The phone is ringing. You can hear it, but you try to bury your head under the pillow. No pillow. It rings again. You twist to reach out for it, and find yourself pulled into a tight embrace. Opening your eyes, you see Orli"s chest an inch from your nose as you hear a sleepy mumble above your head. You push and pull to turn around, fumble for the phone on the table, and answer it just as the machine clicks on. Wincing from the shrill outgoing message, you disentangle yourself from his arms and stand up, rummaging for your pajamas as you speak over the noise.

"Hang on, hang on." Pulling on the cotton pants and thrusting your head through the tank top, you stumble to the next room.

"Hello?"

"Morning, dearie!"

"Liz! Hi..."

"Sweetie, I was just out doing errands and thought to check on you, see how you were after last night's debacle."

"Last night's...oh. OH. No, I'm fine-" You poke frantically at buttons, turning the machine off and trying to straighten your clothing at the same time.

"Now I'm just round the corner, and I've got breakfast!" You dart a glance into the living room, see Orli's body curled up, the blanket pulled over his head.

"No, no, I'm fine, really," you stammer, "I've got so much to do today."

"Are you quite alright?" Her tone is puzzled. Turning back, you swear as you thump your shin into the bed frame.

"What? Yes-fine, perfect. Never better."

"You don't sound it. What's going on?" She pauses, then laughs. "You didn't take my advice and find some poor lad to drag home, did you?"

"Um, not exactly..." Suddenly, a warm, naked body wraps around you from behind, hands reaching up to your breasts to play. You yelp and slap them away.

"Someone is there!" she trills, "Who--? No, it can't be!" Lips are trailing down your neck, frazzling you further.

"Yes!" you hiss.

"Oh, dear lord. Do tell!" Open mouth, nibbling your earlobe.

"Not now, Liz," you plead. She laughs.

"Oh, by all means, then, go! But promise you'll dish later," she demands.

"Yes, yes, fine, later." You ring off and drop the phone, leaning back and closing your eyes.

"Good morning," he purrs in your ear, wetting it with his tongue.

"Morning," you sigh.

"'Debacle'?" You wince, try for an innocent and disinterested tone.

"Hmm?"

"Liz said 'debacle.' I heard her on the machine. What happened last night?" You turn, decide on another tactic.

"If I have to remind you what happened last night, then I'll be very insulted," you look up at him from under your lashes, running playful fingertips over his spine. He submits for a moment, then lifts an eyebrow.

"But you didn't speak with her then. So why," his voice became musing," would she call last night a 'debacle'?"

"I'm sure I don't know," you say sweetly, "Hungry?" He looks at you thoughtfully, but seems to come to the decision to let it go. For now.

"Starving."

"Good. Go find something in the kitchen. I'll meet you there." You push him in the general direction and retreat to the bathroom to compose yourself. One look in the mirror and you are horrified. Your hair is sticking out in tangled clumps, remnants of mascara leave smudges around your eyes. You don't even want to wonder about your breath. But water and various products will fix all in relatively little time.

You emerge and find him poking through the cupboards, still deliciously naked. Leaning against the counter, you watch appreciatively while his back-and backside-is turned. You are dreamily contemplating his ass when it disappears. And reveals something even better as he walks to the fridge and stands to one side of it, opening the door briefly.

"There's nothing in there," he complains. You murmur something in return, not really paying attention. He clears his throat. You look up and find his lips twitching, keep raising your eyes to look at the ceiling, knowing it's a hopelessly clichéd try for innocence. You consider whistling as well, but decide not to overdo it.

He crosses the tiled floor, stops just short of touching you. A pleasant aura of warmth flows over your bare arms, bringing up prickling bumps on your skin.

"Bashful, are we? After last night?" he teases. And you expect to blush, but strangely, you don't feel it coming. You don't feel the nervousness, the tightened gut, any sort of reaction at all but happiness and relaxed interest in him. You level your eyes at him, calmly consider this new information.

"No." You say it with surprised honesty, and he pauses, having expected returning humour. His face softens.

"Good," he says softly, and drops a kiss to the end of your nose. His eyes pick up a bit of gleam, turn calculating. "Since it looks like we'll have to go out for food," he starts, gripping your ribs and lifting you up onto the counter with a grunt, "I think I'll need a little something to tide me over."

Your pajamas are yanked from under you and down over your feet, leaving your backside cold on the tiles. There is nothing to do but let it happen; you can't move quickly enough for him, and he is everywhere at once. His head is burrowing under your top, searching for a breast while he holds his shaft between your thighs, pressing and probing. He finds your center and pushes, holding on to your thigh with his other hand. You suck in a breath, stiffen, swallowing a squeak.

At once he freezes, surprised and then rueful. His forehead wrinkles in concern.

"Sorry, luv. I guess I'm a little overeager?"

"No, it's alright, just…slow down a bit." He nods, inching his way in shallow thrusts until he is fully sheathed and waits for you to adjust. Again, the fit is perfect, overwhelming, and you feel the energy and blood pooling there again. He dips out and back, sighing as he feels your moisture coating him.

"Beautiful. Just fucking beautiful," he mutters, and thrusts again.

He's right. It is a thing of beauty, both the man holding you to him and the sensation sweeping you away. You hook your feet behind his knees and lean back, watching him with half-lidded eyes. His face scrunches up in a concentrated frown, his jaw pushed forward a bit in effort, eyes closed. His expression spurs your own lust, and you raise a hand to his shoulder to brace yourself, rocking your hips in time with his thrusts, breathing fast now. He hunches his back so he can bury his face in your neck, sucking hard at the vein there. You plead with him to hurry, and he obeys, wildly crashing into you. He comes with a muffled shout and stills, shuddering.

He reaches to pull your legs more securely around him and wraps you in a warm embrace. The sweet kiss that follows has tears pricking behind your eyes. You hide the emotions so near the surface with a grimace.

"I'm sure you've gone and messed up my hair again," you grumble, as he kisses your cheek. He just gives you a pleased grin and ruffles his fingers over your scalp.

"I like it that way." You roll your eyes.

"You would. Silly boy." But the last word ends in a soft gasp as he withdraws from your body. His face sobers.

"Sore?"

"A little," you admit. He winces in sympathy.

"Sorry. Again."

You place a hand on his cheek. "No worries. You'll make up for it, I'm sure."

You limp to the bathroom, privately bitching about the fact that finally getting laid should have such consequences. Cleaning up and dressing, you hear the front door click shut. Poking your head out, you see the rest of the flat is empty. Frowning to yourself, you brush your hair and contemplate your reflection yet again. This time, you see the effects of the morning and previous night more positively. Flushed cheeks, swollen lips. You grin at yourself, imagine you see a sparkle that hasn't been there in a very long time.

Pulling on shoes, you leave walk out the door and lock it, then spin away down the hallway, intent on finding Orli. Just as you reach his door, he rushes out, right into you. He sweeps you down the hall in an impromptu waltz, then drags you after him down the stairs and into the street, both of you laughing madly.

In the deli, you ignore the wistful smiles of those around you, lost in your own little world. Collecting the sandwiches and drinks, he leads you back out and you end up back in your place, sitting comfortably on the floor with the picnic spread out around you. He flips on the television and finds cartoons.

You smile to yourself. You may have considered him sex on a stick, but he's always had a childishness to him that appealed as well. Although it does tend to bring out your mothering side.

"Don't make a mess."

"I'm not. See? All the crumbs are on my shirt." He proudly displays his restricted untidiness with a pointed finger. You roll your eyes. It'll end up on the floor anyway, you know from experience. He relaxes back against the sofa to watch the show, patting his tummy in satisfied fullness. Sighing, you gather up the litter and put it away, then go and start a shower. Just as you're pulling off your shirt, he appears in the doorway, alert.

"Yes?" He says nothing, just continues to watch you. You feel a little of that old nervousness flutter in your stomach, but you ignore it and slip off your jeans and knickers, then step into the steam. The water is deliciously hot, and you close your eyes to lean back under the stream, wetting your head and enjoying the enveloping sound echoing off the tiles. A brush of cooler air, then warmth again, and you hide a smile, keeping your eyes closed.

There's the slight whistle of a bottle being squeezed, and a quiet thunk of it being set down again. Hands reach into your hair, draw you forward just a bit from the stream, and massage your scalp. You blindly place your palms on his chest for balance. A light flowery scent washes through the mist; you feel your hair thick with the bubbles. His fingers are strong, but gentle, working through tangles and sliding in the shampoo longer than necessary. He presses a thumb just under your jaw to tilt your head back, squeezing the suds downwards, flushing water through the locks. Still, you don't open your eyes. It feels wonderful to be taken care of this way, in a task so simple yet intimate, sensual and soothing at the same time. You reflect that most men in your past were quite unaware of the effects of just washing a woman's hair, and doing it well. You wonder who taught him, then banish the thought, unwilling to mar this pleasure. He follows the shampoo with conditioner, and you silently applaud again as he rinses it out, careful to sweep along your hairline and keep water off of your face.

As you blink your eyes open, he is picking up the soap bar and turning it in his fingers. He smiles and nudges you around to face the water. His hands start at the nape of your neck, sliding over your shoulders and pressing into the knots there. You groan, dropping your head. He works down your spine, adding more soap, slicking his thumbs in smooth motions along the vertebrae. His touch moves around your waist, pulling you back, and you lean into him, head on his shoulder, forehead to his jaw. His ministrations rise upwards to paint soapy trails over your breasts, up your neck to hold it briefly in his palm while he uses his other hand to work a lather into the curls above your mound. He is supremely gentle, using a whisper-light touch, careful of the tender flesh there, holding you still and bearing your weight. Then he is steadying you on your feet and dropping to his knees to run firm strokes up and down your legs, lifting your feet and tickling slightly in between your toes. He rises, rapidly cleanses himself, and turns the water off, reaching for the one towel. Again, you are given first treatment, patted down and wrapped in the terry cloth, then pulled gently into the bedroom and deposited on the mattress with a blanket replacing the towel.

"What's all this for?" you ask as he dries himself off with the damp cloth. He drops it and lays you back on the bed, throwing pillow to the side, arranging you to his liking. He looks intensely focused, as if posing things to some inner vision. He looks up at you, eyes dark with just a hint of humour at the edges.

"I have something to make up for, remember?"

A shiver rolls through you under his steady gaze. He kneels at your side and you reach for him, but he gently encloses your wrists and draws them to the coverlet, pushing them in silent command to stay. You can feel surges of energy weaving a compelling web between your bodies, and you unconsciously lift yourself into it. He trails stroking fingertips over your ribs and belly and makes shushing sounds, relaxing you as if you were a skittish animal.

He hunches closer, still not touching you with his body, but enclosing your torso between his elbows and knees. He kisses a trail down over your collar bone, down to your breasts, and skates his tongue over your curves, tracing every inch of skin there until he settles on one nipple. He pulls and nibbles with his lips, switching to the other as soon as your flesh draws up into a tight knot. You close your eyes, sinking into the mattress. The sensation zings through you, and you sigh, whimper.

"Shhh."

He drags his tongue over your stomach, pausing at your navel to tickle, then on to the crisp curls of your mound. He takes the flesh there in a gentle but possessive bite, briefly. A warm wetness trickles down the crease of your thigh, and gentle hands spread your legs so he can settle between them. He breathes softly on you, and the heat matches that of your blood. His tongue slides into your folds, finds the nub at their apex and coaxes it out of hiding with soft, insistent nudges. He flattens his tongue and presses it there in a rhythm, then flicks the tip upwards. You jump, tremble, and his fingers find your hips to steady you. The wet pressure becomes delicate circles, patiently building wave upon wave of anticipation. Your only movement is a gradual tensing of muscles. A teasing, tickling emptiness pulls at your core, and you raise your hips in eager search for more. He only licks you softly, ever more softly. The tension swirls together tighter, and you hold your breath. His palm smoothes over your belly, holding you there, and the maddening circles continue. You feel yourself lifting, constricting, and suddenly you release, sucking in air and pushing against him, convulsing and crying out. He surrounds your swollen flesh with his lips, barely moving, until you subside, then with a last kiss, rises to lay at your side. You stretch and curl up, and he draws you back against him. His velvet warmth surrounds you, and his mouth is on your spine, kissing, his stubble rubbing softly on your shoulder blade.

"How was that," he whispers.

"Mmm," is all you can reply, drifting off.

He chuckles, pleased with himself, and pulls the sheet over you both. You take a deep breath, then yawn, and find his hand to tuck it under your chin as you fall asleep.