Torture
by Eiluned
Explicit sex.
Summary: It tortured her, what she felt for Sawyer. Kate/Sawyer. 594 words.
Notes: Feeeeedback me. [bats eyelashes]
1.
She didn't have a bit of good in her.
It tortured her sometimes, when she let herself think about it. Sometimes it tortured her when she looked at Sawyer, but only when he wasn't looking back.
When he looked back, the torture shifted. It wasn't pain or angst or emotional torment. It was burning lust that prickled over her skin like a thousand needles.
And worst of all, the longer he looked, the softer the torture became. His pretty grey eyes lingered on her face, and it felt like the tips of feathers on her skin, tickling and soothing and riling her up and making her heart pound.
2.
She wasn't sure when she had developed the habit of falling for the wrong men.
Well, it wasn't really a habit, per se. Tom wasn't the wrong man. She was just the wrong woman. And that guy, whatever his name was, the one she duped into robbing the bank. She hadn't fallen for him. She hadn't even given a damn about him. And she hadn't fallen for anyone else.
Except for Sawyer.
Who was emphatically the wrong man.
If she hadn't developed that habit, she might have fallen for Jack. He was the sensible choice, a doctor for Christ's sake, and while she did find him attractive
He was the wrong man.
She just couldn't let herself believe that Sawyer was the right man.
3.
She touched him under the pretense of checking his wound.
Jack had already checked it not an hour ago, but Sawyer didn't protest or ask questions when she slid her hands across the smooth skin of his shoulder, lifting the bandage.
His breath caught in his throat when her fingertips grazed his chest.
"Does it hurt?" she asked, the concern in her eyes marred by heat.
His chest rose and fell against her hand.
"No."
4.
She didn't have a bit good in her, and though it tortured her, what she felt for Sawyer, she found that she didn't give a good goddamn when he was sliding his hands under her shirt.
She had closed the door to the bunkroom and didn't care if anyone saw and wondered what was going on. It didn't bolt, but that didn't matter.
All that mattered was touch and breath and the heat between two bodies.
He was still favoring his wounded shoulder, but he shrugged out of his own shirt without much trouble. Her shirt came off next, and she pressed her bare breasts against his warm body.
Their bodies slid together sinuously as they struggled out of their pants, desperate for the feel of naked skin, completely naked.
Her breath caught in her chest at the feel of his cock pressed against her belly.
"God, I want you," she murmured between kisses, her body slung across his.
His tongue slid into her mouth and his hands around her hips, pulling her on top of him. "Then what are you waiting for, freckles?" he rumbled against her lips, his hands stealing up to cup her breasts.
As she slid down onto his erection, she found herself wondering if nature versus nurture had any truth to it, if it mattered at all that Wayne was part of her, if it mattered that Sawyer was the wrong man or the right man, or if anything at all mattered aside from the feel of him inside of her, the way he teased her nipples, his hazy, pretty eyes, or the soft moan that escaped him every time she rocked against his hips.
It was torture.
end