a due South story
by dirty diana
The cabin is in northern Alberta, less than fifty kilometres from the border of the Northwest Territories. They get there just as dark is settling in.
He rests his flashlight on the simple wood table, preparing to light the small kerosene lamp. She reaches out, one hand covering the glass mouth of the lamp. With her other hand, she turns off the flashlight.
Tonight the slim new moon is hidden by clouds, and the room fills with black.
"I like it in the dark," she says.
He undresses her quickly, with practised fingers. The floor is cold, almost as cold as the ice-white ground outside, but neither of them notice.
The light would have been unnecessary. He memorised her long ago, long before he boarded that train in Chicago. He memorised her in darkness just like this, on a snow-covered cliff. He knows the exact distance from the inside of her knee to the top of her thigh, the distance from her belly button to the small dimple between her breasts. In the dark, he finds her mouth, warm and soft, and kisses her hard. This is his compass.
They fit together like a lock and key, as they roll across the floor, their movements bringing them past the table's sturdy legs. His right hand extends too far, and catches on the thick, unvarnished wood. Pain shoots fast through his bones.
Crouched over him, she takes his hand, draws her tongue across his knuckles, sucking at bruised skin. "Ben," she whispers softly, and then bites down, hard enough to draw blood.
He groans, arching up against her. Holding her close, hands everywhere over smooth skin, his touch honest and rough. Her fingers show no mercy, over new bruises and old scars, her mouth holds no promises. Her tongue rests still for a moment in the curve of his neck, and then moves restlessly downwards, licking at sensitive skin.
He runs his teeth across the small round shape of her nipples, she pinches the inside of his thigh and runs her palm cross his cock. They rock together, viciously, each one daring the other to lose control.
"Fuck me," she whispers, and he does, thrusting inside her hard, dizzy with need. She cries out, fingers digging into skin, pain bringing him back from the edge of the black.
"Ben," she says again, and comes then, shuddering beneath him.
This is all he needs, to let himself fall. He spills inside her with a hot, heavy groan, their raw moans filling the room.
And then he holds her, in the cold and in the dark, trying not to think. He still doesn't know why places that he has never been remind him of people that he used to know, of meaningless chatter and exasperated smiles.
He still doesn't know how she learned to read his mind.
In a nearly empty room, her words bounce off the walls, and return to him, cold. "You miss him."
There is no point in denying it. He learned that the hard way. "Sometimes."
He pulls her closer. He is wordless to explain that missing something is not the same as wanting it. Wanting is useless. There is no going back. He has no place else to go, and she made sure of that. Some days, the days when he is weak, he hates her for it. Other days he holds her, he fucks her on the scratchy wood floor of a deserted cabin, and listens to the wind outside.
They are both home.