Oh, The Places You'll Go

Tidwell Gets It

Notes: Written for oxoniensis's 7th Porn Battle. No prompt given.

"It's not making love," Dani says, and Tidwell lifts his head from where he's settled in between her legs, blowing a soft breath over her swollen clit as he does so, her thighs twitching against his ears telling him he's doing good. She's clutching the headboard with one hand and her other arm is flung over her face, covering her eyes.

Tidwell gets it, he does. It's been like this since the beginning. It's not a kiss, it's a freakish aberration. It's not a date, it's a debriefing. It's not a quick and dirty fuck over Tidwell's desk in the graveyard hours, it's -well, he doesn't know what the hell that was apart from fucking amazing--and now this. They've been doing whatever it is they're doing for three months now and he's never let himself think in terms other than these:

1. Dani Reese is the hottest woman he's ever seen his entire life. Okay, there's Claudia Christian in her heyday but she's never let Tidwell eat her out so she's off the list.

2. Dani Reese is the most badass woman he's ever known. Tidwell would not want to piss her off, not permanently, anyway, not if he wants his kneecaps and testicles to stay in the place God assigned them.

3. Tidwell is a greasy, unkempt son-of-a-whore with more baggage than Paris Hilton on a long weekend in the Bahamas, and Dani's CO to boot.

These three things add up to this: Tidwell has to be the luckiest guy in California, probably the whole lower 48, that Dani lets him within fifty yards of her without a single drop of alcohol to lend the whole screwing him thing a nice fuzzy haze.

"I didn't-" he starts.

"Don't talk to me," Dani says. "It's always better when you don't talk."

That's fair enough, Tidwell thinks, and he can't talk and do the other anyway. He takes a second to admire Dani's hair tumbled wild and dark across the pillow, and the warm, brown, tight curves of her body. She's so freaking beautiful, sometimes he doesn't know how he doesn't explode with it. His dick twitches in agreement. Dani's thighs squeeze his head, directing, and he lowers his mouth to her again.

He'd thought when she finally lost all her judgement and let him into her pants that he'd want to do so many dirty things to her. Fuck her in the ass, spank her until her skin glowed, twist her hair around his hand and ram himself right down into her throat, all that and more. It turns out that's not what he wanted after all. He wants this, her clit under his tongue, her pussy wet and swollen and open for him. He wants to make her feel good, like she could take off running and fly. But more than that, he wants her to feel safe with him. Tidwell knows his reputation with women sucks, and maybe he's not the best person for the job, but he's the one Dani's letting in and, fuck it, he's stepping up to the plate. She's worth it, even if she doesn't think so.

She used to come quiet like, a tiny gasp and a tremor not registering even close to the Richter scale. Sometimes he couldn't even tell unless his fingers were inside her and he felt her muscles ripple around him. Now she arches up off the sheets, slamming her fists against them, cursing or praying or both. Her heels kick into Tidwell's back and she twists at the hips, writhing, and it might feel like she's turned into an electric eel, but Tidwell doesn't let go. He's done this to her, opened her up, at least he thinks he has, and he has to man up and hold on.

Tidwell slips her legs from his shoulders, soothing them with the palms of his hands. He looks up, and she's looking at him, and it's not the slack expression she usually gets after she comes, there's tension in her mouth and something like fear in her eyes. The speculative kind. The kind that says, "I got away with that, right?" He's seen it enough for it to get his brain ticking and, as he crawls up the length of her body to press a kiss on her throat, it clicks. What she said. He hadn't even- Huh. He smiles against her salty skin.

Because Tidwell gets it. He really, really gets it.

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