Michael curls his fingers around the smooth-edged piece of plastic, irritated with both himself and the fact that something so small could niggle at him so badly.
He knows it shouldn’t matter. He knows he sounds like a ten year-old whining about not being able to find the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle. He knows this is probably making him appear the most anal-retentive OCD sufferer that ever bought a piece of self-assembled furniture.
He knows it shouldn’t matter, but it does.
Leaning on their new coffee table, Sara looks at him over her shoulder with thinly concealed exasperation, and he suspects he’s not the only one suddenly feeling irritable. “The table is fine.”
If he were having this conversation with his brother, he thinks, he wouldn’t hesitate to press the issue. To his surprise, though, he doesn’t even consider hesitating now. “Then what is this?” he asks her, holding out the offending piece of plastic that will not fit, no matter how hard he tries to bend it to his will.
She plucks it from his hand and studies it for a long moment, her expression indecipherable, and he’s suddenly afraid he’s given away too much. That she’s seen too far inside the worst of him and found him wanting. That she’s still wondering if this, him, them, is going to be all too hard.
Without a word, she rises to her feet with her usual long-legged grace that still manages to take his breath away, and walks across the lounge room. Biting back the obvious question, he sits cross-legged on the floor and watches in silence as she begins to search through half-unpacked boxes. In a moment she’s walking back towards him, determination etched on her face. Without looking at him, she unscrews the lid of a small tube, then anoints one side of the superfluous piece of plastic. His brain and his nose tell him glue as his eyes follow her quick and nimble fingers, then she’s reaching underneath the table and he knows exactly what she’s done but he has no idea why.
“Sara, why did you-”
She screws the lid back on the tube of glue. Her fingers aren’t quite as steady now. “It’s a part of it now. Part of the table. It belongs.” Her usually gentle tone grows fiercer with every word. “It wasn’t part of the plan, but it’s sticking around now, Michael.”
Oh, Sara. He stares at her, once again taken aback by her ability to reach into the heart of a problem without a second thought and make it right. Just like she’d done time and time again when he’d been in her care at Fox River, just as she’d done every day they’d been together since. He gazes at her, at the resolve glittering in her eyes, and he knows that no matter how hard everything - him, her, them – may turn out to be, she has no intention of giving up.
He holds his breath and holds out his hand, tangling his fingers with hers as she slides her palm against his. Uncrossing his legs, he pulls her closer until she’s sitting in front of him, her legs curled up beneath her, the curve of her bottom distractingly warm and soft against his groin. Slipping his arms around her, he forces himself to resist the urge to cup her breasts in his hands, instead splaying his fingers across her ribcage. Her back is warm against his chest, and the lingering scent of her perfume teases his nose. “I missed the part where we started talking in allegories, Sara,” he whispers, letting his lips brush against her earlobe, swallowing hard when he feels the faint shiver ripple through her.
She leans back in his arms, her hands covering his, then stretches out one long leg, pushing against the leg of the table with her bare toes as if to test its mettle. Hiding a smile, he leans forward, taking her with him as he slaps his hand down on the top of the table hard enough to make his palm sting. He can literally feel the breathlessness that steals over her, the way her eyes are following his every move, and it makes him want to do several reckless and unexpected things.
‘It looks like a pretty solid table, Sara,’ he tells her softly, knowing that they’re no longer just talking about the damned coffee table.
“Only one way to find out,” she mutters, something quite different suddenly in her voice, and he realises that perhaps they haven’t finished discussing the table after all. Twisting in his arms, she shuffles backwards until her bottom hits the edge of the table, then her hands are wrapped around his, pulling him to his knees, pulling him towards her.
“Sara-” It’s a half-hearted protest, given that he’s already kneeling between her legs and brushing his lips over hers, tasting warmth and coffee. She opens her mouth to his kiss, her tongue tangling with his with a lazy deliberation that makes his blood grow hot and his whole body sing with hunger. “This isn’t really-”
“You need to brush up on your spontaneity skills, Michael,” she informs him breathlessly, gripping the bottom of his t-shirt and peeling it up his torso.
“Linc will be here soon,” he informs her in return, but his hands are already on hers and he’s helping her pull the shirt over his head.
“Not for another hour.” She tosses his t-shirt onto the sofa and presses a hot open-mouthed kiss to the curve of his neck.
He closes his eyes, his hands drifting up her stomach to cup her breasts through her shirt. “I was going to make tacos for dinner,” he mutters unsteadily, and he feels her throaty chuckle as much as he hears it.
“We’ll order pizza.” She skims her fingertips down his belly, then over his belt, then the button fly of his jeans until she’s pressing her palm there, right there, right where he’s already hard and aching for her touch. Sucking in a sharp breath, he forgets about the table, the superfluous piece of plastic, the fact that his brother will be here in less than sixty minutes expecting to be fed. All he can think about is this woman and how perfectly she fits, fits into his life, his body, his heart.
Gently palming her breasts, he bows his head to kiss the soft swell of pale flesh exposed by the deep v-neck of her shirt. “Pizza is an acceptable alternate plan,” he finally concedes and she chuckles again. It’s a breathless, heady sound that dances across his skin, and he wants nothing more to inhale it from her mouth, swallow it whole until she’s gasping in his arms.
Shifting restlessly against him, she grips the bottom of her t-shirt and begins to pull it up over her stomach. He puts his hands on hers, holding them still, and she gives him a puzzled but heated look. “What?”
He slides his hands beneath her shirt, exploring soft skin and intriguing dips and hollows. “Not so fast.”
She gives him an unsteady smile, her breath coming fast and shallow. “I thought you were worried about time.”
“You’ve inspired me to reorganize my priorities,” he murmurs, wondering if she has any idea how true those words are. From the moment they met, he has been reworking and reconfiguring every plan he’s ever made. Without even trying, she’d challenged him at every turn, forcing him to rethink everything he thought he knew was the right thing to do. And he’s glad, because she’s here, they’re here, and that alone is worth far more than anything he’s had to do to reach this place.
“I’m flattered,” she whispers shakily, tilting back her head as he kisses the long line of her throat. He can taste the fluttering of her pulse, the salt of her skin, and his whole body tightens as though it’s the first time he’s touched her, just the way it always does.
She smoothes her hands over the curve of his head, her fingertips teasing the back of his neck, the skin just behind his ears. He shivers with pleasure, gooseflesh rising up in the wake of her explorations, and not for the first time is gripped by a sudden sense of disbelief. Less than a year ago, she’d been the prison doctor and he’d been the inmate struggling to hide his instinctive, almost violent reaction to her touch. It was no wonder his body still went into shock whenever he put his hands on her, he thinks hazily, let alone whenever she reached for him.
Covering her mouth with his, he kisses her again, slow and deep and hard, and fire leaps through his veins at the taste of her, and this time he doesn’t stop her when she reaches for the bottom of her shirt. He helps her pull it over her head, then runs his fingertips over the pale skin of her upraised arms, her delicately muscled biceps, the soft swell of her breasts. Her skin is a rich cream against the dark red of her bra, the rigid tips of her breasts pressing hard against the soft material too much of a temptation to resist.
She gasps softly as he takes one tight nipple between his teeth, biting down gently through the thin material of her bra. Her fingernails dig into his scalp, and he feels the familiar struggle flare into life inside him, feeling torn between the desire to be gentle and the raw need to devour her, to let her devour him. There’s never been anything simple about his feelings for her, and he suspects there never will be.
Her hands are fumbling with his belt now, and he knows he wanted to take this slow but he wants her more. He gently pushes her hand away and deals with the belt and the button fly and then her hand is sliding beneath the waistband of his boxers and she’s curling her fingers around him, her touch cool on his heated flesh. Arching into her touch, he fumbles with the drawstring of her track pants, tugging them down over her hips, then her belly and then-
Oh.
“This is new,” he says in a choked voice that sounds as though it’s traveled up from his solar plexus and maybe it has, because he’s never known Doctor Sara Tancredi to go without underwear.
She flushes, then gives him a dignified smile, quite a feat considering she’s sitting half-naked on the edge of a coffee table. “It was either a load of laundry or going out to buy some food to put in our empty refrigerator.” Explanation over, she hooks her thumbs into his jeans and his boxers and pushes them down until they’re pooled around his knees.
Leaning his forehead against her shoulder, he prays for strength as he mutters several colourful words against the pale curve of her breast, then she peels her trackpants down and off, then wraps her legs around him. All his words - even the colourful ones - fly right out of his head, because she’s warm and soft against him, damp curls and hot skin cradling the heavy thrust of his erection like a glove.
He had wanted to take this slow - perhaps later he’ll remember why - but he no longer cares about slow or fast or any speed at all, because her hands are slipping between them to touch him, tease him, kissing him with such unrestrained hunger that his mind empties of everything but the need to lose – and find - himself inside her.
Her dark red bra soon joins the pile of t-shirts on the sofa and she’s curling her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. The feel of her bare breasts - all warm, smooth skin and tight pink flesh – pressed against his chest makes him shudder, and he drops his hands to her hips, smoothing his palms over the curve of her bottom, once again praying for the strength to endure. It’s always the same, every single time, this internal war between anticipation and the promise of satiation, and he never wants it to be any other way.
“That looks uncomfortable,” he murmurs in a vain effort to distract himself, trailing his fingertips along the polished surface of the coffee table, his thumbs brushing over the soft skin of her hips.
“I’ve had worse,” she quips, and he can’t help wondering if she’s joking, even though he knows it doesn’t matter if she’s not because that was then and this is now. Her eyes lock with his - soft brown eyes that have learned to read him all too well - then she takes his face in her hands. “But this feels just right, Michael,” she whispers against his mouth, her thighs tightening around his hips in unmistakable invitation.
She doesn’t look away as he slides his hands up her thighs, then he brushes his thumb over the soft curls and damp warmth between her legs. Her eyelids flutter shut, her hands on his shoulders now, her fingers digging into his skin as he presses himself into the silken heat of her body in one long, slow slide. She lets out a shaky breath that matches the fluttering whisper of air caught in his throat, then he’s deep inside her and once again it’s all he can do to not take her hard and fast, pushing her backwards onto the table, not caring if it’s uncomfortable for either of them.
As though sensing the private struggle inside him, she kisses him, hard, her hips nudging his in a steady rhythm that is anything but slow and gentle, her fingernails leaving their mark on his shoulders. He grips her bottom in his hands - his fingers between her warm flesh and the cool wood of the table - and they begin to move together. He thinks he hears the creak of wooden joints, but the slick heat of her body is tight and wet around him and he doesn’t give a damn about the bloody table.
Sliding one arm around her waist, he pushes himself deep inside her again and again, knowing he's so close, straining to take her with him, hardly daring to breathe until she arches in his arms, her eyes closing in agonized anticipation. Her whole body stiffens, her thigh muscles quivering, then the slippery embrace of her body begins to flutter around him.
“Michael-” She gasps his name in a dark, smoky voice that makes him want to dig his fingers into her hips and jerk her even harder against him. He doesn’t. His heart feeling as though it’s about to burst through his ribs, he forces himself to grow still while she shudders in his arms, her beautiful face flushed and damp with sweat.
An eternity later, she winds her arms around his neck and kisses him, a languid exploration of his mouth that makes him grow even harder inside her. “I told you it was just right,” she whispers unsteadily, her breath hot on his lips.
Closing his eyes, he kisses her fiercely, tasting the salt on her mouth, letting his teeth scrape against her soft tongue, the swell of her full bottom lip. Gritting his teeth, he starts to count to one hundred in his head, then she puts her hands on the table behind her, leaning backwards in the most erotic tableau of supplication he’s ever seen, and he knows it’s all over.
He’d been fighting the inevitable the moment she’d leaned onto the coffee table and insisted it was fine - the moment he’d meant to be looking at the table but hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from the enticing curve of her bottom – but this, this, is too much.
She shifts slightly, tilting her hips as she tightens her legs around his hips, taking him deeper inside her, and he feels the familiar heat beginning to tingle at the base of his spine. His whole body tightens, his cock and his gut drawing up like the quivering string of a bow, then everything starts to unravel, blurring around the edges. “My god, Sara-” She kisses him, swallowing his rough groan of pleasure as he starts to shake, the rigid heat of his body dissolving in the silken warmth of hers.
He’s still gasping for breath as he pulls her into his arms, holding her close. His knees begin to protest, but he doesn’t care. They stay that way for a long time, her heart hammering against his chest, her breath gradually slowing to match the rhythm of his, her legs wrapped around his waist, his body still buried deep inside hers, her damp skin glued to his.
A perfect fit.
“How much time do we have?”
“Ten minutes if he’s on time,” he says as he puts his hands on her shoulders and turns her towards the bottom of the stairs. “And seeing that Jane is away in Washington this weekend, he’ll be on time.” He gives her a gentle push. “Go have a shower, I’ll look after things down here.”
He literally feels her digging in her heels as she turns around to face him. “You need to order the pizza, otherwise we’ll be waiting for ages-”
He gives her another gentle push towards the bottom of the stairs, wondering with a smile just when they’d started acting like a married couple, then decides it’s not something he wants to analyze. “Go.”
Eight minutes later she’s back in the kitchen, her hastily towel-dried hair framing her face, dressed in a faded pair of jeans and one of his favourite t-shirts. The smell of her fruity body wash wafts under his nose as she walks past him and starts pulling plates and glasses from one of the few cupboards into which they’ve actually put something. He leans back against the kitchen bench behind him and simply watches her, fighting the urge to pinch himself.
Catching his eye, she unwraps a roll of paper napkins and drops them without ceremony on top of the plates. A tiny smile curving her mouth, she walks slowly across the kitchen until she’s standing right in front of him, her bare feet nudging his.
“What about this sideboard?” She looks at him with guileless eyes as she puts her hands on either side of him, her palms pressed flat on the bench top. “What do you think of its structural purity?”
He kisses her, cutting off her words, the soft warmth of her mouth instantly reigniting the raw desire coiled deep in his gut. She leans into him, fitting her hips against his with heart-stopping accuracy, returning his kiss with an intensity that has him hard and wanting her again in less than a heartbeat. When he finally lifts his head, she’s looking at him with the same hunger that’s humming beneath his skin and it’s all he can do not to lock the front door and turn off all the lights and pretend they’re not home. But someone is knocking loudly on the front door and it can only be Lincoln, and Sara is going to have to answer it because he’s in no condition to face company, at least not for a few minutes.
There’s something else he needs to tell her, though, while they’re still alone, something very important. “It’s been a long time since I had a real home, Sara.”
She nods, her eyes never leaving his. “I know.”
“Thank you,” he says softly as he tugs at the bottom of her crumpled t-shirt, smoothing it into place, relishing the freedom of that simple touch more than he will ever be able to make her understand. “Thank you for everything.”
She grins at him. For a split-second her gaze darts towards the lounge room - and their new coffee table - then she turns and begins to walk towards their front door. “You’re welcome.”