Trauma
Firstly a big SORRY for keeping everyone waiting for so long for an update, but be warned - this has moved section because there is naughty ADULT MATERIAL in it - if you're underage or just don't like smut, don't read.
Usual disclaimers re A2A and Mad Dogs - I don't own anything. Sadly, but the lovely fanfic writer Fenella Church gave lots of inspiration for this chapter.
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Recap - Quinn and Alex have gone on a date to Gene's hotel for afternoon tea. She spills jam on her blouse causing Quinn to have a flash back.
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The restaurant and hotel staff have been calmly efficient: after establishing a lack of any immediate medical emergency in the tea rooms the duty manager transferred them both to Quinn's room with minimum fuss.
Quinn now sits blank-faced on a cream coloured chaise lounge in a large airy room the size of a small apartment.
Alex, perched on the end of the bed, sits opposite him, alert to the change in atmosphere signalled by the sedate sliding of the solid panelled door's closing mechanism as the last of the hotel staff supervising the 'situation' departs.
The voiles partially concealing the balcony lift like breaths in the quiet of the room.
'Take it off.' Quinn's voice sounds broken, his eyes barely lifting from the cream rug covering the rich antique wooden floor, but his message is unequivocal. Take the shirt off.
She stands fumbling for the buttons as if made meek by his simple demand.
In this beautiful understated room, with the slight dampness of the jam permeating to the areola of her right breast, and a slightly dishevelled Gene lookalike telling her to take her silk shirt off - she could be forgiven for the stirrings in her stomach. But she only acquiesces because she knows at this moment seduction is at the bottom of Quinn's agenda. She's seen post-traumatic shock too many times not to recognise the symptoms.
'You can have one of mine, they're...'
She finishes his sentence, already moving towards the impressive walnut piece behind him. 'In the wardrobe.'
He looks up quickly as she passes, anxious to see her skin, to see it perfect and unharmed, but afraid too that it isn't, because his mind is re-playing the image of the impact of his bullet on Maria and confusing it with her, until this churning self-realisation sparks a new terror he can't hold in.
She's in the en suite, just shrugging her arms through the sleeves of a crisp white shirt, when she hears the first of his jagged uncontrollable sobs. She's by his side in an instant - cradling his head against her, rocking him like he were her child, shushing his hair - letting the rages of emotion pass through him, being as solid as the shore against the waves.
Eventually the sobs pass and he lies, head in her lap, nuzzled against the bare skin of her stomach. She wonders if he's fallen asleep but the brush of eyelash against the wet on her belly says otherwise. He lifts himself slowly, as if waking from deep sleep, looking ahead, not at her. She sees he carries the imprint of her jeans on his face, the buckle loop, the double stitching of the waistband. She wants to stroke it smooth, but instead she waits for him to speak.
He clears his throat - not quite trusting his voice to sound normal after its releasing of raw emotion.
'I'm sorry - ' He stutters, his eyes flickering downwards and then looking at her at last to hold her concerned look for as long as he can, then he lowers his slowly eyes and instantly regrets it.
The urge to run is strong. He stands, shaky on his feet, but ready to find escape - but she slips her hand into his and squeezes his gently, insisting he sits back down beside her. He's too weakened not to do as she wishes - but he doesn't look at her again.
'I suppose you want to know what that was all about?' He says eventually.
She nods and answers, 'Yes'. She could have added if you're ready to talk, but they're both professionals: they both know the moves of the game, she won't insult him by playing it.
He tells her then, without emotion, the whole sorry story of how he came to shoot Maria, not caring that he's promised secrecy to the others, not caring of the consequences, just desperately needing to unburden himself.
She asks questions, of course. She's shocked at his actions - especially the shooting of a police woman - but she remains by his side as he explains about the bad and the good sides of Alvo, his suspicions, and then the dwarf and Maria, the drugs and corruption, and the crippling fear surrounding that nightmare week and her heart goes out to him, caught like the others in the terrible affair, forced into a situation beyond their scope of reckoning.
'So the jam... you thought it was…?' He nods - still not looking at her. She looks down at her chest now - to the neutral beige-coloured fabric of her bra and sees the source of his avoidance.
'Close your eyes.' She commands gently, and so emotionally drained is he, he obeys.
As she anticipates what she's about to do she remembers a time sitting with another man, a man sitting quietly hiding from the world, a man temporarily beaten, and she regrets that she didn't quite have this closeness with that other man, that he never opened up to her and she never had the confidence then to do with him what she is about to do now.
Taking a deep breath she reaches up to Quinn's head and pulls him gently to her chest.
'What do you smell?' She asks quietly.
He turns his head slowly and she notices what she didn't in the midst of the trauma of his sobs: his long Genelike lashes, his floppy rumpled hair, the Genelike strength of his neck, the imperceptible crinkle of skin behind his ear…
'Strawberries.'
'And what do you hear?'
He listens, his breath whispering against her skin.
'Your heart, beating.'
The rumble of his voice sends a wave of heat flooding towards her centre. She stops the gasp that would come unbidden. Holding it in leaves her ribs straining against a vacuum of air and she feels her heart race faster against his ear - he must know...
She strokes the hair away from his face. His eyes are still closed.
'I'm not dead.' She tells him, letting him settle into her.
Moving his hair has given her sight of his mouth and she scarcely believes she's going to do what she does next.
'And how do I taste?'
His tongue, when it emerges from between his lips is tentative. It rasps against the satin of her bra like a cat's, turning the pink stain of jam into a dark circle.
He keeps his eyes closed as if opening them would destroy the dream, make her evaporate before him, but now she doesn't suppress the heaving of her breaths and he knows she wants this by the arching of her back and the urgency of her cries.
The sight of him, his Genelike pout breaking into a shy smile over her breast spurs her on. Suddenly the fabric barrier is a barrier too much and she squeezes a desperate hand between them to pull and stretch at the encasing cup, straining the straps and letting out a hiss as the underwire pinches the underneath of her breast before her breast springs free.
Her desire escalates as her fingers slither over a hardening wet nipple then accidentally roll across his warm tongue. She feels him start to suck at her fingers and hastily pushes her breast into his mouth -
'Suck… bite…' She feels him nibble - 'oh, that's so good,' she murmurs, but then it isn't - his mouth stops sucking and his tongue dances over her too sensitive tip setting a million nerve endings grating and sending her into squirming dervish to avoid the unwelcome darts of electricity.
He opens his eyes now, mistaking her writhing for increased passion, but that is good because now he seeks intimacy and cranes his head up so they can share a kiss, and that is good because he kisses her softly and he tastes of tea and toothpaste instead of the smoke ash and whisky she half expected, but after lifting his mouth from her nipple he's replaced it with his hand and whilst the gentle kneading of her breast is welcome his thumb has found the nerve endings again and is proceeding to jar every one of them into a hunger she can't control.
With desperate haste she levers herself up, pushing at his hips in an attempt to get him to stand.
She's moving so fast he feels bemused more than anything. Not that the feel of her writhing beneath him hasn't felt wonderful, not that the taste of her jam covered breast or her sweet lips haven't aroused his ardour, just that it feels too much too soon. He can't remember a time when he's made a woman this hot for him.
'Christ, I never expected...' he admits as her hands alternate between caressing his burgeoning erection and undoing his trousers. 'Are you sure you want to do this?' She gives him a look that says, really, you ask that question now? before pushing his trousers to his knees. He looks down and realises he's wearing one of the novelty boxers his son had bought him one Christmas, the one with one side with a hand pointing up to the 'man' and the other side a hand pointing to his groin with the word 'legend'.
'Shit!' He wipes his face, embarrassed. He wonders again which bit of his behaviour has turned her into a raving sex manic. Was it collapsing in a heap of sobs or is it now standing before her in his last choice pants. 'Sorry, my son's idea of humour - my last clean pair - been living out of suitcases for days.'
Her smile puts him at ease - at least his boxers have amused her, but looking in her eyes he sees that despite her smiling lips her hazel eyes look desperate. 'Let's see if you live up to it…legend.'
The legend… she likes that image. Likes it a lot.
He stokes her flawless jawline as she hooks her fingers into his waistband and exposes him to the air. 'Not, bad. Not bad at all Mr...er... ' Her voice fades away as she licks her lips.
She stares into his grey eyes, looking away from the softness she sees there - hoping that in the heat of the moment he hasn't realised her almost faux pas. She opens her mouth over him, grinning as she senses the throb of his cock straining to meet her. She dribbles out a small trail of saliva onto its head before teasing him with a circle of her tongue and a gentle graze of her teeth.
His eyes roll in his head and he lets out a low rumbling hiss. A millisecond earlier he could have sworn she was about to call him something other than 'Quinn' and he thinks he knows who, but the sensation of her tongue teasing his head has obliterated that thought and many others that involved questions about how he's ended up here with the hottest woman on the planet insanely pursuing his cock with her tongue.
The bliss-induced caress of her face turns into a stroking of her hair as she sucks, her hands tugging slightly on his hips. Her tongue still working overtime she releases him periodically to slide her cheek against his length, letting him roll against her before she devours him greedily again.
He pushes a knee between her legs, applying pressure and she groans and wriggles around him and redoubles her efforts.
He concentrates on lifting her hair from her face, pulling it back into a pony tail behind her, admiring the discovery of a graceful stretch of neck. He marvels at the hollowing of her cheeks as she sucks. Christ, looking at her, so beautiful and eager, he feels like a teenager again. Only that's a problem - she's too fucking good...
One of her hands has moved to his balls and the other has parted his shirt. Now the shirt hand is planing along the expanse of his torso, seeking out his nipples, pinching and flicking them relentlessly. He almost cries it is so good. He looks down and sees both her breasts have escaped from her bra and they're swinging against his thighs. His legs tremble as he feels his balls tighten.
'Shit, Christ, slow down…' He tries to pull back - feeling like a teenager has another consequence - but if anything his words have made her efforts increase in pace, and then he's feeling it - the white liquid of ecstasy snaking through his balls - he makes a desperate attempt to extract himself from her mouth, putting his hand around his cock and touching hers hand.
The touch of his hand on hers surprises her, bringing her out of the journey to escalation she's been building single-mindedly up to. Her mouth relaxes a fraction in that fraction he withdraws. It's a critical moment, critical timing and he knows he's got it wrong as soon as he hits air.
She watches him trying to stem the flow, slack-jawed, as if coming out of a trance state, but he's too late. With the impeccable timing of a porn star, he fires a cum shot over her breasts.
She sits in a state of shock, her hands drawn to the gloop slipping down her skin.
'I'm sorry…' he starts, 'I tried…' Shit, he's shit at explaining. She goes to stand, 'You can wash in the bathroom, if you want.' He offers her an escape, feeling the need too to collect his thoughts, to work out what has just happened between them.
She leaves without hesitation, walking as if in a dream and when she shuts the door she locks it.
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Nasty angsty place to leave this I know. I am bad.
TBC.