latino_menace | OOM: Bogotá on fight night

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OOM: Bogotá on fight night

He'd never really thought that Fiona would take him up on his casual offer to come to watch him fight. Not that it seemed like she was full of shit or anything...but she is a woman. They say things easily, they're flippant and don't have the stomach for anything rough.

His opinion of women at the moment is, justifiably he thinks, low. Maria can shoulder a lot of the blame for that.

He always fights on a Friday and this week, he's definitely in the mood to cause some pain. He'd almost forgotten about Fi but when he opens the bathroom door and looks out onto the bar, he figures why not? He can even see her from where he's standing and she doesn't look like she's doing anything important.

'Busy tonight?'

He's never been much good at small talk.

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His touch leaves trails of fire burning in her skin, the stinging ache of a thousand knife edges, slicing her open to the bone. It's as much the feel of his fingertips and his palms exploring her skin as it is the hunger in his voice, the savage and now, heart-breaking gentle intensity of his kiss.

This body is younger, more toned, supple skin and strong muscle. But this, this is something she never expected. Her heels curl down the back of his thighs, and she arches off the bed, trying to get next to him. There's air between them, and even with his fingers slipping into her, it's not enough. She echoes that moan back to him, louder, and her hips rise.

Her hands fist in his hair and she breaks the kiss with a strangled gasp. She rests her forehead against his, a shuddering soft cry twisting up from deep inside her chest.

Her voice is a ragged whisper. "Fuck me, Ramon. Fuck me now."

Just hearing the words makes his cock start to pulse and it's no good, he just has to have her. He can't stand not making her come first but now he just can't wait anymore, he's done.

His fingers withdraw from her and he's careful when he takes himself in hand, not gripping tightly or near the head. He inches up closer and there's a tiny, quiet, high-pitched noise as the head of his cock slides against skin for just a fraction of space before there's give and the tip finds heat and wet and a touch of grip. He pulls back an inch to try and get a hold on his desire but it calls to him; his hips are moving without a thought, seeking it out and she'll feel the moment he finally lets himself push inside her - just an inch or two, so slow he could swear he feels the walls of her cunt stretching out to accomodate him - because his whole body starts to vibrate gently and he cries out quietly before cutting it off abruptly.

Breathe. Breathe, breathe fucking breathe you asshole...

He can count on one hand the number of women he's had that he actually gave a damn about pleasing. Typical that this is one of the few and she's wound him up so tight he can't please her, can hardly move for fear of breaking. But he's trying, trying so hard, to not let himself down (her hands are in his hair and she's so close, she won't be able to see him digging his nails into the soft part of his inner thigh, hoping the pain will hold off the inevitable); he eases forward again and she envelops him like a vice, a fucking vice. She was tight on his fingers, it's worse on his cock and he knows that one sudden movement and he's finished.

'Should've...let...you blow me,' he gasps out, hating the defensive note he hears in his voice. She's just a woman, what does it matter if she thinks he's bad?

But it does matter because somehow, she's going to end up his girlfriend in thirty years and he's been talking a good talk since they met and he sure as hell doesn't want to look like an asshole now. But he can't do a thing, he's moving so slow, filling her up, making her take the length of him and when he's buried completely he stays there, presses against her body and rocks a little, hopes that the pressure on her clit will get him off the hook a little while longer.

She holds her breath as he penetrates her, forces herself to remain still, even though her body is screaming at her to move. She can feel everything, the tremors going through him, the hitch in his breath, and the heat of his skin. He's so very hard and fills her so slowly, she can't contain the quiet exhalation, a keening sigh against his mouth. Her arms wind around his neck and she buries her face against his throat.

Her knees rise, just as slow as his own advance, and she wraps her thighs around his waist, her heels urging him on. The shift allows him to move deeper, allows his body to rest in the cradle of her hips, fitted so closely she can feel the pulse of his heart. He settles his weight on her and her body responds completely involuntarily. Her nails bite into his shoulder and her cunt pulses around his cock, a long, rolling contraction that shivers through her whole body.

"There."

He's so obviously trying not to move and just as obviously, biology won't let him still. His body needs this now and his hips start to rock, he fights to keep them slow but fuck, she's clenching him like she wants him to lose it and that's exactly what's about to happen - the pulse around him makes him lose his breath in a surprised huff and he jerks forward; he's horrified to find that once he's moved like that he can't stop.

No. No no no nononononono...

It's too late. He's jerking and jerking and Christ it feels so fucking good, so good that he almost stops caring about what she'll think, so good to let the pressure go, such a relief to have to give in. He has no air left but can't breathe in because the roiling pleasure between his legs has just ignited like a flame near gas; he's shuddering all over as it explodes, unaware that now he's moving, fucking her hard and fast as the fire rolls over him and burns him up, too tight to be able to make a sound as his cock spits a seemingly endless stream into her, the almost unbearable pleasure whiting out his senses for as long as it takes to be over.

He has no idea how long that is. He just knows that when it releases him, there are spots in front of his eyes from lack of air and he's gasping like he's just been in a three hour fight. It's almost a surprise to find that when he comes to rest he's still locked tight between her legs, the soft centre of her pressed around his aching hardness, keeping him safe.

He's magnificent, and she rises with him, her climax bright and sharp and fleeting by comparison, but no less sweeter for the feel of him coming undone in her arms. He's glorious, and she strives beneath him, wanting to share in that rush, wanting to make it good.

Eventually he gentles against her. Her fingers comb through his hair, and she breathes with him, quietly crooning against his temple, pressing gentle kisses against his hair. She won't move to let him go until he wants to move. Every move sends another slow wave of pleasure burning through her, and she doesn't want it to end just yet.

Another difference she'll see; the Ramon she knows would drop his head to her shoulder until he got his breath back, kiss her, smile. This one - well, who knows what he'd do under normal circumstances? All he can think is that he showed himself up and his face is blank, bordering on angry. He can't look at her and when he can breathe normally again, he eases himself up (pressing a small kiss to her neck first) and sits on the edge of the bed. A cigarette is lit and he smokes quietly, looking at the floor.

He'll make it up to her in a few minutes. That won't stop him wishing he'd done better this time around.

Her hands again never leave his skin. He's moving away from her, and that's the exact opposite of what she wants.

"Hey."

She moves behind him, her palms smoothing over his back. She presses a kiss to his shoulder, her eyes falling shut as she nuzzles him.

"We have all night."

She needs him now, in ways she can't begin to explain. Ways that have nothing to do with sex and everything to do with a basic human connection.

It's almost worse, her trying to placate him. It just confirms his suspiscions that he was rubbish. And it's not like he can do what he would with another woman, namely, throw her out. Hell, he doesn't even want her to leave.

By the end of the cigarette, he's come to the conclusion he can sulk or he can do it again and prove to her that he's good. One choice means no sex, the other means a lot of sex.

...it'll probably come as no surprise to anyone that after stubbing the smoke out, he turns his head and kisses her gently.

'I know. We're going to use it too.'

All. Damn. Night.

If he'd stop to think about it for a moment, he'd realise, he couldn't have been all that rubbish if she's still reaching for him, if she's kissing him like she's kissing him now. Soft and insistent, hands moving on his skin, exploring his chest, his shoulders, his neck, like she can read his thoughts with her fingertips.

All night. She has all night to navigate this labyrinth, this minefield. But he's present with her now, she can feel that in the way he's touching her. He's present in ways she never thought she'd ever feel from him. It's intoxicating and she only craves more.

There's a soft moan in the back of her throat as he pulls her close again. All night.

Her hands feel nice and so does her kiss. He turns and sits back on the bed properly, kneeling again and holding her tight against him. Her small frame and the way he can envelop her in his arms turns him on, her obvious desire for him just heightens it - and hell, it's not like he's really gone soft at all. He was wound up too tight for it all to disappear after a single climax.

His hands find her butt and squeeze, then travel again so he can caress her ribs and breasts, one eventually landing in her hair. The other strokes long lines up her spine, navigates her shoulderblades and rests on the back of her neck as he keeps kissing her, letting her pull him high again. He's not rushed now. There's time.

One of the things she's always loved about him is the way he uses his hands. It's exciting to feel that touch with him all over again. She melts into those glorious kisses, and for the first time, she can feel that they're the same man. The years have taken their toll in so many ways, but beneath the layers, the spark that drew her to him in the first place burns bright.

She yields to him, lithe and supple in his arms. Her breath quickens, and she echoes each touch back to him with a litany of soft sighs, quiet hungry moans. (It's better when you're into someone. Really into them.) Her touch roams over his skin, nails grazing lightly, her entire awareness focused only on him. Nothing else in the world matters but tonight, and being here with him.

It's good to be able to touch her without desperation clouding his senses and he takes his time, exploring the nuances of her flesh, the way her skin pulls over her ribs when she stretches over a little, the curve from waist to hip, the swell of her perfectly rounded breasts. And eventually, the hollow at the juncture of abdomen and thigh, the line of pelvic bone that runs to her centre, showing the way for his fingers as they slide between her legs.

Somewhere in the house, a door bangs and maybe there's a voice or two. He notes it almost subconsciously, unfocused on anything that isn't her. The universe outside this bedroom can wait, for now.

Where her hands pass, her lips follow. Hot open-mouthed kisses lingering along the curve of his neck, tracking the line of his collarbone.

She purrs, her hips pressing into his touch. She's dancing again, slick as an eel, blood warm oiled silk sliding over his fingers.

She arches her back and guides his mouth back to her breasts, nipples standing up eager for his clever tongue.

He growls quietly, liking the way she knows what she wants. His tongue flicks over that erect nipple before sucking it gently into his mouth; the long breath he lets out will probably show her how much he loves doing this. His fingers have been teasing over her hole and now they push into her, remembering the instruction from earlier to not be too gentle, curl just so and rub where she likes.

(What's that noise? Something break?)

He finds it hard to believe that he's enjoying pleasuring her so much. It's a whole new world for him.

Edited 2010-03-13 00:31 (UTC)

Her grip tightens on him, and he can feel her respond, like paper curling as it burns in a flame. She coils and arches into that touch, her breath going out of her in a slow, shuddering sigh. Her hands fist in his hair and she presses her nose into his thick, dark hair.

"A chuisle, I still want your mouth..."

She can feel his voice resonating in her chest as he groans, and she smiles against his hair.

A woman's voice breaks the reverie.

A woman's voice shouting his name.

Fiona goes dead still. It's probably two in the morning. Whoever that bitch is, she's going to kill her.

Edited 2010-03-13 03:56 (UTC)

'I want to...'

He breaks off when he hears his name being called, a split second before she stills.

It takes a moment to place it. But just a moment. He straightens (leaves his hand where it is) and his face is blank.

'Ignore it.'

Her eyes narrow. When she speaks, there's a cold fury in her voice. "If that's not your mother or your sister, and she's not gone in two minutes, I'm going to have her guts for garters."

The tone of her voice leaves no doubt in his mind that she's as serious as a heart attack.

'...don't do that.'

She's banging on the door. She's banging on the fucking door. Ramon sighs and pulls away from her, then puts his hands on her hips.

'Get into bed and cover up. She'll probably just...'

The door flings open.

'...come in.'

Fiona does not cover up. She's not about to act like she's the one doing something wrong here. Irish Catholic guilt is something she shed many lifetimes ago. She doesn't take her hands off him, and she won't, unless he pushes her away.

Her fury does falter when she sees the woman in the door.

She's only sixteen or seventeen. And she's wearing a ring...

Edited 2010-03-14 02:30 (UTC)

He assumed she would want her blushes spared - but if there isn't going to be any, that's OK with him. He's glaring at the teenager in the doorway who is, in turn, glaring at Fiona.

'Who's she?'

'What the fuck are you doing here?'

'Who's she?'

'Mind your own goddamn business. What are you doing here?'

She glares. He glares. This isn't going anywhere fast.

Fiona is beyond glaring.

She rolls out of bed with an economy of motion born of years of experience. She stalks across the room, straight at Maria and there's no way Ramon can get there in time.

She backs Maria up against the door frame, one hand on her throat. Her voice is low and cold and utterly emotionless.

"I don't know who you are, and I don't care who you are. The only reason you're not already dead is because of him." She points a finger back at Ramon. "You can have him back tomorrow. Tonight? He's mine."

Maria has probably never had a violent hand laid on her in her life. Her eyes go wide and for all the tough talk a few seconds ago, she's putting up no resistance.

'You're going to let her threaten me? Do something.'

She talks directly to Ramon, her eyes cutting over Fiona's shoulder. He sighs and stands up, walks over, closes his hand gently, but firmly, over Fi's wrist.

'Don't do that. Let her go.'

Fiona's grip tightens, her arm going rigid, strength fuelled by adrenaline.

She turns and looks into his face. He's seen the look in her eyes before, in the eyes of men fighting for their life against him in the ring. Pain and rage and fear.

"You said, 'All night.'"

He's a man of his word. Of all the things she knows about him (he doesn't love her), she knows, he's a man of his word.

Maria makes a strangled noise, trying to get air into her lungs, and only Ramon's insistence makes her break her grip.

'And I meant it.'

When her grip breaks, he doesn't let go of her arm. He looks into her eyes when he says,

'But you can't hurt my son.'

He's sure it's a boy. Sure of it.

"..."

She holds his gaze, searching his eyes.

His son.

She knows only a little, but it's enough.

"Caro."

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latino_menace - 2010-03-14 03:10 (UTC) - Expand

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justcallmefee - 2010-03-14 03:21 (UTC) - Expand

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