By Rebecca Wolking

Art by Rebecca Carey


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The door slams, a wordless call.
Fly down the stairs, across the room,
   into his welcoming arms,
   into his welcoming kiss.

Hand on the back of his head,
   fingers running through soft black hair,
   pulling his head down, reaching for his mouth,    arm on his back under his coat,
   hard muscles so real!
Feeling tender circles drawn behind,
   give in to the pressure of the strong arm drawing waists together.
Words that barely make sense, spoken between kisses and hot breath,
   "I couldn't stay away."

Slide lower to undo the holster tie-down,
   fingers ascend the inner thigh,
   out to the hip,
   in to the buckle,
   hear the gun belt drop to the floor,
   feel large work-rough hands tangled in curls,
   stroking a jawline,
   finger under the chin to raise lips for another kiss, growing stronger,
   "I missed you, I missed you." It doesn't matter who says the words.

Locked together,
   step back, step back, step back,
   fall over the back of the couch onto the cushion,
   roll off to the floor,
   somehow his vest is gone, his shirt is open,
   feel his breath move down from ear to neck,
   nudge aside fabric to bare collarbone tickles.
Laughing, run for the kitchen but caught at the dining room,
   pushed back on the table,
   those luscious arms on either side,
   holding, trapping, undoing button after button.
   Take him by surprise and wrap legs around his waist.
His powerful arms lift,
   one strong and hard under derriere,
   the other around shoulders,
   long fingers cradling head,
carrying across the living room,
   kissing up the stairs,
   stopping at the first landing,
   sitting on the railing.
Push him back onto the upper stairs, fall onto that hard chest,
   slide down the long body to the belt buckle, it's gone,
   top button, it's gone.
   *Sharp breath pulls muscles taut.*

Swept up in the air,
   arms around his neck,
   playing with that glorious black hair,
   distance disappears,
   mouth to mouth, plundering.
Bang into the doorway, kick the door shut,
   finally make it to the bed, oops missed,
   the rug is soft on bare skin.
   *A baritone rumble begins deep in his chest, counterpoint to delighted
   alto cries.*

. . .

Exhaustion. Delicious, lingering exhaustion.
He moves.
   "Don't go."
   "Shhh. I'm not leaving you--not ever again."

Lifted to the soft bed,
   tender kiss on forehead, cheek, linger on the lips,
   blanket pulled gently, tenderly over chilled shoulders,
   he slides under as well, a furnace to warm the coldest, loneliest heart.

Face tucked to chest,
   arms holding tight,
   fingers hidden under the covers, entwined.
He sleeps, deep relaxed slumber.
Finally tension eases,
   "He's home. He's really home."

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