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Bates Motel (2013)
Norma Bates/Alex Romero
Norma Bates, Alex Romero
Additional Tags:
Love, Sex, Romance
Published: 2016-01-31 Words: 1985

Let's Go Somewhere



An extension of the car scene in my one-shot Only In Orbit. PWP. Rated M for sexual content. For Kristen, who requested it, and Deb, for whom the original was written.

We roll to a gentle stop in a patch of gravel on the side of a winding road. "Morrow Hill," he tells me, pointing at the view beyond. A stretch of glittering cityscape against the otherwise impenetrable dark.

"You come up here often?" I ask.

"Not for years. Mostly back when I was in college, before my mom died. She'd call me up, upset about something my dad said or did, and after three hours on the phone I'd just want to get away, you know? I went to school in Portland to escape all that bullshit, but it had a way of following me."

"So you came here."

"Mm." He nods. Shrugs out of his jacket, the leather creaking with his movement, and in the rustling I catch the scent of him; familiar and warm, like coming home to a roaring fire. It makes me want to lean over and kiss his neck, or at least trace my fingers along his jawline; one made all the more beautiful with his five o'clock shadow. "I came here, yeah. Nobody ever comes up here. At least I've never seen them. So it was just me and the city, making peace with one another and our respective makers."

He drifts off, relaxed, just gazing out into the city beyond, and the silence isn't uncomfortable, I realize. It's not an enemy to defeat. It's an oddly welcome companion, neither needed nor feared, and for a brief moment I wonder if this is chemistry, or maybe just connection: how easy it is to turn my head and look at him, to admire his bone structure and his shoulders and the way he lets his head fall against the seat, as if both present yet lost in thought.

But then he turns to me, an almost insignificant tilt of his head, and when our eyes lock he smiles. Wide, and genuine, and also a little lazy. An easy sort of smile, one that requires no speech or declaration, and yet he reaches over and I feel his thumb on the tip of my chin, and when I meet his gaze again I can't breathe. All the oxygen in our world is on fire; my lungs burn, my eyes feel like they're watering, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"You're the only one I've ever brought here."

Somehow, I've forgotten how to speak. The words don't form or maybe my mouth just doesn't work any longer.

I want to ask: why? Why me? Why here, why now?

"You're beautiful," he says, as if he's heard my question. "Maybe the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." And I want to say: stop. Stop, I'm not that beautiful. There are brighter stars in the sky, more vibrant flowers in the forest. But he shakes his head, as if he's heard that too, and suddenly he's leaning across his seat to mine. "You're blushing."

"I'm not," I say. The first thing I've managed since he looked at me—really looked at me—and brought his hand to my face.

"You are. I love it." His voice drops to a whisper on the word love, and I feel the heat in my face climb ten degrees. I think he feels it too, because he chuckles low in his throat, and presses his cheek to mine, mingling the roughness of his skin with my warmth, and I hear myself make a tiny, high-pitched sound and this time he doesn't laugh but bends down to kiss my collarbone.

"But—but why bring me here?" I ask, voice wavering; I still can't take a deep breath.

The stubble on his chin scrapes my flesh but his mouth is impossibly soft when he ghosts a thousand kisses up my neck. "For this," he says. I feel the tip of his tongue playfully flick across the skin beneath my ear lobe. "And this." And then his lips find mine, press into them with a smile; gently, affectionately, carefully, and he doesn't break away when he whispers, "and this."

I try to say his name but it dies mid-air; no sound but my breathing, coming faster and faster, and his, which at first is slow and steady and warm, but when I arch my back slightly and hook my fingers over the back of his neck he groans and suddenly I can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against mine.

My mouth opens for him, and he takes advantage; his tongue is light and quick and wet, never insistent, but a gentle tease. And when he sucks on my bottom lip, my jaw cradled in his palm, I can feel how much he wants this—wants me—and somehow it's the only thing that makes sense in the here and now.

Like everything was decided from the first moment I climbed into his SUV and he backed out of my driveway.

And I'm perfectly okay with all of it.

The weight of him feels right, and good, and comforting, like I was made for this, made for him. And his hair is soft and thick under my fingers, his skin as overheated as mine. But when I break our kiss to gasp in a deep, much-needed breath he kisses the corner of my lips and the corner of my eyes, and he whispers, "tell me you want this," and I whisper back, "I need you," because I do, because that is the only one, true thing I can give him in this moment, and the second the words leave me he slips away, and throws open his door and slides out, and I shiver, cold and suddenly lonely and wondering where he's gone.

But he's stalked around to my side of the SUV, and when he throws my door open and startles me, and I start to fall back because I'd been leaning on the damn thing, he catches me easily, having expected it all along. My back against his chest and his arms around my waist, and then he turns me around and picks me up as if my weight were nothing to him, and before I can protest—not that I have any desire to do so—he throws open the back door and spreads me out across the seat.

He takes the time to close and lock all the doors. I see the cop flair up in him for a moment; he's already hard, I can see him straining against his jeans, but for a minute he's unaware of it, too busy checking the locks and the windows, ensuring that we're safe and no one's lurking beyond.

It makes me smile to see it. The car's thick with the scent of us, our heat and our need and the pure chemical, animal want, his skin and my perfume, but he's still Alex. My Alex. Forever the sheriff. And even though I don't say it, I think about how impossibly easy it is to love him.

But we're safe, and he's happy, and so he looks back to me. Reaches down to caress my cheek. And then he's stripping off his shirts—the first one plaid, long-sleeved, very soft; the second, pure black cotton—and folding them up and placing them beneath my head. He brushes a curl out of my eyes and kisses my forehead, asks me if I'm comfortable. So much tenderness in it that I can't bare it; I tilt my chin and crane my neck and sink my teeth into the line of his neck. Firmly; not enough to draw blood. But he hisses in a breath and I still, waiting to see if it's pain.

It's not.

His hands slide under my ass and I lift my hips for him so that he can slide my dress up and my panties down. It's a bit rushed, a bit rough, both of us eager for the taste of one another. We kiss when our mouths are near; he bites my collarbone when he slips my panties over my ankles; tosses them somewhere up in the driver's seat. And when he shifts so that he's kneeling (as best he can in the limited space we're working with) between my thighs, I lay back and spread my legs for him, and he leans down and kisses the soft mound of flesh just beneath my naval.

And he keeps kissing as he carves a path downward, until finally I feel the white-hot flick of a slick, talented tongue. A brief tease, the rough pad of it smoothing lazily over my clit. And I'm already wet, and eager, and the shock of nerves hits like fireworks, so that my head falls back and my fingers dig into his shoulders.

He throws my trembling legs over his shoulders, doesn't stop the teasing motion of his tongue. I can hear myself making desperate, inarticulate noises as he locates every trigger and button I never knew I had, and as he suckles and laps and softly nips at my flesh, he tells me I taste like honey and vanilla and fruits he can't name.

When my thighs clamp against the sides of his head and my hips buck and my body shakes, he stills his mouth but keeps the pressure until I'm calm, until the aftershocks of orgasm have finished their electric trill through my stomach and limbs.

He slides up my body with ease; reminds me of a panther—calm and sure of his own strength.

I can taste myself on him when he kisses me, can feel how achingly hard he is through his jeans.

And so I reach down and unzip his fly, tuck my hand under the waist band of his boxers, press my palm to the thick flesh of him, and free him from the fabric. I bite his neck again—another hiss of breath; amidst the softness and the heat and the pleasure he likes a bit of pain, although he's so careful never to hurt me—and I press my mouth to his ear and whisper, "take me."

And he does. His jeans are down around his knees in seconds, and this time he is less gentle about coaxing my thighs to open for him but I don't mind in the slightest.

When he sinks inside of me he groans, buries his face in the crook of my neck. He's breathing so hard I'm almost worried, but then his hips find a rhythm, slow at first, and he finds a comfortable way to rest his weight above me, and his hands pull down the top of my dress.

His tongue finds a nipple and I cry out; my hand tangles in his hair again and he kisses the underside of my wrists, nips the pad of my thumb.

He's rough and rushed and I'm so wet from his mouth and my orgasm that I can hear our bodies collide in the best, most beautiful fashion I can imagine. The sound of it seems to spur him on; he can't decide what to do with this mouth. He kisses me and my fingertips and my neck and collarbone; he whispers in my ear, tells me how soft I am, how tight, how small. He plants a kiss on each nipple; slides a free hand down to cup my ass again and pull me tightly to him.

And when he starts to lose his rhythm, and his breathing shifts from gasps to low, heavy moans I wrap my arms around his shoulders and draw him to me. I bite his jaw and kiss his chin and chant "come for me" against the curve of his ear, and the force of it rocks us both; he shudders into my body, thrusting hard, my name rushing out in the storm of his helpless, agonized, perfect groans.

And Armageddon itself couldn't make me slip from his arms.

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