Fic: Sunday Morning (1/2)
Title: Sunday, The Early Hours (Time of Day)
Rating: oh so NC-17
Summary: Belle and Mr Gold spend their first full night together at his place, and things have to change.
The second half will be up soon, but this ended up so long it got cut in half. Still pretty damn long, though. Follows on directly from Saturday Midnight.
Part 1 - Part 2
Gold had to wonder if he was making a phenomenally stupid mistake here.
This week was doomed to be full of them, it seemed. First visiting her on Monday and allowing the cold mask to slip just a little - if she saw truly what was beneath, how much he belonged to her and needed her, then the world would come crashing down around their ears - and then Wednesday. Wednesday had been a disaster.
He’d looked everywhere for her, and she had simply vanished. He’d thought for a few, agonising hours that he’d provoked the Curse one step too far, and that she’d been taken away entirely for his carelessness. Perhaps Regina had seen them, and been spurred into action, his Belle spirited away like so many others had been before her by the Queen. He’d run himself frantic, searching for her when she was in none of their meeting places.
But he’d seen her that evening, buying coffee in Granny’s, and known from her closed-off posture, the loss of the spark she usually wore so well, that all he’d done was drive her away.
He’d hurt her, but she was still breathing. So he could consider it a needful sacrifice, some of her care for him for the sake of her safety.
He texted her that evening not because he worried for her wellbeing, but because wanted to know if she was still speaking to him, after he’d left so suddenly before. He knew he’d been a bastard - done his best to be, as a matter of fact - but he needed to know how much damage it had really done.
She was on-edge, tense and closed off around him in a way she’d never been before.
And now he was stealing her away in the night, promising hours together and things she had described as ‘couple-y’, in a voice both bitter and heartbreakingly hopeful.
He was walking on the very edge of a knife here: too much and she’d push him more than he could take, and they’d be making promises and sweet devotions by daybreak. Too little and she’d be shattered for good, and he couldn’t bear to hurt her again.
Not that much: not too much. Enough to bend but not to break: the creed he had lived by for centuries, it seemed.
Belle would forgive him. The real Belle, the girl who was his maid and his saviour and his prisoner. The one who had supposedly died. When he explained this to her, she would forgive him.
It wasn’t an excuse to take this weaker version, this Isabelle, and break her for his own selfish reasons.
And yet he did so anyway, he supposed because he could. No one ever admitted that it was the weak, in the end, who tore down the strong, not the other way around.
He should wait outside the car, explain that this was a mistake - an early morning tomorrow, perhaps, or his house was unfit for use, or the vision of her father catching them which had worked so well in the past - and leave alone.
But at that very moment, the passenger side door swung open, and Belle plopped herself down in the seat throwing her duffle-bag over the backs of the chairs. Her overnight things, he assumed.
“You’re sure about this?” she asked, and she’d never sounded so hostile. Why should she be hostile now? This was what she wanted, was it not?
“Are you?” a question for a question: once they had been so ready with answers.
“No.” She said, and at least the honesty was still there. She lied to everyone else but at least he received the truth.
“I could drop you back at home,” he offered, quietly, “Drive home on my own and we continue as normal. You don’t have to do this.”
He offered an out he knew would be refused: she would come with him. She would always follow him just as he would always take that trust, all that love and faith he did not deserve, and use them as weapons to break her. This was their pattern.
And, as was becoming their pattern, she avoided having to answer at all by leaning over and kissing him, crushing her lips to his and gripping the sides of his head so hard it almost hurt. He couldn’t help but respond, kiss her back with a ferocity that easily matched her own.
They parted, breathing heavily, and he swallowed hard, “Right, home it is.”
She smiled at him - he missed that smile when it wasn’t around, the one she wore all the time when they had first started this stupid enterprise - and nodded, “Okay.”
The drive back was silent, and she finally put the radio on. Some station from Boston filled the car, playing a song he didn’t recognise. Belle was tapping along on the dashboard, though, her lips parting to silently mouth the words.
“Who is this?” he asked, more as something to say to break through the tension than out of any real curiosity.
“Lana del Rey.” She replied, but she didn’t sound too enthusiastic, “Not the best, but it gets stuck in your head.” She shot him an apologetic little smile, “I can turn it off, of you’d like?”
“The player’s had an unbearable Christmas CD stuck in it from years back.” He told her, drawing on his time as Mr Gold, before Emma arrived and Rumpelstiltskin returned, to supplement his memories, “Unless you fancy Wham for the rest of the journey, I believe this will have to do.”
He certainly didn’t feel like talking. Talking with her in this mood would only lead to things said that shouldn’t be heard.
“I’ll change the station, at least.” She compromised, and fiddled with the dials for a moment before landing on something that proclaimed itself Oldies Hour. Much like when he had first tasted tobacco in this world - from Belle’s own mouth, as a matter of fact - had had a sudden flash of memories from his supposed-youth. The Curse re-exerting itself once again: as if he needed reminding.
Belle was looking at him expectantly, “This any better?”
“This one’s bloody miserable, love.” He said, but he didn’t ask her to change it.
“Do you know it?”
He thought for a moment, before a name and a title presented themselves as if they’d always been there, “Tracy Chapman, Fast Car.”
She made a noncommittal noise, nodded, and they lapsed into silence again. The slow guitar and smooth voice were, at least, preferable to the loud and driving beat of the song before, even if ‘bloody miserable’ was an accurate summary of the lyrics.
They pulled up in front of his house, and the song stopped suddenly as he pulled the key from the ignition. Neither one of them moved.
“So.” She said, but seemed disinclined to say anything more.
“So,” he had no idea how, but they’d gone from quiet companionship to outright awkward with just the parking of the car, and he had no idea what to say next. “I’ll get your bag, you go unlock the door.”
He handed her his house keys, and she stared at them a moment, an unreadable expression on her pretty face. Then she nodded, and got out of the car, scampering up the path to his front door without a glance back. Her duffle was easy enough to haul from the backseat and after her - all she could have in there was clothes and a wash-bag, after all - and she was only just getting the door open when he came to join her.
She flipped the light switch - she came over here enough to know by now how his home worked - and the hallway was flooded with light.
He closed the door behind them, and the sound had a certain finality to it. This was it: they were spending the night together.
She seemed to hear it too, because she turned to look at him with eyes a little too wide, desperate and happy and miserable all at once. Rumpelstiltskin’s cowardice didn’t leave when Mr Gold came into existence: he couldn’t stand to look at those eyes any longer.
So he flashed her a smile, the smile he always showed her right before he was about to start something, and dropped her bag to the floor. In moments, he had his hands on her hips, her back pressed hard against the wall and his lips covering hers. He kissed her desperately, messily, all tongue and teeth and lips. She tasted of sugar and alcohol, and the cherry lipgloss she must have applied while he waited in the car.
She made a helpless little moaning noise, and he considered it a victory. He didn’t allow her any control, plundered her mouth as her hands wove in his hair, clinging on for dear life.
His hands roamed everywhere, down to trace the curve of her ass, holding her firmer against him, then up to flutter along the edges of her rib cage, thumbs sweeping under her breasts beneath her cardigan, the heat of her skin radiating through the thin cotton of her t-shirt.
She had slipped her mouth away from his, was running her lips along his jaw, and he took the initiative, dipping his head so he could kiss along the column of her throat, to find every little sensitive spot he’d catalogued over the past months and exploit them mercilessly. She arched her neck with a gasp, and he could feel her shaking against him, clutching him ever closer.
This was what they could have, this and no more. And she had to know it, had to understand that this was what they were.
But suddenly, she was pushing him away by his shoulders, “Bedroom,” she gasped, “We have all night.”
He nodded, swallowing hard around the idea of having her in his bed. They’d never even gone upstairs before: the stairs and kitchen and sofa, even the arm chair and the dining room table, had all been well employed. He’d never lead her upstairs.
But he’d invited her here, so this was how it would go.
He took her hand - he never held her hand, never, but it was warm and soft and deceptively small and fragile in his - and she took her bag over her other arm. They climbed the stairs together, not speaking. They never seemed to speak anymore.
Once, their relationship had been built on words, insubstantial and monumental. Now they were all action, hurried movements to remove clothing and have skin against skin, and words only got in the way. Words only made it real.
She went into his room ahead of him, and he followed, closing the door behind them once more. He gave her a moment to look around - the room was cluttered as was every other in his home, but where the rest was full of useless trinkets and ‘comforts’, this one room was free from Regina’s ironies.
Here he had the cup, the one she chipped in another life, and the leather football he was too afraid to display in the shop. Here he had the things from the Dark Castle that he considered precious, along with all his books.
She’d read half of them: she had no idea.
He couldn’t stand it any longer: he came up behind her, hands on her hips and lips at her ear, “Enjoying the view, dearie?”
“You’re a magpie,” she said, but her voice was a little lighter and brighter than it had been before. She was comfortable here: he shouldn’t have felt anything like the fierce joy he did at that.
She’d be gone by morning, she had to be.
Gold’s room was simultaneously exactly what Belle had expected and nothing like it at all. She supposed she had imagined that it’d be stark and bare, like a monk’s quarters, although solemn and chaste he certainly was not. She had imprinted her sheer lack of knowledge about his past, his true thoughts and interests, onto this room: anything more than a cell and cot would have been a surprise of a kind, she supposed.
She leaned back, somehow daringly, her back flush against his front. For a moment, everything was still, his hands still gripping her hips, his chin simply rested on her shoulder.
And then the moment was broken, and he was growling against her skin, his lips working from the edge of her t-shirt on her collarbone up her neck and back again, on the side he’d neglected downstairs.
She shivered against him; she couldn’t help it. One hand came from her side to hold the back of his head, keep him in place as she arched back against him, a small sigh escaping her lips.
He instantly moved his head up, encouraged her to crane her neck around so he could claim her mouth in a messy kiss. She turned in his arms, lips still glued to his, every inch of her pressed against him, as close as could be with clothing still on. Her hands threaded into his hair as his went back to skimming her sides, touching without truly feeling anything.
She could feel him pressing against her belly, and yet all he did was nibble her lips and stroke her tongue, move in slow little patterns over her back, nowhere outside the safe zones. She whimpered a little demandingly, kissed him deeper and bucked her hips against him, hoping he’d get the hint.
All he did was pull back and smirk at her, forehead against hers, hands on her shoulders, “Patience, precious thing,” he breathed into the space between them, “We have all night, after all.”
She felt a little bolt of heat run through her at his words, at the meaning behind them, the dark intent.
She caught him by his tie, surprising him enough that when she grinned and pulled he followed unthinkingly. She sat herself down on the bed, still holding his tie, and he stood before her.
“Patience,” she said, looking up at him, “Is what I’ve had for the past six months.” She moved her hands from his tie down his shirt front, over his hips but past the place she knew he’d want her. “Patience,” she continued, rubbing slow circles against his thighs with her thumbs, “Is what I have whenever I’m not with you, and I want to be.” She leaned forward, caught his zipper in her teeth and dragged it down. She heard his breath catch, his hand come to cup her face and bring her to face him.
“Patience,” she cut him off, her voice carrying a note of steel to it, as she shook his hand from her, “Is perhaps fine for you, but I’ve had enough of it.”
She leaned forward, purposefully, and ran her tongue over him through the silk of his boxers. He made a strangled little noise, his hips shunting shamelessly toward her, and with another little growl he had gripped her shoulders and shoved her backward, falling on top of her and pinning her to the bed. He ground his hips against her forcefully, and she giggled, petting his hair.
“We have all night.” He reminded her, pinning her hands above her head with his own, weaving her fingers between his. He leaned down to nip at her throat, “Remember?”
She squirmed beneath him, undeniably pleased at this turn of events, “So what are we waiting for?”
He went still for just a moment, looking at her with another of those odd little expressions. He looked about to answer her, and she was worried for what he might say. Even here, in his bed with the whole night before them, she was scared that he could say something to ruin everything.
So she didn’t let him answer, leaned upward to kiss him again instead. She slipped her tongue between his lips and plundered his mouth, and he groaned against her, the tension slipping from his body as easy as it had come.
She took advantage of his distraction to spin them over, so she was straddling his hips and her hands now pinned him. She broke their kiss with a smirk and wriggled against him for good measure, and felt him harden still further beneath her.
“You,” he snarled, “Are a wicked little thing.”
“Hmm,” she smiled, pleased, leaning down to nip at his bottom lip and trail little biting kisses across his jaw and to his earlobe, “You were taking too long.”
“I didn’t want to rush,” he replied, his voice low in her ear, that melting tone that sent her reeling just from the sound of it, “Wanted to go slow, take my time with you.”
She squirmed against him again, more for her own benefit than for his, a cascade of images running through her mind. She made an embarrassing little moaning noise, and felt him chuckle in response.
He sighed, “But, I suppose, if you haven’t the patience…”
She scowled at him, and released his hands, but remained leaned over him, braced on her forearms on either side of his head. He was smirking at her: he knew he had her, and was enjoying every moment of it.
“We do have all night…” she allowed, and he gave her the dirtiest little wink she’d ever seen.
“Indeed we do.”
“What did you…” she paused, suddenly shy for no reason she could explain, “What did you have in mind?”
“Hmm,” he considered, his hands caressing the skin of her hips through her jeans. She yelped in surprise when he flipped them over, so she was beneath him once more, “This’d be a good start.”
One of his hands came to stroke the side of her neck, fingertips just brushing the bare skin, trailing over in light little patterns that made her shiver. “Taking my time,” he rumbled into her ear, before licking her earlobe and causing yet another shiver down her spine, “Is easier this way.”
He pulled back and smirked at the flush in her cheeks, achieved with just a few words, and gentle little touches. Those same fingers trailed down from her neck to the collar of her t-shirt - the loose, comfy one she’d worn to Ruby’s - and along the neckline, before moving down to lightly scrap against one breast, “Also easier without all this clothing, hm?” he suggested.
She nodded, and shifted back and away from him, so they were vertical on the bed, her head on the soft pillows. She was about to reach down to pull the shirt over her head, but the look in his eyes stopped her.
Slowly, he pulled the hem from her waist and up, fingertips spidering over every inch of exposed skin, over her ribs and the curve of her waist, thumbs stroking the undersides of her breasts. She hadn’t been wearing a bra - no need, it being a girls’ night - and he smirked at her, pleased. “And up.” He whispered, and she raised her shoulders and neck, so she could wriggle out of the garment.
The motion had her squirming against him, and his eyes fluttered closed, briefly. She smiled, “Are you sure you have the patience to ah, take your time?”
He raised an eyebrow at her. She giggled as his eyes swept down over her exposed torso, his tongue darting out to wet her lips. She knew that look: it was the one he wore when he planned to devour her whole.
“Are you questioning my stamina, dearie?” he asked, “That’s quite the insult, considering past experience.”
“Well, you know,” she leaned up, nipped at his lower lip, “Past experience being what it is… maybe ‘all night’ is a bit of a challenge.”
“I’ll give you a challenge,” he snarled, and she giggled as he buried his lips in the side of her neck, running his tongue over every inch of skin his eager lips could find, sucking hard when he found a spot that made her gasp and shiver against him. Her hands came to weave in his hair and hold him in place, but he was already moving down over her collarbone to the tops of her breasts.
And then he just stopped, and smirked at her flushed face and bright eyes, “What?”
“I just don’t know how you’re going to last,” he said, pouting in mock-sympathy, “If you react so strongly to just that.”
“Oh, that is it.” She locked her legs around his upper thighs and pulled up, lining them up so that, through his suit pants and her jeans, they were perfectly aligned. She ground against him from beneath, and he groaned, his cock already hard against her. “Stop teasing me,” she whispered, “And take some clothes off.”
He nodded, shakily, and scrambled to get his suit jacket off as she worked on his buttons and tie.
They finally had skin against skin, and Belle held on just a moment longer, the sensation better than anything else in the world.
But the last time she indulged in that for too long, he had done nothing less than take her heart and crush it in his palms, and she wasn’t going to let him do it twice.
So she let him go when he made to move downwards, and arched her back as he ran his lips back over her collarbone, lapping at fresh bruises - his marks, on her skin, hidden by all but a few of her necklines but still there, claiming her as though he wished her to be his - and down, to the swells of her breasts.
She gasped, eyes squeezing shut and back arching, as his lips clasped around one nipple, tongue stabbing at the hard little bud, sending little bursts of fire through her body. Her hands came to grasp the back of his head, but he was already moving across to the other, performing the same glorious dance of teeth and tongue until she was whimpering, hips bucking against him.
One hard thigh slipped between hers, and she shamelessly ground against it, desperate to release some of the ache between her legs. He looked up from his work, hair mussed and wild from her hands running through it, and smiled languidly, “Anxious, sweet?” he asked, pushing his thigh a little harder against her, the sensation only magnified by the clothing separating them.
“You’re a bastard,” she snarled, and moved her hands between them to start work on his flies.
He was all too ready to help her, and between them they made it to a point where they were divested of all but his boxers and her knickers. She glanced down and snickered, “Gold boxer shorts, really? Who’re you, Mohammad Ali?”
“Didn’t seem to mind when you were mouthing me through them,” he countered, resuming his position between her legs and pressing a kiss to her mouth, “Hm?”
“Well, I couldn’t see them then. I can’t usually see things that are already in my mouth.” She replied, and just for effect she ran her fingertips over her parted, kiss-swollen lips. He swallowed hard, and she smiled in victory.
“Little tease,” he growled, and swooped down to plunder her mouth, lips working furiously against hers as he found every secret little place that made her whimper and hold him closer. She sucked on his tongue for a moment, and shivered when he made a strangled little groan and arched against her.
They broke apart breathing hard, and he brushed over her cheekbone to reach her ear, “Now, hold still.” He breathed, and she nodded, shakily.
He smirked against her skin, and moved downward, bestowing little biting kisses to the undersides of her breasts, the bottom of her ribs - which made her squeal and squirm, the sensation so strange - across her stomach. His tongue dipped into her navel, and she wriggled, knowing perfectly well where he was going and impatient for him to hurry up and get there already.
He spent what felt like an eternity mapping her torso with lips and tongue and fingers, finding odd little places that made her whimper and arch against him and exploiting them mercilessly. Her desperate little noises made him chuckle against her skin, and the vibration was the sweetest kind of torture.
He swirled around her hip, and blew cold air over the newly-wetted skin, drawing another surprised little gasp from her lips.
“Something you want, dear?” he asked, drawing her panties down so slowly over her legs, so the lace whispered against her skin. She was tempted to just murder him with his own goddamn tie.
“You know what,” she said, “You know.”
“I do…” he agreed, lapping once more at her hip and scraping his teeth a little as he went, “But I want to hear it. Beg for me, Belle, beg for what you want…”
“Please…” it was more of a sigh than a spoken word, “Please, please…”
“Please what?” he prompted, and oh, she lived for moments likes these.
She looked down at him, at his dark eyes and gleaming, smirking mouth, and smiled, “Fuck me with your mouth.” She purred, swallowing down any embarrassment she felt with the knowledge that she was as much in control here as he was, enjoying the way his jaw went slack.
“There it is,” he hummed, approvingly, nodding as he got his wits together, “Such a good girl.” And suddenly, his lips and tongue were right where she wanted, cleaving between her folds and hitting all the right little places to make her keen and squirm. He strove to drive her insane, lapping at her pussy and sucking on her clit in irregular, erratic little motions, making her mewl and cry out in surprise, her legs wrapping themselves almost automatically around his shoulders.
He alternated randomly between long licks, his tongue flat and hot against her, and short, sharp swipes to her clit, the occasional little scrape of teeth making her whimper each time. The lack of a rhythm drove her wild, kept her on edge as she shamelessly ground against him, trying to get him as close as possible, his mouth on her, in her, all around her, hot and wet and everywhere, and her cries had become screams. She was rocking her hips against his mouth on her pussy to get as much pressure as she could, the sensation almost too much to bear.
She was so close, so close, but every time she thought she would fall he’d pull back, bestowing wet kisses to the insides of her thighs, away from where she needed him. He waited for her to calm down a little, for her breathing to settle, before cleaving his tongue back into her and building her right back up again.
By the third time she was screaming in frustration, gripping the back of his head almost to force him back to work.
He snickered, and she groaned, flopping her head back against the pillow. Without warning, he drove two fingers up deep inside her, curled at just the right angle to make her whole body convulse and spasm around him, pleasure roaring through her as he licked and licked and licked at her. Her clit was drawn between his lips as he sucked hard, the fingers inside her thrusting in and out as she rode out her orgasm, hips pounding of their own accord against the sheets.
When she finally came down from her high, her body was limp and slumped against the bedclothes. He continued to kiss her, softly and almost soothingly, his lips soft against her aching flesh.
She could feel his eyes on her, the pressure of his weight on her stomach, even as she stared at the ceiling and tried to catch her breath. She looked down, and found him settled on the bed, laying still between her legs, his head on his hands, folded on her stomach, his weight braced on his elbows on either side of her.
His smile was so languid and warm, so tender, that she thought she might melt.
He’d never done that before, taken so long and worked so hard to bring her off. He’d gone down on her before, plenty of times, and he knew the places to make her come in minutes. He’d been telling the truth: he was planning on taking his time with her.
She dragged him up to her by his shoulders, and kissed him hard. She could taste herself on his tongue, and it sent her reeling as she clutched him closer, and he kissed her back furiously.
“What was that for?” he asked, as they broke apart for air and she was kissing his cheeks, his jaw, his earlobe.
“I like it when you take your time.” She whispered, and felt him shiver against her.
“And why’s that?” he teased, as she gently rolled them over so that she was straddling him, leaning down to meet his forehead with hers. They were concealed in the curtains of her hair; a soft, warm, private little den.
“Because we never have enough of it.” She replied, and pressed a soft, almost chaste, kiss to his lips.
He was staring at her, and she couldn’t tell at all what the emotion was on his face.
She wanted to tell him, here and now, with them both stripped down to bare skin, so close that she could die. They were in his bed, and they were alone, and they had more time than they’d ever been granted before. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, deeply and purely and truly, and to fall on her knees and beg him not to turn her away.
The words, three words and eight letters, beautiful and horrible and wonderful, hung on her lips.
But she couldn’t say them, not here, not when things were so perfect. Those words were like a thrown stone to their strange and wicked house of cards, and there was no way that it would remain standing once they were spoken.
She would tell him, and soon. But not tonight. Tonight was about time, not love, never love, and that was important to remember.
His hands had taken hold of her hips, and she ground down against him, her slick centre sliding against his hard cock through the damp silk of his boxers.
“Let’s take these off,” she said, “Shall we?”
He nodded, and she giggled at the sheer eagerness of the motion. He wriggled his hips as she knelt up and pulled them down, and with a little more effort he was free of them, and the silly things were thrown to join the rest of their discarded clothing.
“Do you want this?” she asked, the question redundant but so very important, “Now?”
“Yes.” He half-groaned, half-gasped as she took his hard length in her hand, stroking him in her palm.
“No more taking time?” she mocked, his need so much more desperate than hers for once. She was more than ready to go again - these days, he only had to look at her right and smile and she was wanting him naked - but she’d already come once. It was nice, she thought, smirking, to have him entirely at her mercy.
“Belle…” he groaned, pushing his hips up demandingly, and she gave him another quick stroke, the sight of him naked and begging for her intoxicating.
“Answer me, Mr Gold,” she purred, “Are we done with patience?”
“Yes, fine,” he nodded, his hands on her hips squeezed, trying to line them up, but she squirmed away at the last moment. She giggled in victory, but it turned to a whimpering moan as the blunt head of his cock grazed her oversensitive clit.
His eyes blinked open, and he smirked at her, “No more patience, then?”
“Agreed.” She nodded, frantically, and slipped back a little, so he was lined up perfectly with her entrance. His eyes on her in the golden lamplight made her warm all over, and she gasped, her back arching as he slipped inside her. She worked herself slowly down the whole length, sobbing with pleasure when he was buried in her to the hilt.
For just a moment, everything was dark, silent and still. Their breathing practically echoed through the midnight quiet; one breath in, one out.
And then he had pulled her down to kiss her frantically, and his other hand was pumping her hips up and down as he drove into her, hot and hard and deep. They set up a punishing rhythm that had her crying out against his mouth, their kiss a messy pressing of mouths, all finesse lost as he pounded up into her, and she plunged down hard to meet every driving thrust.
From her angle atop him, bent at the waist to press her face to his, his cock grazed her clit with every sudden movement in or out of her dripping pussy. The feeling was unbearable, the thrusts so hard and deep that they were just the right side of pain, the pleasure shooting from where they were joined and racing through her whole body.
He was holding her hands, entwined where she braced her forearms on the mattress. They held hands as he took her hard and deep. Their fingers entwined like the gentlest, tenderest of lovers, even as they fucked like the world was ending.
It was the combination Belle had most hoped for, most ardently dreamed of, and it lasted for mere minutes as she rode him into his bed.
And then she twisted her hips a little, and the angle was hitting someplace hot and wonderful inside her, sending fireworks through her shattered body as he groaned and twisted beneath her.
She could have sworn they reached completion at the exact same moment, as their kisses turned furious and he groaned like he was dying against her lips as she screamed, helpless, tiny cries of pleasure into his mouth.
They moved erratically, rough and uncontrolled, as they rode out their climaxes and burned into each other. Belle was on fire, incandescent with one of his hands buried in her hair, the other holding her hip, as they shuddered together, riding the aftershocks.
She collapsed on top of him, and he slipped out of her. They had just enough energy to get the duvet on top of them instead of beneath, before she was curled into his side and his arms were around her, and both of them sound asleep.
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