reylo + “Are you crying?” + snow & ice
The sky is streaked lavender and blue, something like cotton candy, when Rey rounds the last bend of the trail that leads from the main piste to the cabin-spotted wood on the far side of the mountain. Ben is far ahead, his black-clad figure a tiny speck in the snow-drifted scene before her.
Her legs are aching by the time she finally skis to a stop outside the cabin, kicking her skis off in the golden lamplight that spills from the windows. “Great day,” Ben says cheerily, shaking out still-silky waves of black hair from underneath his helmet. “Great conditions. I hadn’t expected that much powder from two hours of morning snowfall.”
“Yeah,” Rey mumbles as she slings her skis over her shoulder and follows him inside.
Ben, still light-footed and chipper, heads immediately for the kitchen, where he rifles through the cabinets in search of dinner fixings. “What do you want to eat?” he calls over his shoulder as Rey collapses into the deep leather chair by the fireplace. “We have chicken, pasta — I could make pesto, or a vodka sauce, maybe, with the last of the Grey Goose, unless you want to drink it yourself, of course — or we could always order pizza from town.”
When she gives no answer, he stills, turns slowly to sweep his eyes across the living room behind him. “Rey?”
She draws her hand up to her nose, sniffles into her knuckles.
“It’s just…” She groans, drags her feet up so that the soles of her boots are planted heavily on the ground. “My legs.”
“Here,” he murmurs, dropping to his knees before her, “let me help you.”
She lifts a hand to wave him off, starts to protest, “I can do—” But his fingers are already unfastening the cumbersome buckles, and so she slumps back into the chair, relenting.
Ben tugs off each boot with a huff, gently massaging her feet. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, rearing up to lean forward across her lap, hands braced against the back of the chair. He kisses her gently. “I know you’re just getting the hang of it. Today was… long.”
Rey arches an eyebrow. “You think?”
He drops his hands to her waist, unbuttons her pants and tugs down the zipper.
Rey narrows her eyes. “What are you doing?” she mumbles as he starts shimmying them down her legs.
“You said you were sore,” he answers. By now her ski pants lie in a crumpled heap off to the side, and his hands have returned to her waist, his thumbs dipping under the waistband of her long johns.
“We’re not having sex,” she says sternly. “What part of ‘sore’ don’t you understand?”
Now he shirks off her long underwear, leaving her legs pale and bare beneath his roaming hands. Rey watches half-warily as he starts massaging her calves, relaxes into the chair as his hands set a slow, firm pace against the sore muscle. “Oh,” she says quietly, a little breathily. “Okay.”
“I told you,” he murmurs, smiling slyly.
When he lifts her leg so that her ankle rests on his shoulder, and his thumbs work at the taut belly of her calf, Rey actually lets out something embarrassingly close to a moan. “God, Ben,” she whispers. “That feels good.”
He hikes up the other leg for the same treatment. “I know.”
A few minutes later, Rey is slumped bonelessly into the chair, the soreness in her calves already soothed by the tender, methodical ministrations of Ben’s thumbs. He turns his face toward one leg to kiss it, murmurs into her skin, “How are your quads?”
“I think,” she breathes, “they probably need some help too.”
Ben smirks. “That can be arranged.”
He drags her closer so that her knees are hooked over his shoulders, and the twin points of his jawbone skim the tops of her thighs. “Hard day today,” he murmurs, rolling the heels of his palms into the tender flesh of her thighs. “We’ll take it easy tomorrow. Sleep in, stay in bed, yeah?”
Rey whimpers softly as his fingers ghost across the soft skin of her inner thighs. “Uh-huh.”
“Good,” he says lowly, his ministrations growing firmer, almost more insistent, against the sore muscle.
She’s getting wet. The way he’s touching her — his large, warm hands pressing and rolling against her skin, finding each and every spot that makes her body heat with pleasure — is driving her insane, and she can feel her flimsy panties growing alarmingly damp.
And it isn’t long before he notices. “You’re so wet already,” he breathes, touching her through the thin cotton layer of her underwear. “All for me.”
“Don’t get — too proud of yourself,” she gasps out.
“Hmm… what about this?” he says, nudging the underwear aside and trailing two fingers up and down her folds. A devilish smile breaks over his face. “Is this sore?”
Her hips buck slightly at his touch, and she rubs herself, almost involuntarily, against the warm, thick length of his fingers.
“Oh G-God,” she hiccups. “Don’t say it.”
He can’t resist. “It will be. After tonight.”
“I hate y—oooh, Ben,” she sighs, her voice softening in the space of seconds as his long, dexterous fingers slip inside of her. As he pumps her lazily with two fingers, now three, gently stroking her clit with his thumb, she slumps still more weakly into the wide seat of the chair, chants his name in soft little moans.
“I’m sorry again,” he whispers, his head dipping closer to where his fingers are working. “For making you ski such a long day.” He kisses the insides of her thighs. “It wasn’t very nice of me.” He withdraws his fingers, but keeps rubbing her clit in slow, lazy circles. “Let me make it up to you.”He licks a long, slow stripe up through her folds, humming into her when she keens. Of all the things he does to her, this she loves best of all. His tongue is gentle but insistent, his plush, swollen lips tender as they replace his fingers at her clit. When they purse around the tiny little bud and suck, Rey gasps his name to the ceiling, fisting her hand in his hair and holding him tight against her. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs, alternating between sucking and swirling his tongue around her clit. Soon his fingers slip inside of her again, resuming their gentle rhythm while his tongue and lips work at her clit.
Rey arches her back off the chair, bucking her hips up into his mouth. “Ben,” she gasps, fingers flexing against the crown of his head. “I want—you—”
“What is it, sweetheart?” he murmurs, looking up at her with hooded eyes as his tongue flicks her clit.
“Tongue,” is all she can answer, praying he understands.
He does. His lips cede her clit to his fingers, and his tongue licks down to thrust inside of her. The sounds he makes are obscene but somehow reverent as her hips rock into his mouth, into his tongue, into the groans that rumble from deep in his throat and resound through both their bodies.
“Come, sweetheart,” he murmurs, withdrawing his tongue for a moment to lap at her wetness, kiss her clit. “Come for me.”
When he returns to his work, there’s a new urgency to it, and his fingers grind down roughly against her clit as his tongue thrusts recklessly into her, matching the frenzied bucking of her hips. He licks her through her orgasm, eyes closed and cheeks flushed as he hums into her fluttering cunt.
Once she comes down from her orgasm, he slides her fully off the couch and onto his lap. His lips and chin are slick with her, and something like pride tugs at her heart. She traces the line of his jaw with her finger, leans forward and kisses him, tasting the two of them mixed together on his tongue.
“Now then,” he murmurs when she’s drawn back, and her eyes are roving hungrily across his face. “Now that I’ve already eaten, what are you going to have for dinner?”
Rey rolls her eyes, almost snaps at him again. But some playful spark lights in her belly, and she pushes him down onto his back. Her words come out sounding something like a growl. “I have an idea.”
