However Do You Want Me... || Chenford / The Rookie

Part 9

Author's Note: I don't have an explanation for why reality TV Tim and Lucy are so horny, but they are, so seems as good a time as any to remind everyone about the rating on this story, and warn that this fic will contain explicit content. Said another way, it will be as smutty as reality TV Tim and Lucy are horny; you have been warned.

***

Lucy is just drifting off to sleep that night when she feels a warm hand on the small of her back. Her eyes fly open, and she can just barely make out Tim sitting on the edge of his cot and leaning over toward hers.

"Tim?" she mumbles groggily.

He presses a finger to her lips and then motions for her to come to him. She's in a confused daze, unsure of where exactly he wants her to go. She sits up slowly, and he slides his hand up to grip her upper arm, gently tugging her in his direction.

Too out of it to put up a fight, Lucy unsteadily gets to her feet, allowing Tim to guide her over to his cot until she's seated by his side.

His breath tickles the side of her neck as his mouth finds her ear, "You said we need to get more comfortable with each other physically — well... let's get more comfortable."

And suddenly the sleepy fog muddling her brain dissipates, and Lucy is wide awake, her mind spinning with the implication of his words and wondering just exactly what he means. Hell, she's not even sure what she meant when she came up with the bright idea.

Tim relaxes back onto the cot and gently tugs Lucy down with him.

And at first they both just lie there stiffly, side by side and unsure of what to do until Tim finally shifts to wrap his arm around her, pulling her closer into his chest.

And this isn't so bad. Not so bad at all, despite the very limited space on the twin-sized cot. Almost like a hug. But laying down. A horizontal hug, she reassures herself.

She's pleasantly surprised at how well they fit together, like this is something they were supposed to be doing all along, and they had simply missed the memo.

Lucy exhales a deep breath and allows herself to relax into him. She inhales deeply and god, he smells good, a familiar sense of security blanketing her as she breathes him in.

Emboldened by the almost instant comfort she feels being close to him, being held by him, she lets her hand slide up under his T-shirt, fingers once again exploring the contours of his abdomen, but this time with painstaking diligence. She pauses as her fingers find a slightly rougher patch of skin near his oblique, and she instantly knows it's the scar from his gunshot wound — the one that had almost cost him his life before he would go on to save hers.

An unexpected wave of emotion overtakes her as the gravity — the scale of everything they have been through together, everything he has become to her since that day — washes over her. She pauses her exploration, hand coming to a rest overtop the scar as she nuzzles her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply once again, desperate for another hit of the comfort and safety his presence now never fails to bring her.

He tightens his grip on her, pulling her closer into him, seeming to understand without any words just exactly what she needs in this moment.

Wanting to be closer and more connected to him still, she slips her leg over him, not even fully aware that she's made the shift until she feels him momentarily tense in response to her movement before he gradually relaxes again.

He brings his opposite hand up to rest on her knee before slowly running it up along her thigh, and the sensation of his warm, slightly calloused palm moving over her smooth skin feels so good that Lucy has to suppress her urge to moan.

Up and down, a slow and steady rhythm as his hand slides along her leg. It might even be comforting, if not for the fact that he lets his fingers creep up just the teensiest bit further with each and every stroke, causing Lucy's breath to hitch and her entire body to tense in anticipation of just how far he'll go. Up and down. Appreciatively squeezing her upper thigh. Up and down. Just barely brushing the curve of her ass. Up and down. Beginning to trespass under the fabric of her sleep shorts. Up and down. Cupping an entire cheek with his palm. Up and down. Fingers straying the slightest bit toward where her thighs meet until Lucy is aching for him to touch her, heat pooling between her legs, and so caught up in her want that she actually thinks he might.

And there's a moment where he stops, fingers pausing where Lucy is certain he must be able to feel the heat radiating from her center the same way she can feel the firmness of his erection pressing into her leg, and it takes her every ounce of her self control not to beg him to just ... please.

Her breath is hot against his neck — short, stilted gasps letting him know that she wants it as badly as he does; he feels it catch like his own as his fingers hover in a precarious limbo.

There's still a line, though — a difference between the invitation she'd extended for more physical intimacy and moving things into explicitly sexual territory. It's a thin one, but a line, nonetheless, and it's not one he's willing to cross without more clarity around what the hell this actually is. Not to mention that he's so completely intoxicated by her, by being close to her, that he's almost completely lost sight of the fact that they are currently in a room full of sleeping strangers. Almost completely lost sight of the entirely valid reasons he had forced himself to step back from her not even 24 hours ago.

And so he breaks the moment, sliding his hand back down the length of her thigh one final time before allowing it to come to a rest on her knee.

She buries her head into his shoulder, a confusing mixture of frustration and relief washing over her. Because god does she want to feel his hands on her, but at the same time — what does it mean if he crosses that line? What does it mean if she lets him?

And she knows he's right there with her, equally unclear and conflicted about whatever the fuck it is that they are doing. Working to get more comfortable with each other for the sake of winning some idiotic competition? Or something else entirely?

He brings his hand up to soothingly rub her back, and they stay that way, each working to process and come down from the intense and unexpected build.

And he's not entirely sure what possesses him to say it — maybe it's the swagger of now knowing, definitively, exactly the impact he is having on her, or maybe it's simply that it's Lucy, and he can't resist a chance to wind her up, no matter the absurdity of the situation — but he gently presses his lips to the top of her head before whispering softly, "It's okay, baby. You did really good."

Lucy stiffens, pulling back and pushing herself up from his chest so she can send him her most withering glare in the almost completely pitch-black room, before hissing, "You're a fucking dick, Tim Bradford."

She can feel his chest shaking with silent laughter as he wraps his arms around her, cuddling her back against his body as she grumbles softly, "And for the record... I do not have a praise kink!"