Walking Through The Snow

by Speranza

Someone has been walking through the snow.  The tracks are at least two days old, but they're still clearly visible.  The snow has been disturbed, scarred by a human presence.  This area is not widely trafficked.  Certainly there were no tracks here when I left on patrol.  Across the moonlit snow, I see a snowmobile parked against the wall of my cabin.  The shuffing steps lead straight to my front door.

Someone has been eating in my kitchen.  There's a jar of instant coffee on the counter, and a paper bag of sugar has been pulled out of the cabinet.  There are two coffee mugs in the sink, and another—still with a spoon poking out of it—on the table.  A large knife sits next to a loaf of bread; a smaller one is sticky with marmalade.  Crumbs are everywhere.

I don't mind.

Someone has been lounging on my sofa.  Everything on the coffee table has been shoved to one side, leaving just enough room for two feet, crossed at the ankles.  The throw cushions are in disarray, the quilt half shoved into the seat back.  A book of Raymond Chandler's short stories is wedged next to the armrest.

I take off my coat and hang it up, hooking my hat on top of it.  And then, as quietly as I can manage in my heavy boots, I cross to the bedroom door.  The wood floor creaks.  The door's hinges squeak as I crack it open.  I've never noticed either before, because of course I've never had grounds to notice.  It has always been me, alone, here.  Just me.  All alone.

Someone is sleeping in my bed.  For a moment I can't move—I just stand in the doorway, heart pounding, as I look at the tousle of sheets, blankets, and blond hair.  For a moment, I'm not sure whether to go forward or back.  But there is no going back.  Because he's here, now, in my bed.

The floor creaks as I cross it.  The bed squeaks as I sit down on its edge.  But he doesn't move, doesn't stir, until I reach out and put a hand on his shoulder.  Then and only then does he snuffle and lift his head.

His voice is rough with sleep.  "Hey, you're back.  Thought you'd never get back."

"I'm back."  Inane, but I don't know what else to say, really.  "And you're...here."

"I'm here, yeah."  Ray rolls onto his back and squints up at me through the dim light.  His face has been creased by my pillow.  "Is that okay?"

Okay?  Yes.  "Yes, of course."

Ray nods slowly, then reaches out and clutches my arm tightly.  So this is it—this is how it all resolves, in this sleepy, dream-like way.  Part of me wonders if we're ever going to have a more substantive conversation than this.  Why did you come?  How did you decide?  What does this mean?  Another part of me fears that conversation.  It can only be lies, because there are no words for this, for what this means.

Ray's throat tightens, his Adam's apple bobbing.  "C'mere," he murmurs, and tugs at my arm.

This is it, then, now or never—and why now precisely, I don't know. Why now rather than during our partnership in Chicago, or during our adventure, or before Ray shook my hand and went back to Chicago?  I let him tug me down to him— our mouths are unbearably close, but there's one thing I just have to know.

I brace myself above him, my mouth hovering just above his.  "Are you staying?"

Ray says nothing.  And still, he says nothing.  And then I feel his answer as a whuff of breath on my lips.  "Yeah."

I drop my head and touch my mouth to his, and some small, soft thing explodes inside of me.  His mouth is sweeter than I had ever let myself believe.  His arm snakes around my neck, holding me close, and his tongue, heavy and languorous, slides into my mouth and fills it.  I feel myself harden, my body buzzing with excitement.  He smells warm and musky, like sweet coffee, like sleep-sweats, like my bed.  One of his hands has worked its way down under my collar, and rests heavily on my shoulder;  the other has wormed its way up under my shirt from my waist.  His palm glides up, caresses my pectoral, and then a callused thumb stroke my nipple.  I gasp into his mouth.

"You want it," Ray murmurs.  "Wanted it.  You never said."

"I never said."  He's stripping me of my clothes, now—pulling my flannel shirt down over my shoulders.  "I'm sorry."

"Shh.  No talking."  His hands are warm against my skin.  "Talking bad."

"Ray."  I hear the pleading note in my voice and wish it weren't there.  "I'm sorry—"

"Shut up," Ray mutters into my stubbled jaw;  he seems undecided as to whether or not he's undressing or caressing me.  "I didn't say nothing neither, so shut up.  Past history."

Together, we get the rest of my clothes off, and then Ray's pulling me into bed with him and flipping the thick blankets over us.  I slide my arms around him and for the first time we are skin to skin—his already warm, mine growing warm against his.  His breastbone brushes mine, his belly brushes mine, our thighs press together.  The hard length of his erection nestles in tight against mine.

"Yeah," he says, "yeah," and then he's kissing me again—hot, nasty kisses that make my blood burn.  Helplessly, I stroke my erection against his, and that first rasp of fragile skin unleashes my lust.  It has been so long since I have permitted myself to want anything, so long since I've taken pleasure from anyone's body.  And now here is Ray's body, stretched out under mine.  Strong and aroused, slim and smooth, thickening just slightly around the middle—and I want, and I want, and I want.

I drive against him, harder and harder, burying my face against the roughly stubbled skin of his exposed throat.  "Oh yeah...fuck....yeah...do it," he mutters, and he's rubbing hard against me, too, his hips jerking upwards.  This is more encouragement than I need;  I'm not sure I could stop now in any case.  "Faster, harder—" he pants, and suddenly there is a spreading wetness between us, and Ray's chest is heaving erratically below mine.  My erection slides easily through his semen.  I gasp against his neck, overwhelmed.  I'm leaking against his belly, gliding against him, and I want—I'm going to—ejaculate all over him—

Strong arms are wrapped tightly around me as I shudder out my satisfaction.  For long moments I can do nothing but lie there, relishing the intimacy between us—the feel of his hot palm against the back of my neck, the way he's kissing the skin beneath my ear.

"You're staying?" I murmur finally, and a soft, rough voice in my ear whispers:  "Yeah, Fraser... Yes..."

Someone will be sleeping in my bed.  Someone will be sleeping in my bed.

Ray will be sleeping in my bed.

The End

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