Cross to Bear
By Amy Jonas
Rated: R for sex and language.
Archive: Sure. Just let me know
Feedback: Good or bad, warmly received at firstname.lastname@example.org
Disclaimers: Fox and 1013 own them I just take them out to play.
Summary: The thought skitters across my mind that it's not fair to use him like this but I don't care. I need to silence the cacophony of images.
I set our wine glasses on the table. One teeters precariously on the edge then falls, spilling the Merlot on the Persian rug. The dark-red liquid soaks into the fibers, slowly spreading out; reminding me of fresh blood.
A tendril of fear slithers up my spine when Jimmy moves to clean it up. I don't want him to touch it. "Leave it," I say. He looks at me; his brow furrowing his puzzlement at my remark. Before he can ask questions, I pull him into my arms. "I missed you." I follow my admission with a kiss that starts soft and tender but soon becomes long, hot and demanding.
When we break for air, he's flushed. "Wow, maybe you should go away on business more often," he jokes.
I smile but his words needlessly remind me of what I cannot forget. Ever since that abandoned warehouse in Spain my thoughts have allowed me no peace. The images of that atrocity haunt my every waking moment. It invades my dreams.
I need a respite even if its only for a moment.
I kiss him again, urgently, my hands wandering over his body. The thought skitters across my mind that it's not fair to use him like this but I don't care. I need to silence the cacophony of images.
I lead him into the bedroom. He whispers how much he missed me and wants me; that he loves me and how beautiful I am. We undress each other; his touch is soft and gentle, peeling my clothes from my body while I yank and tug desperately until we are both naked.
The contents of the warehouse flash vividly in my mind.
After so many months I know Jimmy's body intimately. He likes a soft caress here; a firmer stroke there. If I drag my tongue over this sensitive area he sighs and moans. Hard, probing kisses then gentle nibbling there illicit desperate groans of pleasure. When I take him into my mouth, he trembles, uttering a low, masculine sound of need. I know how to bring him to bliss or like now, just short of it. I have him thinking of nothing except for one thing.
He has me on the bed and...oh God it feels so good. His hands wander over my body, alternating between a languid, soft caress and a firmer touch that ignites a molten fire inside me. My blood careens through my veins, bringing a sheen of sweat to my skin. His mouth is hot and sweet on my fevered skin; my body taut as I arch against him, trembling.
Images of that warehouse intrude. I whimper as much from the intense pleasure he is creating as the pain of those memories.
Then he is between my parted thighs, kissing, licking, exploring, probing. He knows my body intimately and soon every nerve ending is a firestorm of sensation. I moan, arching my hips against him, needing release. Needing oblivion.
He drags his thumb down, pressing it deep within me and my body jolts and shudders; a hoarse cry tears from my lips. But it's not enough. It's as if he opened a steam valve just enough to release some of the pressure from my tightly coiled body.
And then he begins again.
Any other time I would be in heaven from this leisurely lovemaking knowing it will culminate in an intense and passionate joining. But tonight I am in hell.
The horrors of that building batter my memory.
I don't want to think anymore. I want him inside me hammering so hard and fast there is no room for thought. No room for anything. I want oblivion even if its only for a few moments.
I push him onto his back. I straddle him, impaling myself on him, filling my body with him. I thrust hard and fast, squeezing my thighs tight around him; taking him deep inside. His groan is of surprise and pleasure. He grasps my hips; guiding me. I grind my pelvis against his until the friction is blinding.
It's not enough. Oh God it's not enough. The images invade my mind; my soul.
I thrust harder. Pain overtakes pleasure. My face is wet with tears. "Fuck me!" My voice is hoarse; my words desperate with raw anguish. It becomes a mantra. "Fuck me. Fuck me! FUCK ME!"
"Yves!" Jimmy shouts, fear and confusion in his voice. "Yves, stop!" He grabs me; pulling me off him.
"Fuck me." I don't recognize the pleading voice as my own.
He cradles me in his lap, crooning to me; stroking my hair. I can feel him trembling. He doesn't know what to do so he continues murmuring nonsensical, soothing words. His tenderness shatters the last of my control. Hard, wrenching sobs tear out of me, burning my chest.
He wants to know what is wrong but I can't tell him. I won't tell him about those atrocities I witnessed in Spain. I don't want him to ever know those horrors.
It is my cross to bear.
I will never forget those images. They are seared into my brain like so many others.
I burrow my face in his chest seeking comfort. He pulls the sheet around us, cocooning me in the warmth and strength of his arms.
We sit like that long after my sobs subside; the tears dried streaks on my face. Neither of us speak. I have neither the inclination or energy. He has no words. He still strokes my hair. Occasionally he presses a gentle kiss on the top of my head.
I feel depleted. Burned out. Used up.
But in Jimmy's arms I have something I've never had before. Sanctuary.
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