like he might devour the very beat of her heart. And all the while he's hammering away at her, using her cunt like it was his

(little fucktoy)

to use as he will; his hands are grasping at the outsides of her thighs and at her sides, at her arms. When his mouth comes back to hers he fits her hands and twists his fingers through hers and slams the backs of her hands to the counterpane. Holds her down as he pushes up over her, and

now he's pounding her, teeth bared, eyes wild, unrestrainedly wrestling his pleasure out of her body.

[Hilary Durante] The first time, too, he wanted her to know it was him. He wanted her to say his name. He wants her to look at him. If Hilary were not laid out and getting fucked like this she might wonder why, might ask herself why he wants her eyes open and why he wants to connect with her at all doing this. The answers would come easily enough, or at least the guesses would, braiding together with what he said last time: that the way he wanted her, and the things he wanted to do to her, frightened him.

This dominance without true possession must be maddening, but she's not thinking about that, either. Her fingernails dig into his corded biceps as they kiss, as he bites her lips and her tongue and as she moans into his mouth. Ivan tastes blood, a drop or two on his own lips and tongue, coming from hers. And she's gasping when he lets he go, opening her eyes again because hers, if not his, fell closed while he mauled her face like that.

"Ah!" is all that comes out of her when he pulls her hair, jerking her head back so he can attack her throat. Her pulse is racing, and her sweat tastes like a gorgeous mingling of pleasure and adrenaline. On her breasts, too, nipples hard on his tongue. Ivan is leaving marks. Bite marks, small bruises from the force of the way he's kissing her. He's making a mess of her.

He's marking her with vicious kisses and grabbing her hands and pushing them up and back and holding her down and fucking her and she

is

coming again,

like a bolt of lightning through her when he holds her down, when he pins her and he pounds her and her head tosses to the side as she cries out. It's uncontrolled. She'd look at him if she could bear to. She'd open her eyes if she could make herself think in the midst of this orgasm, which makes her arch up off the bed and which makes her arms go rigid under his grip and which makes her shake, and shudder, and wrap her legs around him to clutch at him, to hold onto this while she shatters in wave after wave of pleasure.

[Ivan Press] It's almost too much to take, fucking her like this. Watching her come apart like this. Come undone like this. Come asunder like this.

Come like this.

And the truth is if he weren't fucking her like this -- furiously, brutally, selfishly -- he wouldn't be able to handle it. It'd be too much to handle and he'd lose his grip on himself; he would've followed her over the edge long before this. The truth is if he weren't fucking her like this, she wouldn't come like this.

He is, though. Fucking her like this. Like he doesn't care if he hurts her. Like he doesn't care if she comes. Like he doesn't care about anything except what it feels like to plunge his cock into her over and over and over

and

whether or not she knows it's his. Whether or not there's a connection there, after all.


And no. It doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. It's like a fucking alternate reality here; a warped echo of the world as he knows it. A warped echo of the man he thinks he is. A warped relationship between brutality and passion, and how much one feeds the other, and --

and he comes down over her as she's wrapping him up in her legs, which is the only way she can hold onto him because her hands are pinned so hard under his, gripped so hard by his. He comes down and he licks her, runs his tongue over her hammering heartbeat and her shuddering breasts and that flash of muscle in her neck as her head throws to the side; licks all the way to her mouth and catches it, kisses her screaming mouth whether or not she's sane enough to register it and,

mauling her mouth like that,

clenches down on her hands and fucks her, pounds her, slams her to the bed again and again until his own pleasure reaches some mad peak and falls asunder. Ivan roars against her lips over and over and over as he comes. He pounds her over and over and over, grunting and snarling on every thrust, filling her up and hammering it deep; pounding it into her as though to make sure

she takes everything he's given her

and is marked by it, claimed in a way that he has no right whatsoever to.

[Hilary Durante] There's been no requests for permission in this. For allowance. He doesn't ask her if it's alright if he fucks her like this, if he holds her down. He doesn't ask her if she's okay, if she's hurt, if she needs him to stop. He didn't go to her mate, find out a way to call him or email him and ask if Dion minded if he escorted his wife to a nightclub or if it was okay to take her sailing. To make sure she has adult male companionship in her life. It wouldn't be uncommon, in many areas, to offer to entertain another man's wife in his absence. Honorable, even. An extension of trust between tribesmates and one less thing for the mated male to worry about.

No permission, though. Not for this. Ivan shouldn't be doing more than his regular flirtation with her. He should have just taken her to the watchmaker and helped her pick out a watch for her husband. He should have taken her sailing around the lake and never indicated that he really wanted to take her below deck. He should not be here, and he should not be in her, and he should not be doing this to her.

But he knows that. And apparently neither of them care.


Hilary is wet. Her cum. His. Their sweat. His saliva. The slight smear of blood from where his teeth cut her lip, turned them lurid red. And she trembles when Ivan finally stops fucking her cunt, when his thrusts slow and his snarling starts to fade. Her arms over her head tremble in his grip and her thighs quiver around him. Her very breaths shudder in and out of her every time she inhales, as though she just came up from drowning, as though she's coming out of a panic attack and isn't sure how not to die.

Like last time, there are tears on her face and it's hard to tell when they welled up and rolled from her eyes. Like last time, her cheeks are wet with saltwater and her eyes are faintly ringed in bright red. Like last time, she wept at some point and he doesn't know when it started, doesn't know what he did or what happened to her to make it happen, or why she doesn't seem to notice,

or care,

or mind.

Because like last time she's seeking him, turning her face to his chest or to his shoulder or, if he's close enough, to the side of his neck, closing her eyes against him and hiding those gasping breaths in his body.

[Ivan Press] It's a paradox.

The sort of release she seems to get out of this. Not merely the satisfaction and release of a good fuck, of three fucking orgasms, but something deeper than that. A sort of soul-deep release that makes her try to hide herself in him like that, if only for a few minutes.

And Ivan knows, even after just four meetings and two fucks, that refuge is not something that Hilary seeks often. Needs often.

And there's this, too: after the way he fucks her. After the blatant dominance of it, the blatant brutality of it, he seems to simply come asunder. He collapses against her when he's finished, when there's nothing left in him to give her in any sense of the word, and the breaths he's pulling out of the air are as shuddering and uncertain as hers.

He's as vulnerable as she is, if that word could apply to either of them.

And his hands are releasing hers, eventually. He's gripped so hard his joints are stiff. He's fucked her so hard his body is faintly sore. He can't imagine what her body feels like, or her hands, or --

In truth, perhaps he doesn't want to. He thinks of it and he turns his face to her temple, or to the bedspread. He hides as well.

Neither of them have attempted to draw away. Neither of them are really attempting to hold the other. They simply lay together, half-wound-together, like puppets with strings severed. And after a long time, Ivan finally stirs enough to move a little. To nudge his face against the bend where her neck joins her shoulder.

He kisses her there, very softly. And then he pushes himself up on his elbows. His eyes are troubled when he looks at her. Last time he bruised her. This time he made her bleed. His hand comes to her face. He cups her face between his palms, leans down and kisses her again. Her mouth this time, and just as gently. His thumbs sweep away the salt tracks on her cheeks.

[Hilary Durante] It's the exact opposite.

Hilary seeks him out rather than hiding from him. She puts her face against his neck and catches her breath there, and though it is a sort of refuge, for a brief moment she's not hiding anything. And the thing is, it doesn't even seem like she's hiding much when she's not like this. He looks under the surface and finds emptiness.

Then he fucks her to the point that she's screaming, to the point that he's bruising her and she's weeping by the time he finishes inside of her, and suddenly there's a person underneath him, whole and real and not just a plaything or a toy or a vessel for him to bat around. And break. For a few minutes there's this woman here, impossibly warm and unbearably, terribly real.

No one knows that feeling better than she does, though. How awful this can feel if it goes on too long. How painful it is to be real. To be human

or close enough.

As his hands unclench from hers, she doesn't move for a little while. Her hands are so stiff, so sore, she is afraid to wiggle her fingers. But seconds pass and blood flows back into the extremities that were gripped so forcefully. Her fingers twitch. Her body feels so stretched-out and worn-out that her limbs are heavy, but she feels boneless. She feels like she's come apart.

He puts his face against her shoulder, kissing her there softly, and one of those nearly broken hands flutters upward, drifts down. She touches his fair hair, her palm hot against his temple for a moment. She feels so light in that touch, like a wraith clinging desperately to the living world

but fading all the same, anyway.

Ivan's eyes are troubled when he pushes himself up to look at her. Hilary's eyes, dark as they are, are no longer warm with satiation or black with lust. They're deep, and they never seem deep when he looks at her otherwise. There's emotion there, and pain, but not simple sharp shocks to the body. There's ache.

And she shudders when he kisses her, like it hurts more than the way he fucked her. More than the way he held her down. More than biting her. She makes a noise, ragged in her throat, that turns to a gasp, and then a sob. There are fresh tears in her eyes even as he brushes the drying ones away.

So Hilary kisses him again, her hand on his cheek now, and every move of their mouths together making her cut lip throb with pain.

[Ivan Press] It's unbearable that she's so real in the moments afterward. It's unbearable that there's nothing there beforehand, and so she becomes an empty thing, a vessel, a toy to be used and abused, and somehow in the process of that she comes apart, and comes together, and

is here now. Is here now, is real, is a woman and not a toy after all, bearing the marks he put on her.

That's unbearable. The pain he inflicted is unbearable. The ache in her eyes, more so. The way she kisses him and the sound in her throat that becomes a sob: all that, but none so much as the fact, the absolute implicit knowledge,

that this too will pass. And then she'll go back to breezing about her fucking tennis appointment, and sailing on Saturday, and ...

he'll want to use her again. And hurt her and break her, and every time he'll want to go a little further.


When the kiss tapers off he holds her face close to his and seals her mouth with another kiss, softer than the first. He lays against her for a moment, after. I know what you're looking for now, he thinks, and doesn't say it.

"It's okay," he whispers instead, and kisses her again. Lays kiss after kiss on her now, each one soft and light. "It's all right."

[Hilary Durante] That he knows what she needs now is unbearable, too. She chokes on those sobs as he's telling her it's okay, it's all right. She closes her eyes as tears leak out from between her lashes, as he lays all those tender kisses over her, sealing.

Healing.

There's no way she can let him do this again. Look at her neck. He ravaged it with his mouth and teeth, he left brilliant blue-purple-red bruises where his lips passed. Look at her lip, how it's turned puffy already. She has to go to the watchmaker after this. With him. She has to go to the country club and play tennis with her stepson, or go swimming in the lap pool or go out golfing. There's not a single one of those endeavors that can be undertaken with a silk scarf covering her neck, and there's not a single thing she can do to conceal what he did to her mouth.

Right now she's not thinking about that, though. She's trying to cope with what she's feeling now, as he kisses her like this and murmurs to her that it's okay, soothes her when she's broken to pieces like this. Now she hides. Now she shivers and moves her face back to the side of his neck, covering herself away from that mouth of his, so brutal and now so tender, catching her breath.

[Ivan Press] The moment Ivan feels her beginning to draw away, he pulls back. Just like in the club. Just like in the shower. He pulls back and he gives her space, and then he rolls aside onto his back; draws himself out of her with a sigh.

He lays himself out beside her, then. Drenched in sweat, flushed from fucking and from how he fucked her -- he lays back and draws her with him and ... just falls still for a while, catching his breath, waiting for his heart to slow, waiting for the world to begin making some iota of sense again.

Moments go by. He knows the window will close again soon. Can almost feel her mustering herself, coming down, falling flat, becoming flat. Empty.

"I can't do that again," he says softly. His arm encircles her. His thumb traces her shoulder tenderly, tenderly, as though they were lovers in truth and not ... whatever it is they are. As though he were not saying what he is. "At least not like this. I need ... "

His eyes close for a moment. The clean line of his jaw flexes as he swallows.

"I need boundaries. Even if they're ones I give myself. I can't just let myself go like that because sooner or later ... "

He doesn't finish. He doesn't have to. He's said it already. Stretchers. Bodybags. What he wants when she makes herself nothing but an empty little fucktoy for him; the black hungers that boil out of him as though everything else he is, and ever was, was a pretty little lie.

[Hilary Durante] Even as she's thinking that she can't let him do this again, she can't let him go this far again and hurt her like this and mark her like he did,

even as she's thinking that she can't bear for him to break her down so thoroughly and then kiss her so softly,

Ivan is whispering I can't.


Hilary rolls with him. His arm is around her, however loose or tight, and she closes her eyes and moves onto her side after he slides his cock out of her. She's so sore that walking is going to hurt. Sitting is going to hurt. She can't imagine tennis or swimming at this point. Maybe she'll just sit in the sauna or the hot tub. At home, of course. Send Tomas her regrets, tell him she got a migraine and went home to lie down.

Perhaps that's what she'll do. Go home and lie in a cool, dark room as though her head is wracked with pain and do her best not to think. Not just not to think about all this but to not think, at all. Take her pills and turn her mind off and not float this time but sink

far, far,

deep below the tumultuous surface that it seems everyone else in the world is constantly living on, tossed by. She wonders how they can stand it, feeling all those terrible things. Feeling.

He can't, he says, holding her there. Not like this. He needs --

and another woman would notice that pause, that flex of his jaw, and wonder what else he might have said. What he's really looking for. Hilary can barely comprehend where she is right now, what she's doing, much less question what Ivan's feeling. She's retreating, fast and hard, into herself. She's running away even while she lies there beside him, which is why when she takes a breath to answer him,

all she does is lean over and lay a kiss on his cheek. "Okay," she whispers, which is all.

[Ivan Press]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 6, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Ivan Press] Okay, she says, which tells him so little. Even when he turns his head and looks at her, keeps his eyes open before, after and during that light kiss to his cheek, he can't tell what it is she means by that. Not because she hides it. Because there's nothing there to see.

There's a sense like falling, like folding in on himself. His brow furrows for a second. She's running again, so fast and hard that there's no way to follow.

He doesn't try. He sits up in bed, scuffs his hand over his hair. Drops it again, and then scoots to the edge of the bed and gets up. He's not looking at her now; he's looking for his clothes, gathering them together at the corner of the bed even though he'll shower before leaving.

Ivan raises his eyes back to Hilary when he has all his things gathered. Last time he didn't want to ask this because somehow the idea twisted in his gut. This time, he asks:

"Do you want me to try to heal you?"

[Ivan Press] A wince flashes over Ivan's face, which he lowers his head to hide on pretext of needing to see what he's doing. He doesn't need to see, though, because the healing talen he comes up with is drawn ex nihilo from his flesh.

Naked as he is, she can see every detail of that drawing. Out of skin and bone and muscle comes something wrought out of plant-fiber, etched and inked: a tiny gourd that he crushes quickly between his palms.

He lays those palms on her body, then, dropping to his knees beside the bed. And Ivan's rage is a low simmer, is barely enough to allow him to shift, but his spirit is surprisingly strong. Whatever he's done to her, he can likely heal it.

Bruises fade. Cuts close. Abrasions heal of their own accord, and when it's over and the gourd is gone, burnt away along with a portion of his spirit, and her wounds;

when she's as good as new, except in his memory,

Ivan leans forward and lays his brow to her body. His left hand rests over her breasts; his right over her belly. His head between, his hair dappled shades of gold and grain in the sunlight, bowed like a supplicant. Like a man genuflecting in prayer, or in plea. He presses his face to her and closes his eyes and doesn't move for a long time. He thinks to himself that no matter who she belongs to, no matter whose mate this really is, she is his kin. She is of his blood and lineage, of his tribe, and he is supposed to protect her.

His head turns without lifting. He looks at her, one eye shadowed by his brow and by her body, the other closed still against her skin.

"I don't want to hurt you anymore," he says softly. "I want to see you again, but I don't want to hurt you again. Not like this."

[Hilary Durante] After this she might still go back to the house instead of out to the club. She might still go to her palatial master suite and turn off all the lights, shut the curtains, take some pills for the migraine she made up and lie down on her cloud-soft king bed in the dark not to sleep but to ...go away. For a little while.

But it won't be because of the slight bruises left on her, the hickeys, the bite marks, the split down her lip that fed him drops her blood every time they kissed, however gentle it became in the aftermath. There are other reasons to want to leave herself behind.

She watches with something like subdued interest as he pulls the talen from his skin like a magic trick. Poof! It doesn't distort his flesh or the air, it doesn't seem like it comes from some hidden pocket, it's just... pulled, and then it's there. She looks bemused by it. There's no protest about burning out his spirit to heal a few marks that will be gone in a day or a matter of hours anyway; Hilary just lays there, and lets him.

The way she laid there, tortured by his body and her own pleasure, and let him fuck her ragged to begin with.

And liked it.

There's a slight draw of breath when he crushes the gourd and powder and water come out of. There's a faint surprise at the sensation it causes to her skin when he puts her palms back on her body. The room is cool and now that he's no longer making her sweat her nipples are hard from the temperature. Her skin is warm to the touch, though, and then searingly hot for a moment as the energy leaves him to enter her. Or surround her.

No more powder or water or ink or gourd after that, though. Just his hands, and then his brow coming to join them. Hilary looks at the top of his head, thoughtful, her brows furrowing slightly. Her expression has smoothed by the time he looks at her again.

Murmurs, in a voice sounding like some of those cracks have fused together, in a tone touched with at least some attempt at humor: "Are you always this tortured?" she asks him again, though this time there's no cause for him to answer. She watches him, then says, for some reason: "I like it." And a beat. "You like it."

[Ivan Press] There's no answering humor in him this time. There's no answer at all, when she asks him again if he's always this tortured. He just looks at her.

Then she goes on. And his eyebrows - his fine straight eyebrows, a shade darker than his hair - flick together.

"I do," he admits. "And that's why I want to stop.

"There must be something else you like. Some other way for you to feel ... here."

[Hilary Durante] If it were intentional, she might flinch away from what he says then. That there has to be something else she likes that makes her feel what she seems to feel after he fucks her like he just did. Here. Present. Alive. Real. There should be a flicker of panic, a flare of anger, something. Though he's healed her and she doesn't even feel sore anymore, Hilary hasn't gotten up from the bed. She hasn't moved. And he's still on his knees, his palms on her and his brow close to her.

It's not one, one-something anymore. It's past two, now. She doesn't have tennis til three, but they still have to shower. They still have to swing by the watchmaker's shop. Even then, they have time. To talk, to cuddle. To fuck again if they want to. But the way Ivan looks at her, she doesn't know. And moreover:

"I don't know what you mean," she whispers. Then, her brows tightening: "There's nothing wrong with it."

[Ivan Press] "I mean the way you are now. I mean the way you were right after. When you weren't blithe and superficial and talking about nothing. I mean -- "

he breaks off. A flash of frustration across his fine features, and then he all but snaps, "God's sake, Hilary, you know what I mean. You have to feel the difference. If I can see it, you have to be able to feel it.

"And no. There's nothing wrong with a little rough sex to get you where you need to be -- if I were anyone else. Someone who can make it a game, with rules and boundaries and -- fucking safewords, I don't know." There's a pause. "With me ... with you, between us, it's not a game. I don't know if I can make it a game. And it's dangerous."

[Hilary Durante] "I don't know any other way,"

is the first thing she says, and could be the only thing, the most important thing. But it isn't followed by her asking him if he wants her anyway, if he will keep fucking her even though there's no guarantee she won't be empty and vapid and talking about nothing afterward. Hilary is just watching him now, this self-proclaimed danger to her person.

No defense of her 'game', now. No defensiveness at all, now. Just a taut sort of sadness, growing into what seems like impatience.

Or flight.

She sits up, her flesh drawing away under his palms, staring at him with her hands on the rumpled bedspread. "Perhaps we should go," she murmurs, "and discuss this at a later time."

[Ivan Press] As she sits up, he sits back. His hands slide off her body. Not even the slightest trace of powder now; all the plant-material absorbed into her body. He dusts them anyway, reflexively, before they come to a rest on his thighs.

"Would we actually discuss this again?"

It's not accusatory. It is what it is: frank; direct.

[Hilary Durante] She feels... strange. From the sensations suddenly swallowed by the healing, which didn't just take away the marks but took away those lingering traces of pain. From the fact that Ivan seems to be falling apart because of what it does to him when he fucks her like that, what he wants when he fucks her like that. From the way he keeps looking at her. And not just looking but looking at her, and it makes her vaguely nauseated.

Hilary at least still has his cum in her. Her own wet on her thighs, the traces of him on her cunt. No bruises on her neck or hands or shoulders, not even that dull, sweet ache of muscular soreness. But at least she can close her eyes and feel her body and feel fucked.

Which she does. She closes her eyes as she pulls herself to the edge of the bed, towards the spot where he kneels, and her legs spread to either side of him, draping over the mattress, as she opens her eyes and looks at him.

"Not likely," she says, quite honestly, but not simply as a denial or refusal: "I told you before I'm not a fetishist. I told you before that you don't have to do anything you'd rather not in order to please me. If you'd like to see me again --"

and they know, they both know what 'see you' actually means, here

"-- then there's no reason whatsoever it should be traumatic."

[Ivan Press] The twist of Ivan's head away and back is sudden, brutal, animal. "And I told you," he snaps, suddenly angry, "I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for me. But I can't let myself want what I want when I fuck you. I -- "

he trails off there. Quick as it came that flare of anger is gone. He puts a hand to his brow; pinches the high bridge of his nose. A moment later it drops, and his dark, mutable eyes come back to her.

"I'm not leaving another mark on you. I'm not going to put you in a state where you need to get healed after," for fuck's sake, he thinks to himself, appalled at the very words. "That's the line I'm drawing myself. Everything else, we can figure out as we go."

Pause.

"If you're still on for Saturday."

[Hilary Durante] A normal, sane human would flinch at that twist of his head, that snap of his voice. Hilary just looks at him and gives a small sigh, her expression something like okay, okay, you're not doing it for me, I get it. She waits for him to be done. She waits for him to stop yelling. She waits for him to calm down, or at least seem like he's calming down.

"All right," she says amicably, as though this is a foregone conclusion, not an argument. "And yes, I'm still on for Saturday," she goes on, and this sounds like she's having second thoughts that have nothing to do with how rough he's been with her, how afraid of him she should be. "Are you coming to shower?"

[Ivan Press] Something like a flicker of irritation, of frustration, when she slides right back to that amicable, blithe tone. Right back into Mrs. fucking Durante, warm but condescending and so fucking superior.

"Go ahead," he says. "Save me some water." And then, dark and wry, "I'm going to have the proverbial post-fuck cigarette."

[Hilary Durante] She isn't quite there yet. Not quite her shattered self, not yet that cool thing she can become -- that thing she is -- most of the time. And there's some truth to how she's speaking to him, but it's hard to tell how much when there doesn't seem to be any truth to her to begin with. But he reads the condescension right, mingled in with the warmth. He reads the sort of attitude that leads to eye-rolling in women and girls younger than she is, less sophisticated.

He reads the flicker in her eyes when he tells her to go ahead while he has a cigarette, but perhaps not its meaning.

Hilary quirks one eyebrow slightly, lifts her leg over his head to hte other side of his body, and sets her feet on the ground. If he hadn't healed her she'd find it difficult to walk. She might grab hold of the bed or the wall or the nightstand or him to steady herself. As it is, she walks smoothly, even if her hair is mussed and a few strands are tangled with her earrings.

A few moments later the water turns on in the bathroom, though she never bothers to shut the door.

[Ivan Press] [EMPATHEE!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 5, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Hilary Durante] [Closest to the surface during that flicker is something like disappointment or regret that he's not coming with her. Beneath that, and more generally, is a touch of frustration: she doesn't get what the big deal is/why he's being so 'dramatic'. And deeper down... isn't quite defensiveness but it could seem like that (and did); she feels like he's blaming her or telling her something is wrong with her, and she's rejecting that pretty hard.]
to Ivan Press

[Ivan Press] And have his post fuck cigarette is, in fact, what he does: finding his cigarette case in the pocket of his pants, removing one of the cigarettes -- all Davidoffs today, because apparently Ivan was no more faithful to cigarettes than to women -- and lighting up.

This is a no-smoking room. He doesn't give a fuck. He sits on the corner of the bed, naked and lean and golden, and smokes his damn cigarette.

When he's halfway finished he gets up and goes to find his glass of brandy. He takes a last swallow, then drowns the cigarette in what remains. Then he goes into the bathroom. She's still in the shower. He flicks the curtain back and he steps in, his eyes meeting hers in a flicker of green-amber. He says nothing, simply reaches past her and cups water in his hands, splashing it on his face.

[Hilary Durante] It looks so trashy in that hotel room now. The bed askew on its frame, the sheets and bedspread and pillows rumpled. Look closer and there's moisture, there's cum drying there. And Ivan with his glass of brandy, leaving a half-smoked luxury cigarette inside of it, soaking up the last few drops of the liquor.

Hilary takes long, lazy showers like she takes long-lazy sails around Lake Michigan or how she takes a long time lazily removing her jewelry and clothing when she's about to get bent over and plowed. The water is hot and turns her skin a little bit pink. It fills the bathroom with steam. She turns her head to look at him when he gets in, and there's a hitch in her breathing that wasn't there the first time he joined her.

Water goes on his face. She's still watching him as it drips past his chin.

"Fuck me in here," she whispers, out of nowhere.

[Ivan Press] There's a flash of surprise on Ivan's face, and something rarer still: uncertainty. He's as much a mess as the hotel bed is; as much a mess as she was, though that's being rapidly washed from her body now. Him, though: his hair damp still. His body sticky-slick with sweat, with their mingled fluids.

He draws a few breaths, deep and silent. And then he steps into her, eyes open. Water bounces off his thighs; off his shoulders. His head bends, his hands at his sides -- he catches her mouth. When he kisses her, his eyes close after all.

[Hilary Durante] This isn't like the explorative, lingering kiss in the nightclub, and it isn't like any kisses they shared when they met at the Orrington, most of which she can barely remember. Nothing tonight has been anything but hard bites of their mouths together, swallowing groans and screams and slight smears of her blood.

Which doesn't mean this is gentle, though it is... soft. Though Ivan is a mess, Hilary -- long, lean, cool Hilary who is so very warm under the water and becoming so very clean -- slides her arms around his neck and loosely crosses them behind his body as he bends to her and lets her have his mouth. She presses her body against his after a moment even though he's filthy and the water isn't touching him enough to sluice the filth off of his skin. She closes her eyes and kisses him warmly. Softly.

But deeply. It blossoms against his mouth if he lets it, and there's nothing coy about it. Nothing playful.

[Ivan Press] They're both such long, lean beautiful people. Their bodies are smooth and lovely, their faces possessed of a sort of classical beauty, a sort of grace and hauteur that doesn't go away no matter what they might do or say or become. They come together under the spray and for a while it's just that kiss; just her arms looped over his warm shoulders, behind the taut, trim spread of his trapezius.

His eyes open when that first kiss ends. He looks at her for a moment, saying nothing, doing nothing. Then they close again and he leans into her for a second kiss, deeper than the first, his arms folding around her waist, her back.

He's not hard near-instantly this time. He wasn't hard already when he came into the shower with her. He can't say for sure why he joined her at all when it was truly his intention to smoke his cigarette and wait her out, wait until she came out before going in to grab a shower of his own. Maybe it was something in her eyes. Maybe it was how she kissed him in those few precious instants ater they fucked, when she was whole and warm and unbearably, agonizingly real.

He's here now, though. He's here now and he's kissing her, kissing her on and on and over and over until he's hard again, his cock pressed between their bodies, their lean bellies. He turns her until her back is to the cool tile, then, and reaches down to hook her leg over his hip.

There's a brief break; enough time for him to look down, to bend his knees and plant his feet wide and guide himself to her opening. When he straightens, when he pushes into her, he lifts her to her toes, and then off the floor entirely as he braces her between his body and the shower wall.

And Ivan sighs into her mouth, kissing her again.

[Hilary Durante] What was once the visible confidence of their ability to lead has become tainted by the same madness that pollutes their veins. Everything is going sour. Everything is falling apart. Even the beauty of a visage that knows its right to rule and does so with grace becomes nothing more than hauteur and arrogance, awareness of their own loveliness and bitter denial of their failures, their flaws, their weaknesses.

This is, in a way, weakness. Not the sex or the pleasure they take in it or even the fact that they absolutely, utterly should not be within ten miles of each other while naked, but... that he would rest his brow on her afterward like that, as though to try and hold her into that space she goes to when it's over, when he's hurt her, when he's ripped himself to shreds to do so. And that she comes so close to being a real woman only to retreat as quickly as she can from it as soon as she feels it.

And she does feel it. Ivan was right about that. She feels the difference that he can see, and it's not that he's a particularly perceptive fellow but it's that he's actually looking when there's no reason for him to, no reason but that what she does to him is completely new to him

Completely terrifying.

Ivan can't explain to himself why he's here, and Hilary doesn't ask. She kisses him like that, breathing in when there's a pause before she puts her mouth on him again, meets him in the water-flecked air with a soft moan as she feels him grow hard and long against her thigh, then against her belly, then between her legs as he lifts her up. She goes so easily, so lightly, wrapping her legs around him. He's not the strongest of Garou, but he's stronger than most men, and in any case: she doesn't doubt his ability to hold her, and hold his balance.

Easily now, he finds her open for him. Wet, and warm in a way that's different from the warmth of the water. Easily now, she sinks down onto him, letting out a long, quiet sigh, her head tipping back a little as she feels him fill her again.

This is literally the first time he hasn't driven into her, hard. And this is the first time that, facing her, he's been this close to her body, chests moving together as they breathe, feeling the flutter of her gasps as he kisses her, and as her cunt welcomes him with a squeeze, relaxing again only to take him deeper.

"You feel so good," she whispers, her hand on his cheek in between some pause for breath, before she seals her lips to him again, riding up on his body a little.

[Ivan Press] What escapes his lips is not so much a sentence or a word as a low sound, a breath of a moan. Then her mouth is on his again, and he's gasping as she moves against and on him, using his body as leverage.

They're both wet. The shower wall is wet. Everything here is wet and warm, though her wetness and her warmth is something else altogether. This is the first time they've fucked like this, or anything like this, and though it might be said Ivan is more used to sex like this -- which is to say, gentle, mutual -- the truth is he's no more used to this than he is to the way he fucks her, the thing he becomes, when he's hammering at her with every ounce of strength he has.

This is different, too. Different from his playful romps in bed, different from the laughing half-drunk bouts with this starved swan or that giggling coed; different from everything that's come before.

He presses her back against the wall. His head angles against hers and he's gasping around their kiss now, groaning as he begins to ride against her body. Like this, standing, with her caught between his body and the wall, there isn't much room for movement. Like this, he fucks her in flexes of his body into hers; slow firm grinds of his hips up against hers.

Shuddering, Ivan bends his head to her shoulder, sleek and wet under her hands. He buries his face against the side of Hilary's neck and moves against her like that, eyes closed.

[Hilary Durante] Is this what you want?

Is this what you want me to be?

Hilary doesn't ask him. She arches her back to press herself even more against him, to hold onto him as she receives him and fucks him right back. Her hands clutch at his shoulders and her head tips back to guide his mouth to her throat, to bare it to him in what he might fear is surrender, what he might see as invitation, what may simply lead to him kissing her there.

Or this: holding his head there between her neck and her shoulder, like someone seeking comfort, fucking her slow and hard at once, his hands hardly able to move over her because he has to hold her up. He doesn't want to hurt her, and conversely, she guesses that means he doesn't want her to be hurt, either. Dropped. Broken.

She wouldn't ask him those questions, either. What Ivan wants her to be has little to do with what she is, or what she wants from this, or why she's here. He won't fuck her rough again, won't hold her down and pound her again like he has, and she didn't sit up and inform him that there really was no need to go sailing next Saturday then, was there? This feels good. This feels quite good.

But that's all. There's certainly a purity in that pleasure, untouched by darker things in both of them, and truth be told, it wasn't a quest for connection or even the breakdown of her own boundaries that led Hilary to take Ivan up on his flirting and agree to meet him somewhere. Somewhere private. Somewhere she could get a look at that lean body, and get her hands and mouth on it, too. It was always about the attraction, which was electric, but ultimately simple. They could use each other for awhile.

And she prodded at those boundaries, those common limitations, to see how he'd respond.

And he pinned her down and fucked her, and he liked it, and it was too much for him. But through it all, she's never demanded it. Never required it. No different, now:

he got in the shower and she wanted him. As simple, and electric, as that. And now he's inside of her again, moving in her, and... it feels good. She likes it. "That's it," she whispers, finding his hand and guiding it up her body to her breast, shuddering against him. "Oh, that's it. Make me come again on that hard cock."

[Ivan Press] There's a sense that he doesn't want to speak right now. Doesn't need her to speak, either. There's a sense that he just wants --

this. To fuck her like this. To not want to hold her down, abuse her, hurt her, use her. She finds his hand and guides it up her body. His fingers flex against her, then cup to her breast on their own accord. He lets out a low sound, a groan, as he moves against her.

Then he's bowing to her breast. He's taking it in his mouth as his hands drop back to her thighs, holding her up against the wall. He sucks at her for a while; when her breast slips from his mouth he's gasping, raising his head to find her mouth again and kiss her, harder, as he starts to fuck her the same way: a little harder; a little faster, the water beating on his shoulders and sluicing down his back.

[Hilary Durante] And she speaks anyway, as though the words come from nowhere, or come from the part of her mind that thinks she knows what this is. Or maybe she just wants to. Maybe she just wants to moan like this as her fingers slip into his hair and as he starts to drive himself into her a little more firmly. So Hilary gasps, not bothering to squirm against him or even try to fuck him back as much right now, just... taking it. Taking him, and molding him with her body, kissing him when he lifts his head, kissing his ears and his temple and his cheek when he does not.

Murmuring, all the while, that that's it. that's good. that's a good cock. that's what i like.

But not his name. Not his name, torn out of her along with screams, over and over as he gives it to her while she's bent over a bed and barely able to move. Just those whispering moans until he swallows the sound of them with his mouth over hers, moving a little faster now

and making her moan a little louder, a little less coherently.

[Ivan Press] It's not quite the same like this. Even were it not for her murmuring moans, the way she never says his name as though that name had replaced everything else; the way she never says his name at all -- even then, he'd feel the difference.

A lessening in the intensity. Which isn't to say she's utterly cold, or faking it. Which isn't to say she's incapable of enjoying plain, vanilla, non-damaging sex, or that he is. Just ...

This isn't as intense. This isn't as insane. It doesn't rip the world out from under him. It doesn't send him reeling, tumbling, falling.

Still: her cunt is tight, and her body is sleek and beautiful. She's wrapped all around him, holding on while he rides her. He's grabbing at her ass, at her thighs, and he's bending his mouth to her shoulder as he fucks her against the shoulder wall, harder now, hard enough that their bodies slap lightly together. Hard enough that he's panting against her flesh, groaning, turning his mouth to her neck and kissing the beat of her pulse there.

"You're gonna make me come." This is the first thing he's said to her since telling her he wouldn't join her in the shower. It's a ragged whisper, barely audible over the blasting water. "Oh, fuck, you're gonna make me come."

[Hilary Durante] Like all the other women, then. No playful romp in the hay with some drunken girl or some titillated one, but then, not all of his trysts could be like that. Some had to have been like this: slow, and firm. Maybe even in hotel showers, with their earrings still on and their open, gasping mouths catching drops of water along with every pant for air.

It passes through her mind -- she lets it pass, lets it come and go again -- that maybe she could compare him to men younger than he, kinsmen even, near-boys who want to fuck like this. She could tell him he's like them right now, burying their faces in her neck as though unable to cope with their own pleasure, telling her they're going to come as though it should be a surprise, as though she should be flattered, as though it startles them how very, very good it feels to fuck a woman.

Hilary wonders if it would make him angry enough to snarl at her. Bite down where his mouth touches her shoulder. Slam his cock into, slapping her against the tile, fuck her like he did before, fuck her like some savage, slavering part of him desperately wants to. Maybe even needs to.

The thought comes, and she doesn't reject it. But it passes through her mind because

she doesn't know why she doesn't say any of it. Maybe because he might hear it and pull out of her, leave her wanting like he almost did the first time, tear away from her body and her and run the other way, finally. Maybe because she doesn't want that to happen.

This does feel good, after all.

"That's it," she whispers again instead, little cries leaving her every time he thrusts into her. Faster now. Harder. "Make me come, baby, make that pussy all wet for you. You're so close. You're so fucking close. Don't stop. Don't stop," as though he would. Not when she's so searingly hot around him, and in the shower it's hard to feel if she's wet like she gets when he holds her down, but she's

certainly wet, and she's so hot, her skin pink where he holds it and where his mouth falls and where the water hits her. And she's enjoying his body, just the way she did when he was undressing, the way she did when she was stroking him and encouraging him and telling him she wanted him. Her hands clutch tighter at his back, fingernails digging into him. "You feel that?" she gasps, all but whimpering the words as her cunt clenches on him, as she bears down, soaking his cock, as she gasps for pleasure. "You feel me coming for you, baby?"

And she is. And it's so good. And it feels so good, the way she loses even those words to nothing but groans, let loose in the air while he fucks her.

Like this, this time.

[Ivan Press] Like the other women.

Like them, because yes, some of them he's fucked just like this. Slow and hard and thorough; maybe even standing in the shower; maybe even with their earrings on and their rings off, their mouths open to his or to the humid, steaming air. And --

not like the other women. Not like them, because he's not like this; he's not the slavering beast that holds her down and pounds her, and he's not the uncertain youth who clutches at her like she's his first woman ever and gasps that he's going to come. That she's going to make him come.

It's been a long time since Ivan was a virgin. It's been a long time since adolescence, since fumbling puberty, and even then he was a born charmer, a born ladykiller, the cute boy that all the girls at his ultra-exclusive upper east side private school sighed over. He was never unsure like this, uncertain and clutching and gasping and

turning his mouth to the side of her neck and just moaning for her, groaning for her again and again because he can't even put together the words to say,

yes, he feels it. He feels her coming for him, or

yes, he's going to come too.


Just his hands clutching at her, then. Just his mouth pressed hard to her neck, burying the sounds he's making there as he pushes himself deep; plants himself inside her and comes.

He's bucking involuntarily against her in the aftermath, shudders running down his spine with every slide, and when the last of his orgasm lets him go he's just leaning into her, motionless, mind emptied, eyes closed.

[Hilary Durante] Those other women were barely even girls. And it doesn't matter if he's fucked women older than her, women old enough to be his mother, or if all of his conquests have been pretty young ladies right around his age, give or take a few years, but girls compared to this beast he's holding onto now. Kinswomen or not, Fangs or not, there is something about her and if he thinks about it later when his mind is put back together and only missing the pieces it usually is, he'll know why. He'll figure it out, why this woman of all women -- of all things in his world -- is so different for him.

It isn't even just the way she kisses, unique to her like all kisses are to those who give them. It isn't the way she gasps when she comes though that, too, is singular and unforgettable. It's something else entirely, a thought that has passed through his mind in part but not whole unto itself yet.

Oh, he's a bright young lad. All he has to do is think about it awhile.


No words of encouragement now, this time, telling him to come in her, fill her up, fill that hot pussy up with his cum. Just her moaning, holding onto him while he gives it to her. While he does, in fact, come in her, and fill her hot pussy up with his cum again. They could do this all afternoon if they let themselves, it seems. He's young. He's virile. He's borderline tireless. Give him a few minutes and he'll be ready to go again, ready to roll over her and take her again, and she likes that, too.

She likes knowing that if she were to give him a whole night he'd spend nearly every hour of it fucking her, under or on top of the sheets, on or beside the bed, against the wall, bent over a chair, whatever she liked. Whatever came to his mind to do with her long, languid body so close to his.

They don't even have the whole afternoon, though. And truth be told, a part of her is glad of that. She'll tell him she's going to tennis. She'll leave here instead and go home and take her pills just like she's been promising herself ever since he said he couldn't bear to ever do that to her again. She'll sink into the dark and it will be so nice, and so still, and so cold

compared to this.

Compared to Ivan so warm and sticky inside of her, moving in her even as it sends shudders racing through him, sends shivers up her spine as his cock strokes over her clit again and again in those last few thrusts. "Oh, you beautiful man," she whispers, running her hands down his back, skimmin sweat and water away as one, touching his ass and squeezing the muscle there, running her hands back up to his waist. "You beautiful, wonderful man."

[Ivan Press] And he's -- just panting, spent and shuddering, the skin of his back drawing shiveringly taut under her hands like an animal's.

He doesn't think she means a word of it. At least not the way she meant it when she kissed him, earlier, while they fucked; the way she meant it when she kissed him, earlier, after they'd fucked and after he'd all but broken her and after they were both shattered and half-mad, lucid with it, utterly present and aflame with it.

There's a strange ache in him. It takes him a moment to recognize it as some strange breed of loneliness, which is as rare to him as a frenzy is. There's a loneliness in being so rivetingly affected; in knowing that the only thing that could affect her in return, that could break through to her in return, is something he's afraid to give himself over to. There's a loneliness in this because in some fundamental way,

he is alone here. There is no 'them'.


After some time, his breathing steadies; his heart stops pounding. He draws out of her then, and he lets her down gently. He doesn't look at her as he turns back to the spray, lathers up his hands, and begins to wash the afternoon from his body.

[Hilary Durante] Every time thus far he's separated their bodies not long after the act, sliding out of her and rolling over or climbing off of her or, like this, stepping away entirely. Neither of them groan at the agony of that separation, as though the physical movement away from each other echoed some unseen pain. But for the time that he's inside of her, panting for breath, while her pulse triphammers under her breast where his hand fell not so long ago, she holds onto him and he curls around her and

it's very hard to tell if there's anything there at all. Not like when he drove her over the edge into tears, into her own private shattering, not when he knew deeply and instinctively that she was with him, finally, and that she meant it when she kissed him. That she might not know him or understand him but that she was at very least real.

A real woman he had just bruised and bitten and treated like... nothing. Nothing at all.

And though some part of him must thing she is nothing now, so far away and so inhuman it doesn't matter, he doesn't try to beat her. He doesn't bite her, mark his teeth indelibly into her flesh to leave some part of himself on her, visible and painful as though to say there. that's real. feel me now. look at what you let me do to you.

Hilary breathes in as he lets her down, her eyes flickering open and closed, then staying open. He turns away from her to shower. She was clean before. She's somewhat messy again, wanting under the hot water to clean him from herself again.

So of course that's what she does. She steps under his arm and around his side and stands in front of him reaching for the little flat bar of soap he just put down to start to wash herself, too. The water hits her face, because of where she's standing. She just keeps her eyes closed. Turns her face to the side every so often to take a breath.

[Ivan Press] For a while, they wash as though the other were not there -- sharing space and little else. Ivan unscrews the little bottle of shampoo and works it into his short hair. He soaps himself with the single-use bar; he ducks his head under the water, or lets it run down his body.

When he's clean, his skin flushed with the heat of the water and the sex they just had, he hesitates a moment. Then, as before, he lathers his hands up. No washcloth this time: just his palms on her back, rubbing and scrubbing and washing, caressing.

When they're finished, and clean, they've been in the shower so long the tips of their fingers are beginning to wrinkle. He bends to her, stepping forward until his chest brushes her back, and he kisses her shoulder. Once. Softly.

Then Ivan steps back and out of the shower. He grabs a hotel towel off the rack. Gives her another if she follows.

"We should stop by my watchmaker's," he says quietly. "Put in an appearance, just in case."

[Hilary Durante] Though there was no communication about it, no lighthearted laughter, Hilary doesn't hog the water. She shifts aside when Ivan needs to rinse. He hands her the shampoo when he's done with it, the conditioner from the shelf while he's soaping his skin up. She does tease him, now, arching her back or brushing her ass across him. She doesn't try to arouse him again, though he can almost smell her willingness. The fact that she's right there, soft and lean and so fucking tight inside. Maybe it's his imagination, telling him that if he were to touch her again she'd be receptive, she'd be welcoming, or maybe he just knows by now. Thinks he knows.

Still: though he healed every trace of soreness from her it hasn't changed the fact that he's fucked this woman with everything he has in him and then some. Ironically, he's likely sore while she is not, aching from what he did to her while she seems fine. Perhaps not so ironic, though. It destroys him, what they did earlier. And last time. But she seems okay. She seems better for it, and a little lackluster without it.

This woman he can't have. This woman who he wouldn't truly be able to touch without wounding her. And quite possibly risking killing her. Snapping her neck when he pulls her hair too hard, biting down til the blood wells up and soaks everything around him

all a manner of horrific thoughts that aren't far enough away even now, as he washes her back.

It makes her start slightly, out of surprise, when he does that. She wasn't expecting it. Her head turns and she glances at him from the periphery of her vision, then reaches up and sweeps her long dark hair off her back and over her shoulder while he works his hands over her. "I'd almost forgotten you were there, you were so quiet," she whispers, but it requires no answer. Her eyes close, and he rubs her back as though he didn't heal the deep bruises that were once there. Just like before.

When he kisses her, Hilary sighs. Exhales, really, but doesn't reach up and touch him. It isn't the same. Not at all. It's nothing like the way she let her fingertips linger on his mouth when he kissed them, nothing like the way she curled between his chest and his arm afterward, none of it is quite right. It looks the way it should, it almost feels the way it should, but

it's just a little off.

Hilary is the one to turn off the water after Ivan gets out. She wrings out her hair after the curtain's been opened and takes the towel he offers her with a mild thank-you. "Well, and to look at watches," she adds, as though she's decided a watch truly would be a good gift for her husband. Her mate. The one who claims her and owns her about as much as Ivan ever could.

She scuffs the towel through her hair just enough to keep it from dripping overmuch, and pats her arms and chest and the rest of herself dry. The expression on her face is a common one. It's not quite a smile. She doesn't look deep in thought. Ten people could try to describe it, and they would all ascribe different emotions to the subtleties of her mouth's curve, or the lightness of her eyes and brow.

Ivan would say, perhaps: cool. cold. distant. empty.

She says nothing. There is nothing else to say.