Work Text:
It’s not the first time he’s turned up unexpectedly on your doorstop during your relatively short acquaintance - a little bruised, possibly a little bloody, something broken about the eyes - after an age apart. This time is different, though; this time, you leave him outside rather than let him in, and this time you force him to stand on your porch - like a travelling salesman - while you talk to him as though he is a stranger.
This time is different; this time it has been weeks since his disappearance – a month, near two actually - not days.
This time is different.
This time you hadn’t been sure he was ever coming back, whether it be back to life as Flip Zimmerman, back to Colorado Springs, or back to your bed. The only reason you’d been sure he was, in fact, still alive was the shadow of his truck at the edge of the station you’d seen out of the corner of your eye yesterday, which had given you a little warning. For the truth was, after that, you’d known it was only a matter of time before he’d end up at your door.
Still. Despite everything, despite all the ways he’d always come back, no explanation, no warning, knowing you’d always let him in, this time is different; this time, you’re done.
You are simply too tired and simply too old to keep playing this game. The day is too beautiful, warm, soft with that breeze that promises you that summer is only a heartbeat from arriving in full bloom, and you are too wrung out for you to bother with the energy it takes to tell him off, so you manage, barely, to stand at your door, to wait patiently for him to finish as he strings words together in sentences you hardly hear.
It’s clear that he realizes he really, really, pissed you off; it isn’t clear that he realizes the reason why – the truth is he’s messed up, big, and no amount of mind-blowing makeup sex promised by the energy he exudes standing there is enough to have you even thinking of reconsidering. Neither are the puppy dog eyes, more sheepdog than hangdog he hits you with next; they hold no power over you at this moment.
You curse yourself internally, paying as you do little attention to his stream of words; you had always known you would end up here, too wrung out to do anything but wait for him to be done. It was the height of stupidity to imagine anything else, to imagine the two of you could build something else. It was for this reason that you had shimmied and slid your way out from his arms for so long. You’d been so stupid to give in to his persistent attention, knowing how it must inevitably end, and sure enough, here you are.
You had resisted dating Flip, even as he had politely but persistently asked you out for months. Once you'd finally caved – as, let's face it, you had always known you would - it had been so much better than you could have imagined.
Until he'd ghosted you six weeks previously.
He says he's here to apologize now, as he stands, apparently penitent, on your front porch, but you've yet to hear the word 'sorry'. All that comes out of his mouth are excuses for his absence - a big case, undercover work, no way to contact you, done it to protect you, etc., etc. His tone may be remorseful, but to your ears, it’s more rote than anything else, his attempt to salve your rage less important than his need to protect his pride.
The impact of that decidedly lacklustre remorse is basically non-existent – it fails to make a dent in your rage, the memory of those lost weeks flooding through you – the unanswered calls to his apartment, the rambling messages you’d only barely managed to resist leaving on his machine, the numerous messages that you had left an embarrassment in themselves, and the hesitant follow-up calls to his precinct - which provided little answers and only ended up with you more frustrated and worried - are thankfully lost to time, though you are sure he’s heard of them.
You'd thought you'd made your concerns - and your expectations – crystal clear the first time he'd finally convinced you to spend the entire night in his bed – but it seems apparent that he hadn’t been listening.
When you have heard enough of his rambling excuses for one day, you give it one moment of silence after the end to wait him out before moving to close the door. The look he gives you – eyes soft, shocked and sad, maybe a little remorseful - as you close the door, quietly but firmly, in his face, even as he's in mid-protest, is a mild consolation.
You think you hear him sigh behind the closed door, boot heels clunking on your porch as he turns to leave. Though you hear him pace down your porch a few times, he makes his way shortly down your walk within a few moments, and you don’t need to watch through the window to know he’s slid into the cab of that old truck of his. The sound of the ignition turning over and the roar of the engine as he backs out of your drive and roars away, just proving you right – it shouldn’t be such a relief, but it is.
If he truly wants you to forgive him, he's going to have to do a lot better than that.
-
Over the next week, you hear plenty regarding Flip Zimmerman, more than you had in months. You hear he's like a bear with a wounded paw; apparently, he's sleeping at the station, crashing for a few hours on the couch in the staff lounge in the basement when he bothers to sleep at all – you hardly care. He doesn't know it, but the reason you'd said no to him so many times is because you knew – you knew, damn it - he could break your heart in all the ways he’s just proven himself capable of. You had just known he was going to hurt you, badly, and sure enough, he'd done exactly as you'd feared, broken you into pieces, made barely a move to make amends and then had simply walked away.
He’s not your problem anymore, and if he wants to make amends, he knows exactly where to find you.
You are hardly surprised he shows his face at your door, again, within days, though you are surprised how quickly he returns. Further, you are moderately impressed that this time, he does manage to say 'sorry', even if it is wrapped in more expository explanation than apologies and even if that apology is delivered more to his worn boots than it is to your face.
He might almost be sincere. He’s never looked other than massive to you, his height and width simply failing to allow for the illusion of vulnerability, and honestly, you’d never thought it possible. But as he stands on your porch, a fair number of inches from the threshold of your door, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders scrunched to his ears, you feel annoyingly sympathetic.
The door creeks as you open it a few more inches than necessary, allowing it to rest ajar as you lean against the frame, as you give him leave to expand on his remorse. It soon becomes easiest to invite him to follow you in – ‘can’t let the bugs in’ – as you head to the kitchen, and he follows. Your cozy house suddenly seems too small with him in it - you panic momentarily - but he does seem to be actually listening to your criticism of his lacklustre effort, this time, and the coffee is already made.
The mug is tiny in his hand, the coffee hot and strong and black, as he sits at your kitchen table and tries again. The justifications are still there - big case, miscommunication, your safety - but the apology is less rote, and he manages to make it to your face instead of to the linoleum, this time.
You lean against your counter, arms crossed, wondering if you can risk it, being with him, him breaking you again as you know he inevitably will, when he looks up and hits you with those big brown eyes.
As he finally manages to get it right.
"I'm sorry, Doll; I know I fucked it up," he sighs. "I know you're mad, I know you’re done with my bullshit, but I had to try to see you – I can't stay away."
Truth be told, you don't want him to.
But ugh... just when you think you're about to cave, go crawl into his lap, and lose yourself in him, all those little voices in your head kick in, reminding you as they do that this is likely going to keep happening with him. It’s the nature of the beast, the combination of his job and his personality coming together in lethal combination.
His looks aren't the only thing that makes him dangerous.
When you walk toward him, you're not sure what you're going to do. Even as you stand over him, and look down into his big, pleading, brown eyes that dominate his handsome face... you're still unsure.
But he's being patient. And you know that's not his specialty. He's too wild and too powerful - patience has never come into that equation. And, truth be told, you've never looked to tame him, even if you could. You know you need to be able to trust him, and the only way you can do that is if he learns to trust you.
"If you want this to work," you start, slowly, considering how far you can bend before you break, "actually work, you're going to have to find a way to warn me you're going to be out of touch."
That may be hope in his eyes; it may be a triumph; you're not sure you really want to know.
One hand leaves the coffee cup, headed towards you as you stand before him, barely within reach, when you freeze it in place with a single sharp glance.
“If that doesn’t work for you-” you continue, considering, “or if you are looking for something else, something transitory, something simple, you better be a hundred percent clear on that right now, and we’ll talk about what that means.”
There are words hanging from his lips, you can almost see them, but you hold up a single hand in warning; you aren’t done.
"Because I can’t be left in the dark again."
You look at him directly, a soft plea—a warning.
"I won't."
There's only so far he can ask you to bend before you break, and he needs to know that.
“So, I need to know that you understand what I’m saying – I’m not messing around.”
“Okay,” he says almost too quickly. “Okay, I will. I promise. I’m sorry.”
Your demeanour softens the third time he says the word, ‘sorry’ and you uncross your arms.
“Promise what exactly, Flip? Be clear, because, like I said, I can’t do that again.”
He nods, but the corners of his eyes are turning up with the sides of his mouth as he smiles.
“I am sorry. And I am in it for the long haul; you have to know that.”
The charm flashes with the dimples.
“I’ll make sure you’re kept in the loop, I promise. But... I have to say that I kinda like that you were worried about me.”
“Don’t think about that too hard, Zim,” you groan, rolling your eyes, the only thing more dangerous than this man looks is the charm you’ve hardly seen him trot out with anyone other than you. “Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
And your tone is a bit harsher than you intended, but he’s still smiling, eager to take what he can get, and thankful that you haven’t tossed him out yet. You're still standing, though, looking down at him, unsure - you know you're going to cave, but you’re still unsure what that looks like.
"I mean it," you tell him, even as his arms come up and around you, firmly drawing you in so there’s barely an inch between you.
He's nodding, nuzzling his face into your stomach through the thin material of your sundress - "Fuck - Doll, missed you" - and mollified somewhat by his clearly desperate touch, you allow yourself to lean in.
For all your worry, those missing weeks, there'd been hurt, too – you’d been both shocked and wounded by the way that he'd blown you off. For all his possessiveness, he's never been overly sentimental, not in the short time you'd been together, and you hadn’t been able to resist wondering if the reason he’d found it so easy to blow you off was because he actually wanted to. It can’t help but warm you a bit, the way he was clearly upset by the way you’d frozen him out, just as he was clearly prepared to go the extra mile to get you back and clearly relieved by your willingness to let him in once more.
Because no one makes Flip grovel – and his willingness to at less make an effort of it reassures you. You try to focus, even as the touch of his large hands causes sparks to fly – it’s been too long – and even as he's coaxing dinner, and pre-dinner, plans out of you.
"Maybe dinner," you say, smoothing his hair back, ignoring how it slides like black silk on your fingers, so you have a clear look at his face as he looks up at you, pitiful puppy eyes still on full display. "7."
Maybe.
"Here; I’ll cook,” you tell him; as intimate as it will be if you host him here, it’s still better than him taking you out and thus being on full display for the entire town to watch, “but if you know what’s good for you, don’t be late. More importantly, make sure you come up with a plan to keep me in the loop in the meantime, and, Flip, it had better be a good one."
"Mmm," he acknowledges, but he's still rubbing his face over your tummy and hipbones, almost like he's leaving his scent on you through the material of your dress.
You thread your fingers through his soft hair and clutch the locks at the back of his head to turn his face up toward yours once again. His chin balances on the tiny buckle of your dress’s belt, resting just beneath your navel as he looks up at you with wide eyes.
"Flip. Make sure there’s a plan. Be here at 7; bring wine,” you tell him, “And I want dessert, too – it better be good."
"I was kinda hoping I could be your dessert," he says with a smirk you know all too well.
I’m sure you were , you think, shaking your head at his eagerness, trying not to smile.
"Wow, you're really pushing your luck here, huh?"
"I'll bring you six desserts," he promises, remorseful, "one for each week I was gone. And I'll get champagne."
"Fine. But make sure you bring a nice red, too. And promise you'll never disappear without a trace again," you say, putting that warning tone back in your voice, determined despite everything to keep your focus on what you need from him.
Your grip has tightened on his hair, and you both feel the impact of it as you make your conditions clear. Instead of pulling away, though, he leans into your touch as you stroke your fingers through his hair.
"Got it. Desserts. Champagne. A nice Chianti. And I'll never disappear without a trace again," he promises.
He's seconds away from sweeping you into the bed that temps you from down the hall, you know, but you tap his lip gently in warning, even as he gives you a little pout – disgraceful that pout, should be illegal for him to use it that outrageously.
"Shoo. Dinner. 7. Spaghetti. Remember, only good boys get extra meatballs."
"Ma'am."
-
The afternoon flies by as you prepare for dinner, and progress is easily made.
Flip’s as good as his word, this time, at least, and has his captain call that afternoon to inform you that he's added you as his emergency contact. You won't be left hanging in the future, though you aren’t naive enough to think there won’t be other challenges. It won't all be sunny skies and clear sailing with Flip, but then, you never expected it to be. At least you know exactly what you're signing up for.
That famous Zimmerman charm goes down, smooth as silk, as he shows at your door not a minute past seven, a feral gleam in his eye, with a red Chianti in his right hand, iced champagne tucked under his arm, and a white pastry box from your favourite bakery held careful in his left.
"Six desserts, as promised," he says, and you smooth the sundress you’d changed into after your show – it’s a flowy concoction, thin, summery, too light for the season but also his favourite - as you let him in. "Red wine for dinner. And champagne."
“Good boy,” you say with a wink as he follows you into the kitchen once again, where pasta and all the fixings – meatballs simmering in the red sauce included - are cooking.
“As I recall, that’s my line,” he says.
You raise an eyebrow.
“Well, you know what I meant.”
He sets the pastry box and champagne down on your kitchen counter, his body reflexively lurching toward yours...you know what he wants - probably a hug, definitely a kiss, certainly his hands all over you.
You didn’t wear his favorite little sundress for nothing, but you’re still a little pissed and... he can wait until after dinner. Sliding out from under his touch as he reaches for you, you swirl to the quiet lounge music playing on the radio, your feet moving easily on the smooth linoleum floor of your small kitchen; the arc of your moment has the full, light skirt of your emerald green dress swirling even as he watches you with fond, if hungry, eyes.
At your direction, he stows the bottle of red on the counter before he cuts the foil draped over the champagne bottle’s neck, and untwists the wire wrapped around the top. Within minutes, he’s got the fat-headed cork tight in one hand and the base of the bottle in the other. When he twists the two in opposite directions, his biceps bulge – hard-earned muscles threaten the durability of his sleeves before he rolls them up – for once he’s wearing a white dress shirt tucked into his slim-fitting jeans, rather than a buffalo plaid, though, of course, he’d worn his brown leather sheepskin lined jacket over it, tossing it onto the hook by your front door as he’d entered just as he’s always done.
As you watch him move, the thickly corded muscles of his forearms now on full display, you gulp.
He can wait until after dinner; the question is, can you? He's watching you watch him, as his dimples pop out, and he smirks. As he preens in front of you, the cheeky bastard.
Since two can play at that game, you wander just a little too close as you place the garlic bread and the salad on the table, making sure on the way back to run your fingernail the length of his bare arm, feeling the goosebumps sprout in your wake.
Intoxicating.
It's a good thing he'd had the champagne bottle pointed away from the two of you because the cork hits the ceiling as his grip loosens. The wine explodes out of the bottle, cascading over his hand and down the length of his arm. He reaches for the towel you hand him, but you grab his hand in yours, before licking a sip of the sweet wine from his thick fingers.
'Oops,' you say, looking up at him with a full-blown saucy smile. 'Looks like you made a mess.'
He reaches around the towel, seemingly ready to pull you in with it, but you dodge out of the way once again, laughing at the way his eyes burn as he moves and fails to grasp you.
'Going to need more than one towel to clean that up,' you tell him, pelting his chest with that one and then three more.
'Minx,' you hear him grumble with a grin, and you hope he doesn't see you shiver at the deep baritone of his voice as it moves through you.
“You good?” you ask with your back to him, pouring tomato sauce into the pot and twirling the strained noodles through with a fork to mix it all together.
He chuckles, throwing a grin at you as you peek back at him over your shoulder, making sure you see how he holds two champagne flutes in one hand as he uses the other to fill them full of the over-carbonated wine.
“Good champagne, by the way,” you add, approaching the table again, the pot in one hand and tongs in the other. “Or maybe it’s you that tastes so good.”
He nearly drops the bottle at your words; luckily, he’s already placed the glasses he’d been holding on the table, one at each setting. You smirk as you bend at the waist slightly and lean in a little more than necessary to spill some pasta onto his plate, ignoring the small groan you hear as it forces its way clear of your chest.
“Sorry,” Flip says, placing his hand on your hip and pressing against you as he soaks up the remnants of spilled champagne currently soaking the tablecloth with the dry half of his towel.
He stands next to your small table in your tiny kitchen, and he's so big that he would overwhelm any space he was in regardless, and you know from past experience that his ridiculously long legs stretch all the way out underneath that table when he sits. And it had been a very long few weeks, so it's easy to slide your chair over, making sure to move a little into his space. Moving to serve him the meal you'd made, tilting your body to face him slightly, you ask - 'Hungry?' - and his eyes go black.
'Don't tease, kitten,' he warns, only a hint of a growl in that deep voice, and you hide a smile once more.
He's clearly trying not to push - it's still a little tentative, this reconciliation, you both feel it. It only makes you more inclined to tease the way the tension thickens the air, even as he tries to remain on his best behaviour. He squeezes your hip as he reaches over to help you arrange the food on the table, presses his chest lightly against your back and breathes into your ear, “dinner smells incredible.” You soak in the heat of it even as your heart rate increases, your motions slow, taking in what it feels like to have his hands on you again, even if it’s just one, even if it’s to tease you, even if it’s to steady himself so he can help you set the table. You feel the impact of his breath as a second shiver moves through the entire length of your body.
It had been a very long few weeks.
In retaliation – you know the bodice of your dress gapes a little if you're not careful, and you aren't in the mood to play by the rules, not tonight – so at the first opportunity as you move to place the Caesar salad and garlic bread on the table, you lean in a little in front of him, watch his eyes track the movement of your dress as it dips - and you see his jaw twitch.
Though you are the host, he takes the effort to seat you with care, settling you in before moving in to sit opposite to you yet also a bit too close. Within seconds, you feel his hand creep up your leg in retaliation. It settles finally on your upper thigh, though he looks as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth when you peek at him, innocence written all over his face. His hand stays there, thought, throughout dinner until you're itchy with anticipation.
For all intents and purposes, Flip is being a perfect gentleman, considering the last time he'd been in this kitchen, you'd been on your knees, jaw aching as you took more of him than you could probably handle before he’d repaid you handsomely with his own mouth, and his fingers, and his mouth again before he'd even carried you into the bedroom.
It has an unexpected effect, though, as that memory, hot as it is, stings a bit, considering he'd been gone before you woke and had been unexpectedly out of touch for weeks to follow. Concentrating on the present, you clear your throat, and you stand as your appetite disappears. You make a show of collecting the dirty plates where once you might have lingered.
"You okay?" he asks.
You smile because he did apologize, and he did mean it, and he has done everything you had demanded in return for you allowing him to be sitting here right now, so you force the painful memories back; you smile and say, "now, what about these six desserts?"
He knows his cue, maneuvers his body gracefully around the kitchen table, and reaches for the glossy white pasty box. He tears the slip of paper taped to the inside of the lid and reads as he points with one thick finger.
"I brought you a cannoli, éclair, fudge, Crème Brulé, a red velvet cupcake, and tiramisu."
The smile you flash must be so wide, he can count all of your teeth as he looks at you wide-eyed, hopeful, waiting for your approval. He laughs, watching you as you do a little hip shake in excitement at the prospect of so much plunder, and it strikes you how much more open he’s been, tonight.
How much more ready he is to charm you.
‘Where’s yours?’ you ask absently as you peer into the box, debating your options.
He’s still looking at you as he answers, not the box, his tone relaxed, contemplative.
‘I like tiramisu,’ he starts, and you know he does.
You also know he’s partial to eating that particular dessert off your skin as the cream and chocolate melt from your body heat. Without looking up from your bounty, though, you remind him he’d promised you six desserts, not five, though, you tell him, you might be persuaded to share, depending on what he brings to the table.
‘I brought you wine and champagne,’ he tries, but you remind him that, too, was part of the deal.
‘What else?’
And, oh, you’re playing with fire tonight, but it still stings a little, the memory of waking to an empty bed, the ghost of weeks and months of unanswered messages and unmet worries; yes, it still stings enough that you aren’t going to make this easy for him. He deserves some teasing, and he needs to work for this a little, you think, and he needs to pay. Even if he does look delectable, looking at you, brow furrowed in concentration, lips pursed contemplating what offering he might offer that might make you bend.
And as much as you could use some sugar, he’s going to have to pay with more than that.
You've got the éclair pinched between your thumb and forefinger, admiring it as you bring it towards you, and it's as you bring the pastry to your lips, as you take one big, delectable bite, Flip's eyes unwaveringly on yours, that he makes his offer.
"No more secrets."
As your mouth is too full of feather-light dough and creamy custard to ask questions, you raise an eyebrow in inquiry, and he continues quietly.
"I- I am sorry,” he continues, that word still apparently having difficulty crossing those plush pink lips of his. “I have to put your safety first always, and I can’t compromise that, but I will be one hundred percent honest with you going forward. I just need you to trust me."
You place the second half of the pastry back in the box and look up at him. In spite of his towering height, he once again looks small as he stands before you, just as he had when he’d stood on your porch this afternoon.
"I do trust you, Flip,” you remind him, slowly, just as quietly, the taste of cream and chocolate still lingering on your tongue. “But you need to trust me – whatever it is; I can handle it. What I can't handle is you just... up and leaving."
He nods.
"I know, I know. Done. No more secrets, Doll. I need you to know that. I promise."
And this, more than the remorse he’d managed to express this afternoon, more than the way he’d forced apologies past lips not used to delivering them, more even than the phone call from his captain this afternoon promising no more stonewalling, more even than the way he’d approached you tonight, remorseful – it is this promise which convinces you.
No more secrets, he has promised – or at least, no more secrets than can come back to destroy you both.
You can see it, the way he's holding back, waiting for your permission, even as you struggle slightly with the revelations he brings, and while you respect that - you've missed him, his head on your pillow and the warmth of him in your bed. You smile in approval and invitation, and his thumb comes into focus as he lifts it to your face, as it swipes a bit of custard off the corner of your mouth; he offers it, the tip of his thumb close, and when you part your lips, he doesn't hesitate. His thumb slips inside, massive, and as your tongue circles the tip, a moan falls in the quiet air between you. Though truth be told, you're not sure which one of you let that groan slip.
Realistically, it's probably both of you.
The attraction between the two had flared the moment you'd met, and though you'd fought it, you'd never denied you liked to watch the way he moved. Now that you're sure - or at least as sure as you can be with Flip - that he understands the enormity of what he did, that he's committed to doing his best to avoid doing it again, you give in to the way you miss his hands on you.
Your hands on him.
It's never going to be easy with this man - his job, his personality, his reserve, ensures that - but you knew that, going in, just as you know, now, what expectations have been set this night. As long as he respects what you need.
As his thumb slips from your mouth, lingering an instant on your lower lip, his eyes, still as dark as they'd been since he'd arrived, stay locked on yours. Giving in, you grab him by the lapels of his shirt and haul him in. He tastes of red sauce and salt, and you almost purr at the contrast with the lingering sweetness from the custard he'd brought for you and fed you in penance.
'Yum.'
Then he’s kissing you again, nearly bending you in half, wrapping his arms around you, taking a one-legged step until his thigh is sandwiched between yours, and taking advantage of your parting lips as you moan. Your hands are on his shoulders, in his hair, holding his body as close to yours as possible. His kiss is all-consuming, delectable, the way your mouths fight for control, desperate for more, lips and mouth pressing against each other, tongues darting in to explore each other.
Still, as his mouth moves to explore every inch of that sensitive part of your neck he knows makes you melt, you come to at least some sense – your bedroom is right there down the hall, with its big, firm mattress and soft linens, full of dark protective shadows and moonlight, just waiting for you. It’s hard to move - maybe it’s because in order to remove clothes, his body will need to peel itself from yours, and you’re certain that without his body heat right this second, you’ll cry.
Or die.
And you can’t have either, not while you luxuriate at how his plush lips devastate yours.
And then you feel it - every apology he’d muttered - wrapped up in this kiss, pressed into your skin, even the ones he grumbled to the floor before he could meet your eyes. You feel it as he makes amends with those thick lips and that big frame of his, and you want to taste every inch of him.
'Flip-' you start, but his lips are on you again, his grip tightening until you've forgotten what you intended.
And you all but feel his understanding, his patience, his near desperation as he continues kissing you. He’s being patient, holding on to his control, determined not to push you, you’re sure - but you’ve been patient enough since you woke up that morning alone in your bed. Maybe taking a half-step back won’t kill you if it means getting him into your bed and feeling his naked skin on yours once more. As you shift your weight, though, prepare to move, though, he shifts with you, chasing your touch, sure not to break the kiss of his lips on your skin.
'Can't move,' you pant as he attacks your neck more fully. And that, oh, that's what you've missed. Damn, that's good. It should be illegal, what he can do with those lips.
'Good,' he tells you, his free hand buried in your hair, but you've forgotten the question.
And he likes it, the way you moan for him, as he leans back against the kitchen table - which groans almost as loud as you do - as he soon has you firmly wedged in the cradle of his thighs. Pressed up against him, his arms holding you into him the way he wants, feeling every inch of him glued to your skin, you know he must be as impatient as you, but he seems perfectly willing to stand there all night. His lips and teeth are marking tiny bruises into your neck, but you don't care; you want him to mark you head to toe.
You want him, now , and you want him to follow you to that warm nest of yours before your legs, already wobbly, stop working.
'Bedroom,' you insist between kisses, and it's a growl.
'Beg.'
And it's a demand.
"Flip," you whine; part of you wonders why he thinks he deserves to have you begging, but most of all, you’re simply thankful that he's taking control, that he'll give you anything you want if you ask for it.
His lips vibrate against the skin of your collarbone as he says again -
"Beg."
And this time, his tone of voice is more pleading than anything, almost as though he needs to make sure this is what you want.
"Please," you breathe as his lips whisper sin into the gaping neckline of your dress. "Please, Flip."
"Please, what?"
Your fingers are long-lost, buried in his hair, holding his head against your body as his lips continue to flirt with your blushed and bruised skin.
"Take me to bed. Please. I wanna make-up, I... I need you."
At this, he stops and looks up at you, his eyes shifting slowly like a pendulum as he searches yours.
"I need you," you reassure him, desperate for him to move.
He's pushing himself, and you, off from the support reluctantly provided by the groaning table a second later, his body lurching on instinct and legs catching up as he wraps his arms tighter around you, as he walks you backwards down the hall, his lips never leaving yours.
The darkened house is soft around you, the moonlight drifting in through the half-drawn shades the only light. As the heels of your bare feet hit the carpet of your bedroom, you arch to keep Flip's lips on yours – why does he have to be so tall? - even as his hands sweep across every inch of your body, even as he straightens, breaking the kiss.
"You want this?"
He's asking, that strange tilt to his voice again, asking permission, demanding again and again that you tell you are there with him, even as he sweeps your dress up and off, your hair floating up and then down, as he cups your neck, hauling you into his kiss.
"Yes," you gasp, on your tiptoes, moving closer.
"You want me, want me to give you what you need?"
" Yes !"
It seems he's done teasing you, for now, sitting on the edge of your bed so he can draw you in between his knees, never ceasing in his assault on your skin, covered as it is only in the thin scraps of satin you chose as underwear, as his lips move over you, his nibbles just this side of pain.
"You're not going to shut me out anymore?"
For fuck's sake.
Your respective positions mean you can grasp him by the chin and force him to look at you.
"I told you. Be honest with me, and I'll stay."
You wish you could see his eyes, but the room is too dark, so all you see is shadow.
"Don't shut me out."
"Then make me a priority."
You see it, the small, slight frown as he looks up at you.
"I am. I will. But I need to know you want this."
"I want this."
And it's this, this fiftieth confirmation of all you’ve said since you let him walk in the front door, that does it, and it’s as if you've opened the floodgates, as his hands are suddenly everywhere. As he reaches out to fully possess you, now that you've confirmed you're there, with him every step of the way.
Now that he knows that you're going to let him in.
It dawns on you then that he’s not just talking about tonight or even about making up; no, he’s talking about everything - sharing a life, a future. As it dawns on you and the brain cells that try desperately to keep up as he scorches every inch of your body with your lips that may be making you his emergency contact meant more to him than just getting back in your good graces.
But those are realizations you’ll have to contemplate at a different time because he’s whispering praise against the skin of your left breast as your flimsy bra hits the floor, and all thoughts escape in a sigh as he begins kneading its twin with his hand. And when his lips wrap around your hard, aching nipple, you damn near forget your own name.
“Flip... yes,” you moan as his other hand tickles your knee.
His feather-light touch leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake as it traverses north up your inner thigh. Thick fingers stroke your center through the thin satin panties you'd put on in anticipation for tonight, dreaming of his touch even as you’d put them on, dreaming of how he would strip them from you. And he must realize that because he stops sucking at your nipple and smiles against your skin before looking up at you, teasing you with his finger tracing the thin material that covers his goal, just enough pressure in his touch to drive you insane.
This man is going to kill you.
"What,” you demand “are you just going to stare at me all night?"
You tug at his hair, trying to get him to get moving, take charge the way you know he can, trying to get him to act, make you see stars, get you so close to them you are sure you can almost count them. Instead, he traces the edge of your nipple, just with the touch of his fingertip, the edge of his nail driving you insane as you sway into him.
"Flip-"
The grin on his face would do justice to a cat who'd gotten at the cream, and you feel a passing urge to scream.
"No more teasing, sweetness," he teases, and you may combust.
His other hand slips beneath your underwear's elastic, his finger making tiny circles just millimetres from where you need it.
"That's my line," you whine, trying to get him to move, but it's as if you are trying to shift an ancient oak; he's so large and so intransient.
"No more teasing," he says again as he teases you, seemingly fascinated with tracing tiny patterns on your skin with his fingertips, his large hands too adept for their own good, and you can't help taking matters into your own, reaching to unbutton his white dress shirt, yanking impatiently somehow at the same time to get it untucked.
You may actually die if you don't get this man naked in the next twenty seconds.
The buttons of his shirt fall away, but his hands haven't moved, meaning his shirt is trapped in his arms, his chest still covered in the white undershirt he wears underneath - leaving his bare chest unattainable, leaving you heated and frustrated.
" Off ," you order, at your limit, and he smiles again, ignores you, intransient as he returns to his attack on your skin, his hands moving quickly to get you bare. The frustrating man is still fully dressed while giving your panties a quick, sharp tug, leaving them to pool around your ankles, leaving you completely nude in front of him, all soft skin and gentle curves, pale skin a contrast to his tan.
His touch is too light, gaze too heavy as he looks you up and down like he's memorizing you.
"I'm gonna take my time with you tonight," he says.
"Clearly," you shoot dryly; at this rate, you may combust.
"I'll make you see stars, Doll," Flip promises, ignoring your wry interjection. "But I'm gonna show you how much you mean to me first, how much it killed me to be away from you, how much I-"
He stops talking, presses a kiss to your lower abdomen and stands.
He's so large; you’re forced to take a step back to make room for him; so tall that you have to look up to hold his gaze, but before you can react, he's got one arm wrapped around your lower back, and he's spinning you, lifting your entire body and laying you softly onto the bed and planting a kiss to your lips before sitting up to shimmy his unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders.
"Undershirt, too," you say, eyes traversing his covered chest, and you could just smack that developing trademark smirk right off his face.
'Greedy,' he tells you, and you can't deny it, especially given how he's been teasing you all night.
The shirt is finally off, letting you admire that glorious chest and body, enjoying how the breadth of his shoulders shut out the light as he moves over you in nothing but his jeans, his massive body pressing you into your bed.
'Going to mess up my greedy girl,' he tells you as his lips move across your throat. 'Muss you up, mark you up, make you fucking mine.'
And then, before you can tell him that he’d better start putting his lips to better use, he does so, sucking at your breasts and playing with your nipples, and you stop paying attention to his words, concentrating only on the rumble and timber of his dark voice as the impact of it moves through you. You're arching into him, gasping, in the moonlight, and he's not slowing down, claiming every inch of you, his lips and hands moving in tandem until you're not sure where one part of him ends and another begins. You’re not sure where you end, and he begins; he's imprinted himself upon you so thoroughly.
As you shudder and shake through the orgasm he pulls from you with his fingers, you feel the smile as his lips caress your skin, even as you crest.
'That's one,' he gloats, two of his thick fingers still buried deep inside of you. 'But I think we can do better than that, baby girl.'
You watch carefully as he licks, kisses, and sucks his way down your rib cage and over your stomach, paying special attention to your hip bones, his tongue tracing the curve of them where they jut out, your skin stretched tight over them. As your eyes take inventory of the bruises and splotches his mouth and teeth had already sucked and scratched into you.
"Fuck, I missed this," he says, nudging the side of his face against the inside of your thigh, inhaling your scent, and tilting his face to plant a kiss with the side of his mouth on that sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. He drags a finger up your center, circles some of your wetness between his thumb and middle finger.
"I’ve missed how you drip for me."
You would respond – smug bastard - but you’ve barely the breath to draw in the precious air you need to breathe as he licks a stripe from hole to clit, savours your essence before growling, "I’ve missed how fucking delicious you taste on my tongue," as he dives back in to torment your clit with his tongue. He slings his arm around your hips, and holds you down as you writhe against the sheets, pressing back into the pillows, trying desperately to move – it’s too much and yet not enough.
"I missed how you try to squirm away from me when we both know..." Flip sucks your clit into his mouth, waits for you to moan, and pulls back. "How much you fucking love this. How you know no one could ever make you feel like this? Like I can. Because you're mine."
You think it's the dark possession in his voice that carries you over, your cries echoing through the room as he watches from his position between your thighs, his eyes watching you, hungry, possessive, preening.
And now you're the one who is feral with need.
You're moving even before you thought it possible, your breath still coming out in quick pants, even as you push him, insisting he flips over onto his back as you clamber onto him. There’s no grace in your movements, just need. The fingers that attack the fastenings of his jeans may still be shaking, but they get the job done, even as they tremble, shucking his pants down his legs with more haste than grace. He’s not helping, seemingly amused, and also smugly delighted with the way you struggle, your desperate need to get him undressed showing with your every move.
'Off ,' you pant, and it doesn't matter, the wicked gleam of satisfaction in his eye; it doesn't matter how he gloats at your need to have him under you; you have to feel him in you immediately.
You can see it too, how much he's holding it in, the need to sink himself into you though that's also far from the most important thing right now. All that matters is that he gives you what you need. And what you need, right now, is his body over yours, on you, in you, him pushing you down into the bed and wrapping you in a warm haze of comfort and need. If he’s not in you in the next thirty seconds, you might implode, and you are going to get what you need.
As though he's a mind reader, Flip wraps an arm around your lower back, steadies your torso with a thigh between your legs, and throws you, spinning you on your back as he settles over you. He pins your wrists high above your head as you adjust under him, spread your legs, and arch your spine as he settles in the cradle of your thighs.
Fuck, it feels so good as his hot, bare skin finally, finally, finds its home against yours.
As his cock rubs against your clit before finding your slit, pressing in, inch after inch as your body struggles to adjust, to take him in and you pant, arching with the feel of it.
"Oh god," you breathe as he plants kisses along your jawline, down the column of your throat, and nips at your collarbone, fighting the pressure even as you want more. "Flip. I need you," you say, voice barely above a whisper.
And you both know you don't just mean tonight.
"So good. You feel so good, fuck, you're perfect. I’ve missed you," he says as he bottoms out. "So much."
And you both know he doesn't just mean sex.
"Show me," you find a way to whisper in his ear as he covers your entire body with his.
And he does, rocking gently in you, your bodies moving together as he hits that perfect spot, even as his hand reaches between you to rub at your clit. Your legs wind their way around him, your heels pressing him further, into you, urging him without words to work himself in deeper, further, harder.
Though you hadn't thought it possible, you're cresting again within minutes as the hand not holding your wrists above your head settles into the most perfect of rhythms as it flicks against the little nub that throbs for more – even as his dark voice urges you on.
"Fuck, taking me so perfectly, fucking feels so fucking good."
As he whispers all the things he's missed since last you two found yourselves like this, entwined together in damp sheets, even as he loses control.
"Couldn't fucking sleep without you in my bed, needed you, you fit me so fucking perfect."
Even had you breath to respond, you can't think, as you come, your body shaking under him, clenching around the length of him, milking him, whimpering, moaning, screaming , and he groans his satisfaction, panting into your neck, his hot breath on your skin only making you shiver. As he's coming in you, but he never stops, dark promises and dirty praise spilling in your ear.
Until it's just the two of you, piled together in a boneless heap, panting, clinging together; you hear his grumble as he shifts, making sure not to crush you, cuddling your pliant body into him, finding a way to throw your quilt over the both of you. Warming you with the heat of his body, wrapping you tightly to him, claiming you as thoroughly at that moment as he had as he’d fucked the breath out of you.
"Doing this in my bed, next time, Doll,” you hear him growl, as if from a great distance, almost to himself. “It hasn't been the same without you in it.
"Is that your way of telling me I shouldn't get my hopes up for a second round tonight?" you ask wryly when you can speak again. Truly, you’re not sure your body would take it, but, as always, it’s willing to try.
The laughter that explodes from Flip's chest shakes the bed.
"I'll give you as many rounds as you can handle, Doll," he says, somehow pulling your body even tighter against his.
“Wonderful,” you manage, exhausted, nuzzling his neck, licking it absently with little kitten licks just because you can; you settle in, glory in the comfort of his big body against yours.
"I did miss you," he continues, quietly, carding his fingers through your hair, undoing some of the damage done by the two of you, untangling knots, and smoothing strays before cupping the side of your face in his massive hand and pressing his lips gently to yours.
You sigh.
"I missed you, Flip. You have to know that's why this whole thing was so difficult for me. I care about you so much and I worried...to be unable to get a hold of you... not to know if you were even coming back… I…”
"Hey, hey," he says, clenching his fingers around your hair for emphasis. "That's not gonna happen again, okay? I'm... I'm yours."
"Show me?" you press, somehow immediately desperate for him again, and he growls, rolling you onto your back, covering you once more, his entire body pressing yours into the bed as he kisses you.
-
Sunlight streams through your kitchen window as you pour two overly large mugs of coffee and add just a splash of milk to his. Taking a moment, you cup yours in both hands and bring it up to your face so you can breathe in the steam of it before taking the smallest of sips, savouring the burn as the rich, slightly bitter flavour floods your tongue.
It’s quiet this early on a Friday, there’s no activity at all on your small street, and you enjoy it, the sensation of knowing that it might as well just be you in the world, with Flip still slumbering in your bed, spread out, tucked under your sheets, dominating your queen bed.
You’ve rolled up the sleeves of his shirt as you wear it, so your hands are free, but it still falls to mid-thigh on you, a single button holding it closed, the tail beating against the backs of your legs with each movement. Each step as you take it on your way back to the bedroom is punctuated with the sensation of his clothes on your bare form. The way your body aches, just slightly, well-used and loved, from the exertion of yesterday is a comfort as well, somehow.
A reminder of his presence in your life and his imprint on your body.
He'd been asleep when you slipped out from under his arm and the quilt to put on a pot of coffee, but you’re hardly surprised he's awake now as you make your way back into the bedroom, dimly lit by the sunlight that peeks through the single east-facing window. He’s smiling wider by the second as he looks you up and down, as he takes in the absence of anything other than his clothes covering your body, as he takes in the way you drown in his shirt.
And you can’t deny the pleasure of it, his grin as he spies the nectar of the gods you hold each hand, groaning when you hand him a mug, smiling when he sees you’ve doctored it just the way he likes it, dropping his head to breathe in the fumes, drinking deep. He looks almost rueful as he meets your eyes, as though his longing for caffeine is the most decadent desire he's ever had, even as his eyes heat as you crawl into bed, and he can see that only the middle button of his shirt is done.
His hands are as greedy as his eyes, and when his shirt rides up as you climb back into bed, showcasing the fact that you didn't bother with underwear, he’s quick to stake his claim. As you settle under the covers, leaning back against the pillows to enjoy your coffee, you squirm under the welcome feel of his warm grasp on the bare skin of your ass. You playfully swat them away, squirming under the distracting sensations they provoke and the goosebumps that follow, but they find their way back within seconds until you reach an unspoken compromise and Flip settles one big hand on your upper thigh.
Taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of completeness as you share the morning, you take a breath, looking at the clock that sits on your bedside table – it’s almost eight and you imagine he’ll have to be off soon.
"What time are you going in today?" you ask, unwilling to return to reality, but trying to play it off, wishing the two of you could stay in this warm bubble forever.
Even though you took the day off after anticipating how last night would go, you’re under no illusions as to his plans for the day. You knew who Flip was when you started dating him, you remind yourself, just as you knew who he was when you opened your door to him last night. You’ll just have to live with it if you want to keep him in your life. There’s no use pretending he’s not exactly who he’s always been – driven, determined and, frankly, a workaholic.
"I uh... I took the day off."
You raise an eyebrow, and then two, at his words - Flip Zimmerman does not take the day off. Still, he smiles a slight, crooked smile and continues.
"Yeah, well, I wasn’t completely sure what was gonna happen last night - I'd hoped it would go the way it did, but if it didn't, I knew I would have never been able to focus today. And I knew that if it did go well, well, then, being with you today would take priority ."
You're still staring at him even as you’re forced to be careful with your mug as Flip pulls at you until you're leaning against his chest, cuddled into him, his shirt still pooling around you, your coffee still in hand. He tugs on the collar of the shirt and chuckles.
"Looks good on you."
Mmmm , you think, preening a little at the way he eats you up with his eyes as you wear it.
"Thank you. What do you wanna eat for breakfast?"
It’s a new sensation, this transformed reality, him putting you first, the two of you having the unimagined luxury of being free to laze in bed with coffee on a regular Friday morning.
"You."
You grin but swat his hand away as it moves again up your thigh.
"Flip."
“Mmmm,” is his only response, his hands never stopping.
You reach around him to snatch his now empty cup from his hand before placing it along with your own on your bedside table before turning to accept the kiss he gives you, tasting the coffee he’d drunk as it lingers on his tongue. It’s clear within moments that he wasn’t kidding about having you for breakfast, as his hands, now empty, take the opportunity to roam even as his kiss deepens before he grasps you by the hair, tilting your head so his mouth is free to attack your neck in all the ways that make you melt.
"I think there's some stale desserts in the fridge," you manage to gasp, knowing that it’s now or never. You’d remembered to put them there late last night, after he’d fed you a late-night snack before claiming your lips again, sugar still sweet on your tongue, before tossing you over his shoulder and carrying you back to bed for round two.
And, even as he starts telling you all the ways in which he wants to eat those pastries from your skin, the mundanity of the thought of those delicious treats waiting for you, has you dragging him out of bed and down the hall to the kitchen, mugs in one hand while the other focuses on swatting his hands off every inch of you he can reach.
As you send him to fill your mugs before directing him to sit at your kitchen table, indicating he should push his chair back so you’re free to straddle his lap, allowing the pastries to get even staler as you kiss him again, losing yourself in the sensation of his hands on your neck, his mouth on yours and his thick thighs under your ass.
His lips are sweet on yours as you lean down into him, and that's all you need in that moment, though you give a half-hearted poke at the forgotten pastry box. He tells you, his mouth against your skin, that he's going to hand-feed you the rest of the pastries later - "got to keep your strength up, baby girl, I’ve plans for you for later" - and he promises he won't get so much as a single crumb in your bed.
You’re too busy nibbling on his skin to respond, though the thought drifts through your brain, already fogging with the impact of his kisses.
Even if you end up with more chocolate on your sheets than on your lips - it would still be worth it.