On to the porn! Dedicated to the birthday girl, gretazreta, for general awesomeness.
He's done before she even thinks to reciprocate, and he takes the opportunity to look her over, see what his fingers had already discovered. Her breasts are heavy, oval rather than round, with large, soft nipples that look more lavender than pink in the lamplight. She's strongly built, toned body narrowing to form a perfect hourglass shape, and her hips flare out, wide and insistent. Her skin is the most beautiful he's ever seen, her best feature; standing there with the shine of the light on her, he could believe that Sarah had just descended from on high, or sprang to life from some ancient mythology, because she bears no imperfect marks, just glows with health.
Sarah snaps off the light, cutting him off from studying the rising tide of pink across her skin, and steps closer, reaching out for him. Her hands are still cold from the moonlit drive, and he sucks in a breath as the muscles in his stomach contract involuntarily. She keeps going for the button of his jeans, undeterred, and pops it open. Tall as she is even when she isn't wearing her high heels, she's still not tall enough to pull his shirt easily over his head, so he ducks down just a bit, taking over the task when she totters on her tip-toes. He kicks off his shoes, then lets her kneel down to strip him of his socks; she mimics his trick from the laundry room and runs her hand up the outside seam of his jeans, stroking him like a restive animal, and he figures that there's no point in drawing this out any longer. He pulls off his jeans, taking his boxers along with them, and steers her to the bed.
Back up on her tip-toes, she kisses him, winding her arms around her neck and bringing them flush against each other. He keeps sliding his tongue against hers while he lays her down, and though her legs spread automatically and meet insistently at the small of his back, she just continues to kiss him and doesn't press for more. And he realizes in that moment that being with Sarah is different from being with anyone else. Because Sarah - unlike Jess - knows the truth about his life, the secret he guarded so zealously for so long. And Sarah - unlike Madison - not only knows, but survived her brush with the supernatural; she wasn't tainted or destroyed by it. And Sarah just means more than any of the other girls who giggled, took him to bed, and shouted out whatever fake name Dean had put on his ID; Sarah kisses him like she has not, could not, forget the kiss they shared years ago, in the doorway of her father's gallery with his brother looking on, their mouths fused together while their hips rocked gently in time.
Sarah is in for the night of her life.
Every single thing that he learned from being with Jess, every trick he's ever pulled that got a positive reaction - they're all fair game right now. He pulls away from Sarah's eager mouth and traces the tips of his fingers and then his lips down the center of her body. Holding her thighs nearly flat against the bed, he gives thanks for the flexibility he had guessed at from the yoga mat rolled up in one corner of the room and ducks his head down, letting his nose brush against the dark curls of pubic hair. The tip of his tongue darts out, flitting like a butterfly sucking nectar, quick little licks, barely enough to get a taste of her. The old standby of writing the alphabet with his tongue against her clit is the way to go here, and he's up to "G" when he registers the silence around him, the way her legs aren't tightening around his ears in fevered ecstasy and totally in defiance of his grip, but lying lax and unresponsive under his hands.
"Sarah?" he asks, lifting his head and licking his lips, tonguing away the wetness he'd been chasing.
She sits halfway up, reclining on her side, one arm from elbow to wrist supporting her weight, and reaches out to turn on the lamp on the bedside table. Her dark hair spills across her breasts and back; one nipple peeks through the tangle, and he reaches for it, because he knows just how to play to get her to moan, to scream, to do whatever she does when she's too wound up to think or hush or even breathe. Sarah pulls back just far enough to elude his fingers. "Sam, stop," she says, the look on her face remote and uncomfortably sharp-sighted.
"What's the matter?" he asks. He was definitely getting every signal right; there's no way he could have misinterpreted anything. Maybe she's just worried about the fact that he hasn't got a condom on yet.
"I don't want this," she says, lying there like an odalisque, the living, breathing mirror to the one rendered in smooth brushstrokes and oil paint that's hanging above her bed; one of the girl's hands is picking grapes from a bowl of lush fruit and the pink, nimble fingers of the other hand are employed in playing with herself under a transparent white veil. He doesn't let his eyes drift back down to Sarah, because he's frozen with the fear that he's done something unforgivable without ever meaning to. Up until a moment ago, she had been responding.
"I don't want you to just get me off. I want to be in bed with you, Sam; I want you to talk to me." Sarah speaks her mind and then just watches him, waiting to see what he will do.
He inches closer and starts again. He's done dirty talking before, though never with someone who knew his real name, someone whose name was on the tip of his own tongue. "You're so beautiful, Sarah," he murmurs against her skin, tongue slipping out to lap at her breast. His hand steals downward, and he runs one finger over and around her before letting it sink slowly into the heat of her. "I'm going to open you up, hold you there, let you feel every last inch of me -"
"Sam! Stop!" she says, sounding not panicked but exasperated. "I don't need a narrator either." She pushes at his shoulders, forcing him back, and gets to her knees so that they're facing each other, kneeling on the bed. "I want to hear about you. Can you do that for me, Sam? I've thought so much about you; I want to know what your life has been like."
He gets it then, and leans forward to kiss her, to nibble on her lower lip, unconsciously pouted out with her plea. His fingers tangle in her hair and she tips her head back, baring her throat. "We killed - Dean killed - the demon that killed my mom and my girlfriend," he says, dragging his mouth up the length of her neck, feeling her pulse speed up and throb against his lips. She's ticklish around her belly, a fact he discovers when he trails his fingers along her sides, confessing, "My dad died so that Dean could live." She's moaning softly now. He rests his cheek on her belly, feeling each quick breath she takes, hearing the whimpers she's trying to keep locked in her throat. "Dean sold his soul to bring me back to life." His mouth opens over her sex, hot breath steaming up her skin, and he pulls back to smell the tangy scent of her arousal. His fingers stroke inside her, twisting gently, watching her come apart against his hand. She's still shuddering when he holds her open and pushes in, still no condom, but she's got to be on the pill. Her eyes widen as he thrusts insistently into her, his hands pulling her waist nearly off the bed, her back arched up and the crown of her head dragging against the pillow; when her eyes regain some kind of focus, he growls, "I saved him, Sarah," and twists his hips sharply enough to make her cry out all over again. "I got him out of the deal," he snarls, his words cutting through her sated cries. He comes in a rush and slumps against her, his head pillowed on her yielding breast.
"Sam?" she murmurs, carding her fingers through his hair. Her thumb slides along his face, encountering his tears; she hesitates and he holds his breath, waiting to see what she'll do next. He keeps crying silently, not even shaking, just leaking tears, and she shifts until she can draw the blankets up over them and get both of her arms around him. The light still burns brightly over them.
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