“are you blushing?” + post tc3 lored
They probably should have booked another night in the motel, but their decision not to turns out fortuitous when the forecast changed, predicting snow.
By the time they checked out this morning, the sky was trimmed with grey low-hanging clouds, and the first flurries had started by the time they pulled on the highway. Now it's coming down steadily, the windshield wipers working in steady rhythm to keep the view of the road clear. Ed fights to keep his focus on the pavement -- thankfully, the weather has kept most people home, but it doesn't stop him from thinking about all the things he cannot wait to do when they get home and the order he'd like to do them all in.
It's all Lorraine. He wants to do Lorraine. They've spent three days in a graveyard in the middle of the winter, freezing their asses off to document a potential haunting.
The results are initially promising, they'll need to come back to collect more evidence. But now there's nothing he'd like to do more than get home, put the car in the garage, light a fire in the fireplace, and do unspeakable things to his wife on the couch with her enthusiastic consent.
Three and a half hours into their five hour drive home from New Hampshire, Lorraine asks him to stop at the next rest stop they pass.
"Sure hon," he replies, hand hitting the blinker when they come up on signs for one about five miles later, pulling them into a fairly abandoned-looking lot. He ushers her inside with a hand on the small of her back, holding the umbrella from the back seat over their heads. They both hit the bathrooms, and he buys them shitty vending machine coffee -- a passable americano for him and a mocha for her, the only thing guaranteed to be sweet enough for her tastes -- while she debates the finer merits of potato chips versus cheese crackers.
He admittedly doesn't pay attention to which one she ends up choosing, dropping the coffees onto a ledge lining the wall of the little lobby they're standing in and pushing himself right up behind her.
"Ed..." she giggles, tapping in her selection.
Nuzzling her neck, he reaches one hand up the back of her long winter jacket, palming her ass.
"Just trying to keep you warm," he murmurs, peeling back her collar to hide a kiss under her hair. "It's cold in here."
"Oh is that so?" she answers, grabbing her (their) snack and shoving it into her pocket, shooting him a look that he does not need to be able to read her mind to know means behave.
They run back out through snowflakes to their car, and Ed doesn't waste any time turning the engine back on and blasting the heat after dropping their drinks into the cupholders. Warming his hands over the vents, he glances a look at Lorraine as she shakes the snow out of her hair and pulls off her scarf.
"Are you blushing?" he asks. She's flushed from the roots of her hair and all the way down her neck.
"Am I blushing?" Rolling her eyes, she takes a sip of her mocha. "You're the one who's been thinking very loudly about how you want to bend me over the arm of the couch since we left the motel."
"I..." He can't deny that. "Well, not just the arm of the couch."
"No," she says, nodding very seriously as she scoots across the front seat towards him. "Not just the arm of the couch. Over the coffee table... and in your lap, or my personal favorite, on my back on the couch cushions, my leg up over your shoulder."
"It's about making the best out of the space you have," he says, watching her eyes flicker from his eyes, to his mouth, to the zipper on his pants.
Lorraine pulls her hands out of her gloves, throwing them down onto the floor. "You've always been very good at that."
"You could have--" He gulps down air as she pops open the button of his fly and unzips him. On instinct, his eyes scan their surroundings. Truly, the rest stop is empty -- it's not one of the ones with a food court or staff, and no one else appears to have stopped here for now. Still, he drops his hand down onto the manual locks on the door, hitting the button and hearing the latches all slide into place with a metallic snick. "You could have just said something."
"Oh," she says, pulling him out of his briefs and stroking him to hardness. "I don't want you to do that." Leaning down, she looks up at him through her lashes. "We're -- what? Ninety minutes from home? That's enough time for you to be ready for round two."
Not giving him enough time to even contemplate his answer, she swallows him down.
Grunting, trying to stop his hips from jerking upwards, he lets a hand fall to the crown of her head, fingers carding through her soft curls.
She spools up filthy images in his mind about what she'd like to do to him when they get home, and he comes five minutes later with a shout, one hand braced on the ceiling of the car and the other on the nape of her neck.
