Work Text:
Overture
"What's your fantasy?"
Stacy's lying next to Greg, curled up in the heat of his body, her head on his shoulder. His heart is beginning to slow, and in a moment he'll probably shrug her away and accuse her of cutting off circulation to his arm. He'd get incredulous and indignant if she teased him about cuddling, before spooning himself around her and dropping off into the coma he calls sleep. Stacy draws a line up from his navel to his chest with the tip of her middle finger, feeling the warmth of skin and the faint scratch of hair, the goosebumps that rise when she retraces the path with her fingernail.
"Mm?" he asks, the sound vibrating under her ear. He's nearly asleep. She's not surprised. It's been a long week, and they celebrated its end rather...spectacularly just now.
"Your fantasy," she says, and turns her head a quarter-inch, to smile against the point of his collarbone, an almost-kiss. She would never ask him something like this when he was awake, or even half-conscious. He'd grin devilishly and try to shock her with something depraved, something halfway between believable (for Greg) and completely implausible. He's good--oh, yes, after making love with him, she can admit, he's wonderful; but he's not adventurous.
Not that it matters. Stacy feels a drowsy wave of contentment thrum through her body. She stretches a bit, pointing her toes to feel the play of her tired muscles, squeezing her thighs together to remember the fullness of him inside of her. She kisses his shoulder again. Nothing passionate, nothing like earlier. Only enough to feel the texture of his skin under the light brush of her lips. She loves to touch Greg when he's undone and unguarded. It's so rare. She remembers, once, watching him sleep, and placing her fingers close to his lips to feel the light, even draw of his breath.
On the edge of sleep, Greg is sometimes willing to talk, to reveal things about himself that Stacy never could have guessed at. She's not above using that. She loves to hear his low, sleep-slowed voice in the darkness of their bedroom. She saves up her questions for when she might tease answers out of him, in a winding, absent conversation. He tells more than he means to, then, and shakes his head and half-smiles when he realizes what he's said. Stacy knows more about him than anyone else, she's certain, and that makes her love him fiercely, for everything that he is.
It doesn't always work. Sometimes he falls asleep, words turning to mumbles, then to soft snores; sometimes, she likes silence better.
And sometimes, like tonight, she falls asleep first, warm and certain and safe.
***
"Want to go through my porno collection?"
Stacy pauses in the middle of stirring milk into her coffee. Greg raises his eyebrows at her, grinning as he crunches a spoonful of cereal.
"Not particularly," she says dryly. She knows he keeps a box of tapes and a few magazines on the lower shelf of one of the bookcases in the living room, where it's mostly hidden behind the piano. She doesn't mind. She has her own collection, although it's mostly memories and scenarios she plays out in her mind, and a vibrator that provides reliable if not stunning orgasms on the nights when Greg's pulling an all-night shift with a patient or he's being frustrating as hell and falls asleep in front of the TV.
"Thought you wanted to know what turns me on."
Greg does have the infuriating tendency of remembering everything she's said to him, even when he was supposed to forget. She leans in, smiling, letting her curiosity and devilment show. "I wanted to know what your fantasy was," she says in a sultry voice, holding his gaze. For all his innuendo, Greg doesn't like to share secrets. If she pushes too hard, he'll turn away rather than tease.
"Same thing." He smirks back, and slurps the last of the sugar-purple milk from his bowl. He knows how disgusting she finds that. "What happened, you got a fortune cookie that said 'your partner is unsatisfied between the sheets'?"
She snorts. "Fortune cookies don't say 'between the sheets'."
"It's on the back," he protests.
"In the lucky numbers?"
Greg sits back and pushes his bowl aside. "Why do you think they call them lucky numbers?"
Stacy rolls her eyes and stands up, clearing away his bowl and the plate from her toast. It's Saturday, and for the first time in a long time, neither of them have to be anywhere. It's nice to feel the anticipation, knowing they'll probably make love again today, to make up for the celibacy of work and stress from the week before. In the afternoon, maybe, lazy and slow. She smiles, lets her hips swing a bit as she walks across the kitchen. She's wearing one of Greg's t-shirts and a pair of shorts short enough to disappear underneath it. His chair scrapes back from the table. A second later he's behind her where she stands at the sink. He presses her forward hard enough that the edge of the counter digs into her stomach.
"I'm doing the dishes," she says mildly, repressively. Not in the least seriously.
Greg laughs quietly. "I could start asking about your fantasies," he says. "Bubblebaths. Long walks on the beach." He leans in to whisper in her ear. His breath on the side of her neck makes her want to gasp, makes her nipples tighten. Stacy's mouth falls open and she shivers. "Or maybe I already know. After all, wasn't it you screaming my name last night?"
Stacy shakes her head and turns around, even though he still has her trapped. He twines his fingers with hers on one side, his other hand gripping the counter. "I was not screaming--"
Greg's eyes shine with mischief. "We could knock on the neighbours' doors and ask for a decibel rating." His hold on her hand tightens, and he pulls her closer, wrapping an arm around her. Stacy sighs, feeling the familiar weight of his body. She rolls her eyes at his insufferable smugness, even though she loves that he uses it in her favour. He's obviously been thinking about what turns him on a little too much. The beginning of his erection presses against her stomach through his sweats.
"Greg..."
"Foursome," he says. "You and Yasmine Bleeth, me and my video camera."
"Oh, that is so typical," she says, pulling away.
"Typical because it works," Greg says. He tugs her back by her hand, although he looks a little defensive that his fantasies are indistinguishable from every other man's ever.
"You want to watch me kiss another woman?"
"Not any woman," he says helpfully. "Yasmine Bleeth."
Tall and dark-haired. At least he has a consistent type. "Oh, of course," she says, shaking her head. She knows he likes to watch. She's turned him speechless on more than one occasion, touching herself, darting glances at him, licking her lips, while he stares and sometimes forgets to breathe. But he's possessive as hell and she can imagine him getting jealous even of his fantasy woman, if Stacy looked like she was having too good a time.
"My birthday's only eleven months away," Greg says hopefully, rocking his hips against her expectantly, as if Stacy might seriously be considering making his fantasy come true.
She tries to picture it, kissing a woman. Soft lips instead of Greg's occasional sandpapery stubble. Breasts pressed against hers rather than Greg's hard chest. Someone her own height, maybe, meaning she wouldn't have to constantly reach up on tiptoes. The idea isn't unpleasant, but she can't see it as anything other than Greg's fantasy material. "I'm sorry, honey, but you're not that difficult to shop for." She smirks up at him. Turnabout is fair play. "Anyway, you wouldn't be so cavalier about it if I was the one who wanted to watch you kiss another man."
Greg scoffs. Stacy knows where to look for the signs of embarrassment, and sure enough, the tips of his ears are red, and he rolls his eyes as an excuse to turn away from her. He lets her go, even though he's still partly hard.
Stacy has wondered if she regularly replaces the women in Greg's videos in his imagination. But he's not getting macho-defensive about his woman-on-woman only kink. He's not disgusted by her suggestion, he's...self-conscious. Stacy narrows her eyes at him. He looks like he's on the edge of running into the other room and pretending they've never had this conversation. She knows him, and she knows when she's struck a truth that he wishes she hadn't. As if he doesn't want her to pry, or realize--
"Oh," she says, astonishment bubbling up like laughter.
"What?" he snaps. It only makes her more certain that she's right.
"Oh, my God." She places a hand to her breastbone, trying her hardest not to laugh. "You--" She stops, and swallows a smile. "You like men."
He glares at her from under his eyebrows, sullen. Stacy steps across the kitchen and cups his cheek, forcing him to face her. He's blushing in earnest now. She never thought she'd be able to make him squirm, the way he can make her squirm with just a word. He can invoke all the secrets she's told him in the foolish moments when she thought he was actually being serious. "That's so..."
He twists away from her hand. "If you say one word--"
Stacy shakes her head. She still can't quite take it in. It's astounding, and pleasing, to have something that she can tease him with. "What's it like?" she asks, curiosity getting the better of her.
Greg throws his head back, impatience and discomfort filling his body with tension. "Why don't you tell me."
Stacy frowns lightly, smoothing his t-shirt over his chest with her palms. She understands her own desire, the way she wants him. He's beautiful to her; the line of his throat, the muscles of his chest and stomach, the length of his legs. She could never explain how good it feels when he slides inside her. She loves to please him, with her hands and mouth. It's a thrill to hear the deep sound when he groans her name. But her imagination fails her when she tries to see Greg liking the same things. "I don't mind," she says softly, in case that's what's worrying him. It hasn't mattered before now, and that's not going to change.
"Great for you," he mutters. He's pouting, but he seems to believe her. He's not pulling away.
"So..." Stacy hides her smile, looking down. She wants his arms around her, so that she can bury her face against him, reassure him with her body. Her hands reach the waistband of his sweats, and she stops, looking up at him.
Greg jerks away again, even though she can feel that he's still half-hard, the heat of his erection only an inch away from her fingers. "So what?"
"That's your fantasy?" She can't quite give up asking. She wants details. She wants to know him, all of him, the way it always seems that he knows her. "Have you ever--"
"Oh, God," he says loudly. He plucks her hands off his waist and pushes her wrists back, setting her aside, and then he stomps out of the room.
"Coward," Stacy calls after him, and she knows her laughter shows in her voice. He shuts the door to the bathroom pointedly, and she hears the shower start.
A few minutes later, she takes her coffee and wanders back to the bedroom to get dressed. She pauses outside the bathroom door, the mug cradled in her hands. Above the water, she hears his stifled grunt.
She can picture him precisely. His head tipped back into the spray, his face slack, his forearm flexing as his hand moves quickly on his penis.
She laughs quietly, and wonders if it's her, or Yasmine Bleeth, or someone else entirely in there with him.
***
"Did you ever have a boyfriend?"
Stacy feels Greg's body stiffen underneath her. They're sitting on the couch, his arm around her shoulders. A moment ago he was a million miles away, staring absently at a Melrose Place rerun, while she nestled against him, reading briefs and taking notes on a legal pad. When she realized she was paying more attention to Heather Locklear's scheming than to the deposition she's preparing for, she let her papers fall to her lap.
She doesn't want to make him run away again. After his shower, she dropped the conversation, and then got caught up in all the weekend activities that they both tend to let slide during the week. Greg grudgingly bundled their clothes into the laundry, and tidied in the way of his that mostly involves rearranging the mess. She went out for groceries, and came back to cook supper. All very normal, except that Greg hasn't complained or poked at her or tried to get out of housework nearly enough.
At the back of her mind, she hasn't been able to let it go. Greg's told her about his college conquests, and some she believes and others she sighs over and says, "Yes, honey, I'm sure." There haven't been many women before her, and she never questioned that before. Now she doesn't know if the gaps were because he was single, or because he was involved in a different kind of relationship.
"If I say no, will you get off my back?"
Stacy smiles, sitting forward to place her papers back in their files on the coffee table. "No," she says, because to give up is to show weakness. She's a better lawyer than that. She takes his hand and interlaces their fingers, studying the way they lock together, bone and muscle and skin. "You know all of mine," she adds. He didn't rest until he had every detail worked out. She's sure that he has an entire network of names and dates and stories memorized. He needed to decide what each boyfriend meant to her, so he'd know where he fit.
Greg heaves a sigh. He tries to take his hand back, but she holds on. She can feel him wriggling against the couch cushions. "Yes," he says shortly.
Stacy waits, but he doesn't elaborate, just lets the silence sit heavily between them. He hasn't been so close-mouthed since the first time she asked about his family. She tries a different tack. "When did you know?"
He shrugs. He stays quiet a moment longer, and finally says, "You're not going to get far without the bare lightbulb and sodium pentothal."
Stacy settles against him more firmly. Who he's loved before shouldn't bother her. It doesn't. That he wants time for himself, to touch himself in the shower, to fantasize...she can't get upset about that, either. But when he won't talk to her, when he leaves her out--that's when it hurts, when it matters. "Is there anyone...now...who you find attractive?" she asks.
It's a silly question. She knows how he feels about her, and she's never been threatened by other women. It shouldn't be different. But it is.
He shifts again, and she thinks he might push her away and escape. She braces herself for the rejection. Instead, he pulls her against him, until she's twisted around and nearly falling into his lap. She lets out a squeak, but he silences her with his mouth. He kisses her, insistently, and she kisses him back without reservation. He sucks on her lower lip, then slides his tongue into her mouth, as strong as an argument, as if he's trying to convince her beyond all doubt.
Stacy opens her mouth and tries to slow him down. She wants to take the time to feel every inch of him, and listen to what he's saying. He only tugs her closer, intensifies the kiss. She muffles a soft moan against him, sliding her hand up into his hair. Greg's fingertips skim down her throat, and her pulse races under his touch. His hand slides lower, until he cups her breast. Stacy inhales, shaky and slow, when he finds her nipple through her shirt and bra, teases it. Pleasure arcs through her like a current. He moves his kisses down the side of her neck, his chin scraping her skin and making her even more sensitive. "Greg, oh," she says, "yes--"
You, he says, and he says it without a word.
***
"Why do you want to know?"
Stacy nearly misses the question. Greg mutters it quietly, dropping it along with a kiss against the thin skin on the inside of her wrist. Their urgency has slowed, since she straddled him on the couch and kissed him lighter and more briefly, until their lips barely touched. He'd slid his hands down her back, over her hips, to her thighs, over and over again, and she waited until he sighed and relaxed. When she finally stood up and held out her hand to him, he took it easily, and smiled as she led the way to the bedroom.
He's naked now, his body warm against hers. He kisses her wrist, the inside of her elbow, the point just under her ribs where he knows she's ticklish. He's driving her crazy. She runs her fingers through his hair, trying to encourage him to touch her where she wants him most, but he only smirks at her and continues his lazy, careful exploration.
She pushes him to his side when he asks, so that they're lying face to face in the dim light. "I love you," she says softly, holding his gaze. That answer holds all the other reasons: she wants to know him, she wants him to be happy. If he wants something different, something they haven't tried, then she wants to give him that.
His eyes close for a second, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows. Stacy kisses him there, smoothing the worry away. He tilts his head up and she kisses his mouth, tastes him, her heart beating quickly.
Maybe he's more adventurous than she'd ever given him credit for. They're good together, they have been right from the very first time, and it's only gotten better as they've learned each other's bodies, how to evoke the most pleasure with a touch. But if he's been with men, then there must be something different that works for him. Stacy kisses her way down his body, takes his penis in her hand. He's hard, not quite straining yet, but she knows this, how to make him lose control. She kisses her way down the shaft, then plays over it with her tongue, waiting to feel his thighs tense before she slips her mouth over the head. He groans, his hips lifting just enough to let her know how badly he wants to move. It's good, it makes her feel warm and wanted and self-satisfied to give him what he wants. Except, this time, she goes farther; she cups his balls gently and then touches behind him. Wondering if anyone else has touched him there, given him pleasure in a way she hasn't. She moves her fingers again, exploring, testing. Listening to every breath he lets out, wondering if he will sound different; sharper, strained, desperate.
"Stacy--" His voice is hoarse, but he shifts back from her fingers. "Don't."
"What?"
Greg frowns, as if he's moving away from her. He lets out a breath and reaches for her, pulling her up. Stacy kisses him, quickly, to bring him back.
"Let me," she says.
"I don't want that."
"Why not?" she asks, slightly annoyed. She could feel the quiver in his muscles, the twitch of him under her fingers, before he made her stop.
He shakes his head, and reaches for her instead of answering, rolling her over so that he's on top. This time he doesn't tease. He slides his hand between her legs, finding her clit with one finger, and he kisses her as he rubs it. Stacy gasps, feeling him everywhere, his fingers slipping lower, one finger sliding inside, his thumb still pressing against her clit.
She can't turn him away, keep up her questions, when he touches her like this. She lifts her hips, wanting more, and she can feel his erection against her hip, pushing back in rhythm. Their kiss grows ragged, breathless, but she wants him badly, and she holds him as close as she can. His finger moves more deeply inside her, finds the perfect spot, and she stops kissing just to feel.
Greg huffs a breath against her neck, moves down to kiss her nipple, then to suck and swirl his tongue around it, and the combination--all those sensations--makes her clutch at his shoulder, saying his name as if he is drawing it out of her. Her orgasm is a single bright point that grows until it envelops her, and she lets her body go still, prolonging every instant of it.
"Stace," he says, when she opens her eyes. He's looking down at her, so tenderly, and he kisses her again before he says, "I want you."
He nudges his erection against her, sliding through her moisture. Stacy watches his face until the moment when he pushes in and his eyes close, as if he's never felt anything so good before. She's sensitive, her muscles still clenching, but he moves slowly, holding himself up on his elbows. "Greg," she says.
"Yeah," he answers, "God, yeah--"
"Like that," she whispers, and moves her hand down to feel the spot where they're joined; she touches herself slowly, carefully, and he thrusts into her, and her arousal climbs again, higher than before.
Maybe this is what it's like for him, with men; the difference between a touch and the incredible fullness of having him inside. Maybe it's something he won't ever let her know. But it feels so good, so wonderful, that she knows he's not missing anything; that this, between them, is everything.
She clenches down on him, and he shudders. He suddenly breaks, and moves faster. Stacy moans as her pleasure flares again, and she urges him on with kisses and whispers and small touches, and this time when she comes her orgasm crashes through her, unstoppable and overwhelming. He follows a second later, his body rigid with strain, and she watches as he gives in to it, and afterwards, she holds him while their heartbeats slow.
***
"What did you think would be different?"
"I don't know," Stacy says, swatting his chest. He's almost laughing, although it shows more in his voice than on his face. "I wanted to try."
"Well, if you buy a strap-on and a black leather harness--"
She laughs at the picture of herself with a fake cock bobbing in front of her, attached with straps and buckles. Compared to the real thing, it would probably be a ridiculous undertaking. "I don't need to be called Mistress, thanks." Greg chuckles, silently, so that she only feels it through his chest. If he's back to innuendo and jokes, then everything is right in his world again.
"Different doesn't mean better," he says, after a pause. His voice is low and hesitant. He takes her hand in his, circling his fingers around her wrist, almost as if he's taking her pulse.
"I know," she says softly.
He nods; she just sees it out of the corner of her eye. "I love you," he says quietly.
Stacy smiles, her heart filling. She closes her eyes to take in the scent of him, the soft sound of his breathing, the solidity of his body. "I know," she says again, and kisses him lightly, warm and certain and safe.
the end