*64 - It's the Middle of the Night

What in the actual H-E- double hockey sticks was that pounding?  Delaney’s eyes squinted open, and the numbers on her nightstand clock swam a couple of frenzied laps before coming into focus.

Three eighteen.  No wonder it was still dark and everything was a little blurry.  She hadn’t been asleep long enough to even lose her drunk yet, so the pounding couldn’t possibly be a hangover. 

Then what the freep is it?

“Delaney!”

Oh for the love of…

The pounding was coming from her front door, and the unmistakable voice revealed who was responsible for it.

Throwing back the blanket with a grunt of annoyance, she tippled a little to one side but caught herself to stumble into the bedroom doorframe.  The hem of a favorite nightshirt flapped haphazardly against her thighs, and Delaney flapped the same way when staggering through the hall and dining room to the door that was still thumping. 

She wasn’t legitimately drunk, because everything had come into focus.  It was just her equilibrium that was still sloshed, and that added to the annoyance at being awakened only a couple of hours after going to bed. 

The chain fell away and both deadbolts released with loud clicks, freeing the way for her to wrench the knob.  A hard jerk created six inches of space between the door and jamb for her to squint at the man who didn’t look a frazzle-snatzing bit happier than she felt.

There was a ball cap crammed on his disheveled head, and lines creased his stubbled cheek as though he’d been sleeping on something other than a pillow.  A wrinkled jacket, t-shirt and jeans all looked like they’d been sleeping with him, and his dark mask of irritability was as black as the leather overnighter slung over a shoulder.  

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“No shit,” Jon snapped with equal surliness.  “Open the goddamn door.”

Her stomach was starting to roil just a little bit, and Delaney leaned a little more weight on the doorknob still in her grip.  The alcohol overdose wasn’t doing anything to improve her mood. 

“Your request is sweet and oh-so-very charming, but no.  I’m mad at you.”  She couldn’t quite remember why, but she knew it to be true.

This time a growl prefaced the snapping, just like a Rottweiler with an ouchie.  “I’m mad at you too, but I’m also fucking tired.  Let me in so we can go to bed.”

Ohhh the bossy, bossy man was treading on thin ice.

“That’s awfully presumptuous.  What in the world makes you think I’ll let you in my bed?”

Eyes that were no less lethal for the fatigue in and around them went narrow.  “The only thing that will stop me is finding that fucker from the bar in there.  Then I’ll beat the shit out of him, throw his ass out the window and crawl in anyway.  Let me in, Delaney.”

It was only the combination of her heavy head and rubbery neck that kept her from shoving Jon down the stairs.  He was awfully lucky that she needed to lie down in the worst possible way.

“Hmpf.” 

Delaney released the doorknob and spun gingerly on her heel to retreat back into the darkness.  The apartment wasn’t that big, and she’d walked with her eyes closed more than once, so no light was necessary.

As for him?  He could trip over something for all she cared – if he chose to follow. 

A restrained slam of the door announced Jon’s acceptance of the unissued invitation, and a string of grumbled swear words revealed he wasn’t overjoyed with the lack of hospitality.  The neighbors were going to be leaving nasty notes in the morning, but that was something else she didn’t have enough wherewithal to care about right now.

The only things that interested Delaney were her bed, her pillow and at least six hours of silence.

Jon cussed every blind step toward the bedroom, but hell if he was going to give her the satisfaction of turning on a light.  His stubbornness was rewarded when passing through that final doorway.  In the bedroom, there was at least enough light from the street to keep him from breaking a toe on something. 

If Pearl hadn’t been such a bitch to him, he could’ve slept in Chicago and come home tomorrow morning – as scheduled – to clear up all this shit.  When he could actually think rather than running on fatigue, Hampton Water and blind emotion. 

But, nooo.  The spiteful little woman kept sending texts that pumped him full of enough adrenaline to drop a racehorse. 

[9:54 PM]MOU: Personally, I hope they hook up.  I bet he won’t run off and do what you did. 

[9:55 PM]MOU:  Did I mention she went to see Violet today?  The ticking time bomb exploded and it wasn’t pretty JBJ.  It was fucking tragic and destructive.  But maybe this guy will help her pick up the pieces.

[9:59 PM]MOU:  *sigh*  Dude…  Come home and prove you’re who I think you are.  If you can’t, then stay the fuck away forever. She doesn’t deserve this shit.

When there was no response to his demands for answers – to what he’d done and how Delaney was – and subsequent calls went straight to voicemail, Jon could only assume the vindictive little photographer cut power on the phone.  Even with a bottle of wine in him, that left him pissed and out of sorts.  The only thing that came close to being a solution was finding a damn flight home. 

So here he was – mad and spoiling for a fight that he had no business having at this time of night – while Delaney quietly snored. 

Well, shit.  She fell asleep already.

He dropped his carry-on with a grunt of discontent.  

Jon took comfort where he could find it and conceded it was probably best that they not to go at it tonight.  At least his side of the bed looked untouched, so she probably hadn’t fucked the guy here.He hadn’t been lying when saying he was tired, and exhaustion made him an slight asshole.  

Booze, anger and worry made him an obnoxious asshole.  So while he was still agitated, she’d just saved them both a lot of trouble.

At least lying next to her belligerent little ass offered the assurance she wasn’t fucking someone else.  She also wasn’t curled into a shattered ball of pain, which was actually the more important fact.  It was the main reason he left his son in Chicago with nothing more than a texted promise to talk tomorrow.

Well-worn leather slid down Jon’s arms, and shedding both that physical weight and the emotional the weight of worry allowed his tense shoulders to sag. 

When is she going to fucking talk to me?

For someone who claimed to be an open book, Delaney seemed to have a lot of her pages stuck together.  She hadn’t told him today was the twins’ birthday.  She wouldn’t talk about what had her puking his Hamptons bushes.  She didn’t share with anyone what happened in Chicago four years ago, nor did she make any attempt to contact Poppy.

It was just like Petra said.  Delaney pretended she didn’t have children.

Except she had a 'tragic and destructive' visit with one today. 

He kicked off his shoes and dropped his shirt on top of them, followed by pants and socks.  Because Pearl was a bitch and cut him off, Jon really had no idea what happened.  All he knew was that it hadn’t killed his Mou – or her feisty spirit. 

Sliding his weary body slid under the covers, Jon hesitated for a moment.  With neither of them feeling particularly warm and fuzzy toward each other, it would probably be best to keep his distance and stay on the far side of the bed.

But he didn’t want to.  

He had climbed figurative fucking mountains to get here, and by God, they weren’t going to sleep like half a country was still between them. 

Tunneling under the blankets and scooting across the sheets, Jon didn’t stop until she was spooned against his chest. 

Everything that was left of that weight on his shoulders slid away with a jaw-popping yawn, and he snaked an easy arm over her waist while taking care not to jostle her awake.  He didn’t need her snarling at him again tonight.  That’s why he was extra gentle when tucking his nose into the crook of her neck and inhaling deeply.   

The now-familiar scent, along with her body heat and the soft cadence of their synchronized breathing, was enough to eventually lull him into sleep.   

*****

Morning was knocking on her eyelids, but Delaney only scrunched them tighter against the pale light sneaking into the room.  There was a tiny pain between her eyes, just above the bridge of her nose, lingering as a token reminder of last night’s overindulgence. 

Thank God she’d had enough foresight to stagger into the kitchen and guzzle two full glasses of water before bed.  It might just save her from the mother of all hangovers.  As it stood, she could probably sleep the remnants off in another hour or so. 

Rolling over to do that brought her face-to-face with a nearly forgotten memory. 

He came.

Delaney had seen some of the texts Pearl sent.  At the time, she hadn’t much cared that Jon knew there was another man’s hand on her butt.  Three shots and a beer were not only a balm to her frayed emotions but went a step further and numbed them.  They were still numb when he’d arrived, in fact.

The last thing she remembered was him threatening to kick the ass of whomever might be in her bed.  After that, there was nothing.  Not even a memory of him crawling in beside her, although he obviously had. 

One hand was tucked beneath a stubbled cheek, and his bowed mouth was parted enough to draw one slow breath after another.  The blankets were down low, with his left arm atop them at his waist and leaving the faded Superman tattoo exposed. 

It was hard to be angry with a man who hopped a late-night flight just to get to her, even if was fueled by irritation. 

Letting that guy – a very nice guy, fortunately – paw her butt and try to charm her into bed had seemed like a good idea at the time.  She’d assumed the feeling of being desired would take away the lingering melancholy from the cemetery, but it hadn’t.  It only made her that much lonelier. 

The only one who capable of chasing away the loneliness was the beautiful man sleeping beside her.

You know what it’s like to lose someone before the anger is resolved.  Why would you risk that again?

The short answer was that she didn’t want to. He’d come all the way from the Midwest.  The least she could do was reach across the mattress to meet him, Delaney stretched out to rest a soft hand against his cheek.  

He didn’t move at first but twitched at the scrape of fingertips over his stubble.  Sleepy eyes fluttered open in search of the source, and then came slowly into focus.

There wasn’t forgiveness in their depths, but there was something better.  Acceptance.  The same acceptance that had been there since almost the beginning.  Jon saw her in a way no one else did, both good and bad, and still he came.  

Angling her head to one side, she eased in until their lips brushed with the lightness of dandelion fluff.  She slowly puckered against the fullness of his lower lip, and when he didn’t retreat, Delaney pushed just the tip of a needy tongue against the seam of his closed mouth.  

That’s all it took for him to open it and accept her inside, but Jon remained passive.  When she twirled the lazy length of her tongue around his, he simply let it happen.

It was weird not having him in control, but she wasn’t daunted. 

“I'm glad you came,” she breathed, pushing a hand into silky soft hair before leaning forward to resume the kiss.

Jon had different ideas, though. 

Retreating a few inches, those all-seeing pools of blue studied her as he quietly croaked out, “Did you fuck him?”

There was no point in cowering or hiding from the piercing look meant to uncover her deepest secrets.  Delaney had nothing to hide.  He already knew her secrets.  More so than anyone else, anyway.   

“I didn’t even kiss him.  Did you call Katya your beautiful fighter?”

His eyebrows knit with consternation.  “I don’t know who Katya is, but you’re my only beautiful fighter, Mou.”

Sharpening orbs of blue were backlit with nothing but the truth, and for now that was enough.  The questions of how and why could be answered later.

“Make sure you keep it that way,” she murmured.

A rumble trilled in the back of his throat as Jon cupped the back of her head with one unrelenting hand.  Even if she objected to his consuming possession of her mouth, there was no escaping the man whose jaw hinged repetitively open and close with each relentless thrust of his tongue. 

Delaney didn’t even try.  She just whimpered with sweet submission while dominantly pinning his shoulders to the mattress.

Scrambling to straddle him, she was both pleased and unsurprised to find nothing covering the hipbones between her thighs.  He’d arrived angry but not enough to shield himself with clothes in bed, and Jon was currently pissed that she was wearing a shirt and panties.

He broke away with a growl and jerked the Bon Jovi tee over her head, flinging it away to knead at exposed breasts.  Sharp plucks at their tips were meant to punish as Delaney ground against the ballooning sabre she waned to impale herself with, but she got off on it.  He knew it turned her on as much as the vicious tug that snapped skimpy panties.  Or the cruel scrape of fabric against her clit when he snatched them away.   

“Gamíseis,” she panted, but hands of iron clamped onto her thighs, pinning Delaney where she sat.  Her squirming core was eager for fulfillment, but she stayed put and accepted the smack against her buttock with a sigh of pleasure.

“Feel that?” His rumbled question was rhetorical, because he connected with her rump again before she could answer. “That’s the hand that belongs on your ass, Mou.  The only hand.”

Her uterus clenched with a seizure that hurt better than anything she’d ever felt.  It crept all the way into her chest, flooding it with equally agonizing emotion.  It was the only hand she wanted there.  It was the only hand that felt right.

“How long before you fucking understand that you’re mine, you little hellion?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered as her hips instinctively rolled against him. 

Her body recognized its master.  He was the only one that could elicit this response.  He was the only one who set it on fire with a blazing blue glare and whose burning fingerprints fanned the flames.

“You belong to me.”

Surprisingly reverent fingers encircled the pulse point at her throat, squeezing gently while he gave her rump a nudge.  It was his silent permission to mount him, and she reached between her legs to find the silk-sheathed steel while leaning into the lover’s chokehold. 

Utter contentment seeped out in a sigh when he filled her to the point of producing an erotic pressure all the way up into her belly.  This is what she’d needed.  This was what she was always going to need – to be half of the whole that their souls were meant to be. 

“More,” she whimpered, licking her dry bottom lip while fruitlessly trying to drive him deeper. 

The restrictive grip on her throat shifted around to Delaney’s nape and levered her forward so that their chests were plastered together and the heat of his words filled her nostrils. 

“More isn’t enough, Mou.  It’s never enough with you.”

Delaney’s heart beat outside her skin, having grown too big to be held captive.  Her pulse throbbed in his mouth as that steely hand held her skull immobile for a devouring mating of mouths.  A longer band of steel anchored her lower back for a similar immobilization, and Delaney was gratifyingly made to accept everything he forced upon her. 

Her aching sheath was skewered with the vigor of a jackhammer while her mouth was bruised with ardor.  He couldn’t give her enough.  She couldn’t take enough.  Their bodies were cleaved so fully together that there was no distinguishing them as separate beings.  They were a unified entity with a single keening voice, dovetailed in the ancient joining of man and woman. 

She became his rib. 

He became her body.

As it was always intended to be.