You wake groggily at a light, insistent tapping on the door. You rub your eyes, disoriented in the glow of the screen, stumble to the door and open it. He is there, hovering, in a rumpled tee and boxers. This time the annoyance is unfeigned, a hot know in your chest. Can't he just leave you to lick your wounds in peace?

"What are you doing here, Orlando," you ask, sounding flat and tired to your own ears.

"Can't sleep." He looks sheepish yet unnaturally alert, measuring your face while he shrugs.

You silently let him in, but he takes a few steps and stops, turning back to look at you.

"Watching telly?" You make a noncommittal noise, move to sit down. You curl into a corner of the couch, and he stretches out. Typical, you think, to take up most of the cushions. But your eyelids are heavy, and you yawn, lulled by the images on the screen. He pulls a throw from the back of the sofa and spreads it over his lap, holding up a corner for you. You sleepily scootch over to share it, and his arm falls around your shoulders. In spite of your peevishness, the embrace is warm and comforting, and you snuggle into his side, yawning again.

Sleep settles heavily over you, and you doze, barely waking when he adjusts your body to lay over his lap, your head on his other shoulder. His lips flutter on your forehead in a tender kiss, and you sigh, curling closer to him, dreams swirling reality and fantasy into one. You reach a drowsy hand up to cup his neck, drawing him down, murmuring, "Orli…" His lips are soft, faerielike, and your hazy mind melts into the sensation.

And freeze, body stiffening, as you realize just what you've done. He is perfectly still, not even breathing. You start to cringe, but your heart rebels. Fuck it. To hell with everything. You stretch your neck a fraction, press more firmly into the kiss, and wait. He raises his head. You can tell from the dimly lit expression that he is stunned, and you struggle not to flinch. You wonder if he thinks you're still asleep. Is there such a thing as sleep-kissing, you wonder inanely. He frowns slightly. You wait for him to move, wait for him to say something, fear curling in your gut that it will be the Speech. The Withdrawal. The Awkward End of Friendship. The heel of your hand is just under his jaw, and you feel his pulse there, quickening, but is it his or yours that races so wildly? You let out your breath, ready to retreat, and he drops his head down again, mouth on yours, experimentally. Your heart stops, then jumps painfully, and a small sound escapes from your throat to be swallowed by his lips.

The kiss deepens; his tongue slides into you gently, and he tastes of mint and cinnamon. Gravity flips on end and you revel in it, in the soapy, smoky scent of his skin surrounding you. His hand reaches under the blanket to stroke your ribs, smoothing the folds of your tank top. This, this is what you have dreamed of, and more, because it is achingly real. You move your lips under his, tongues tangling in a deliciously slow give and take. The blood rushing in your ears drowns out the sound of the television. His eyelashes tickle your cheek. You delve further into the warmth of his mouth, trying to taste every surface, teeth clicking his in your eagerness. He draws back slightly, his eyes hooded and glazed.

You sit up, rub the pad of your thumb along his jaw, stroking the strong line that you have secretly longed to kiss. You lean forward, trace your tongue along his damp lower lip, and take it between your teeth, biting gently until he sucks in a breath. His arm tightens around your back at the tiny prick of pain, and he opens for another, more heated, kiss. A soft growl vibrates in his chest. You shiver as the sound washes through you, reminds you needlessly of how utterly, beautifully male he is. You feel the energy pouring off him, adding to yours, making you break away and gasp for air.

He pushes you back, moves his legs to lay alongside you on the narrow cushions. You nudge a knee between his thighs and wrap your arms around his waist and shoulders, frantic to get closer. He takes a long moment, just breathing, his face in your hair, his hand rubbing your back. You nuzzle into the crook of his neck, enjoying the softest rasp on your cheekbone of the stubble beginning to grow there. Again, you imprint his scent on your mind and feel the counterpoint of his heart, now so near yours. You relax into each other's embrace, urgency ebbing into comfort. He pulls the blanket more securely about you and sighs.

At ease in the closeness, he lays a palm over your breast, softly kneading, and you roll to your back in silent offering. The tank top is lifted up, and you wriggle out of it, giggling as you narrowly miss his nose with an elbow. He moves over you, tongue and teeth marking your neck, lingering at the sensitive spots under your jaw, behind your ear, at the junction of throat and shoulder. You pull at his shirt, and he sits up to yank it over his head, sliding back down again to press skin to warm skin. Slender fingers dip into your waistband, sparking nerves and tripping a ripple across your stomach and thighs. Everything is moving syrupy-slow, intoxicating you so that you couldn't hurry if you wanted to. You savor each point of contact in its time: the puff of air over your chest; the sweet pull of his lips on your nipple, causing you to arch your back in contented ardor; the press of his erection at your hip, slowly grinding.

Rough, chewed nails graze your inner thigh in a gentle request, and you comply, languidly raising a knee for him. You place your open mouth to the pulse point under his jaw, tongue flicking and tasting. Your breath catches in a whine as one finger tests your opening, and you know he finds you slick, welcoming. He pushes in, searching and learning in small circles, murmurs approval and satisfaction into your mouth. You preen, writhe, spreading more and lifting your hips to guide him. The soft pressure progresses upwards, finding your center and building a friction that travels through you in waves. You head drops back and he moves to curl his tongue in the folds of your ear, whispering encouragement as his hand mimics the rolls of your pelvis. He finds the sweet spot on your swollen bud, stays there when your arms clench around him and you wordlessly give voice to the spiraling tension within. Your legs begin to tremble, stomach tightening, and your mind obliterates everything but that one point of sensation. You hiss, emptying your lungs and bucking against his hand, eyes rolling up into your head.

"That it, sweet," he soothes, "That's my girl."

He presses his palm into you, and you spasm slightly, evoking a low chuckle from him that is halfway to a groan. His fingers move up to tug at your pajamas, hesitating in question, and you slip them off, kicking the fabric into a bunch at the end of the couch, then turn to him and treat his boxers the same way, lifting the thin fabric over his straining erection. He reaches down to free his feet, then stretches out again, half over you, pressing the full length of his body to yours. You can feel his heart thumping in his chest, in his abdomen, in the pulsing of his cock on your flank. You settle back, pull at his waist, and he shifts to rise over you, hips snug between your thighs. You gaze up. His face is in shadow, but you can just make out the gleam of his eyes, again looking, waiting for permission. You spread your palm over the small of his back in reply, and he flexes, nudging his way against your opening, wetting his flesh with your juices. You lift yourself to slide him into you with a moan.

"Yeeessss," he hisses, and you agree. This is how it should feel. Tight, burning hot, stretched to surround his firm length, exquisitely matched. He withdraws, agonizingly slowly, and you let out a squeak when he returns, pressing deeper into you so you can feel his plum head push at your core, jump as his pelvic bone brushes your sensitive flesh. He strokes again, finding a rhythm, groaning his pleasure in harmony with your breathless mewling. You urge him on faster, nails digging into the backs of his arms where lean muscle bulges. They score the skin of his shoulder blades as a sheen of sweat breaks out over him. You struggle to meet the snapping thrusts of his hips, crying out at the sting of his thighs striking your buttocks. He moves harder, losing control, grunting frantically to reach his goal, and you ride the wave of sensation, muscles burning but ignored. He ploughs into you once, twice, cords standing out in his neck, shaking as his flesh swells and pulses in release. You wrap him in your limbs and cling to his climax, drawing him down to you.

He pants into your shoulder, boneless and exhausted, granting you a sloppy kiss.

"Thank you," he whispers. You stroke his cooling body, pull the blanket close, and curl into him to find sleep before dawn brightens the room. And you bury a fear of what tomorrow will bring under the glow of completion.