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The more she talks, the more he wants to kiss her.
Not to silence her—though, if he’s honest, he has no idea what she’s saying—but because the wind keeps moving her hair about and the setting sun illuminates her face. Because he can still hear that low, sultry laugh and see the shock and embarrassment behind her eyes and feel her hesitation on his cheek like a brand. Because it’s been centuries or millions of years and she keeps sneaking glances at him as they walk, and he wonders what she sees.
If she wants to kiss him just as badly.
Before, he’d assume she would if she wanted to but now he’s unsure, doesn’t know how to make the first move or if it’s what she wants and she just keeps talking, her voice harmonizing with the Towers, talking and talking and if he could pay attention—he knows her tells—he might be able to figure it out but it’s taking all his concentration just to put one foot in front of the other and not stumble. He keeps thinking about what she tastes like, if it’ll be different, if her lips won’t feel as warm or her hands as smooth or if she’ll make that breathless little noise he loves so much. If she’ll still feel like it’s him under all his gruff timidity.
River, damn her, seems oblivious. Shoes dangling from her fingers as they walk the sandy path toward the Towers—one of his not-so-optional requests—she continues on about some dig or student or adventure and he wants to know, wants to hear everything but he quickly realizes he’s not going to learn anything ever unless he stops thinking about snogging her and he’s not going to stop thinking until he does something about it and she’s mid word or sentence when he catches her wrist, pulls her closer and kisses her.
Or tries.
She stumbles, caught off guard, and his mouth lands at the corner of hers but his lips touch her teeth and she yelps, toes caught under his shoes. He tries to steady her, hand at her waist but his ring gets caught in the delicate beading and her hand, aiming for his shoulder he assumes, clocks his jaw with enough force to make him grunt.
“Oh!” she says, at the same time he mutters, “Sorry,” and she grabs onto his elbow. His flailing hand catches her in the stomach and his nose knocks into her forehead and if the Towers decided to fall into the Earth at any point he would gladly follow.
He mutters apologies to the ground between them, trying to disentangle himself but it only makes it worse, and his face has never been so flushed, so embarrassed and simultaneously turned on by how close she is, his palm accidentally cupping her ass and she starts, and he lets go, hand on fire, curses between his teeth and then she’s laughing.
It takes a moment for the sound to break through his mortification, but it does, and it’s bright and delicate and not at all like that low, sultry laugh from before. It’s almost a giggle, and when he looks up she’s biting her lip, eyes full of mirth.
“River—”
“Stop moving,” she scolds, finally managing to disentangle his ring from the string he’s pulled loose. He stills, lets her guide his hands, her touch so gentle, to settle on her hips. She steps closer, breasts against his chest and his arms move instinctively tighter around her frame and he forgets, sometimes, how small she is, sees only her strong muscles and wild spirit.
She still fits against him, still smells the same, and he can feel himself trembling, eyes downcast because he can’t bear to see her pity.
And then her palm cups his cheek, thumb brushing back and forth over his skin and when he looks up she’s smiling, gazing at him with such devotion it makes his breathing hitch.
“It’s not nice to interrupt a girl,” she teases, her other hand settling on his chest, over his hearts.
He swallows. “I’m not very nice.”
She shrugs. “That isn’t new.”
It’s not an indictment, not a criticism, simply an observation, and he relaxes slightly.
“This isn't—I mean, I haven't—” His fingers dig into her skin. “I don’t know how to…”
“Also not a change,” she says, and he huffs, and she smiles so softly he thinks he might break. “Want to try again?”
“Can I?”
He holds his breath though he doesn’t know why, because she’s already nodding, already leaning into him, head tilted up, eyes on his mouth and the same rush of want overtakes him.
The kiss is firmer than he’d intended, close-mouthed and strange and his muscles are taught, his jaw tight and he pulls back too abruptly. It’s all wrong and not what she deserves and he hates this body and his easily frustrated temperament.
River, unfazed, merely smirks. “Been a while?”
He glares, or tries to, but it’s instantly softened by the way the light brightens her eyes and he deflates, shoulders drooping.
“I…might be out of practice.”
It only makes her grin wider, and it takes him a moment to realize why.
“Waited for me, did you?”
He snorts. “Don’t let it go to your head,” he mutters, because he can’t deny it, doesn’t even want to.
“Too late.”
He affects a put-upon sigh that she interrupts with a soft brush of her lips over his, barely a moment, pulling back to watch him carefully, his reaction. He doesn’t know what she sees—she’s never seen exactly what he’s tried to show her—and he wonders if she can feel the rapid tattoo of his heartbeats or notices his blown pupils or the press of his hips into hers. She looks at him and he looks at her and he’d forgotten, somehow, just how beautiful she is—how warm and alive and so unlike a key or a book worn with reading or a bedroom full of dust.
He swallows against the grain in his throat and licks his lips. “River…”
He doesn’t know what he wants to say or how to say it, but she doesn’t seem to care so he kisses her again, a third time, without hesitation. She gasps, and he takes the opportunity to brush his tongue along her lower lip, begging entrance. She gives it freely, tension draining from her shoulders when he presses her firmly into him, hand flat on her back and the other escaping to cradle her cheek, tilting her jaw up, closer. She sinks into him, fingers curling into the lapel of his jacket, into his hair, and she still tastes the same, still makes that little noise he loves, kisses him back with equal abandon and warmth and he could do this for hours, he thinks. Just this.
His nose bumps hers gently when he finally pulls away, just enough to breathe. He can feel her hearts beating erratically, feel the shudder that runs down her spine, smiles at the way her lips chase his for a moment before she settles.
“Better?” His voice is so rough, scratchy and low and he feels more than sees her smile.
“Hmm, I might need another demonstration.”
She meets his gaze, eyes soft and full of warmth and he feels his cheeks stretch in response.
“Good. Cause I was planning on making a habit of it.”
“Looking forward to it,” she says, almost breathless, words half swallowed in his kiss.