AUTHOR: Missy

EMAIL: lasfic@yahoo.com

PART: 1 of  1

RATING:  NC-17  (thematic material; M/F sexual relations)

PAIRING(s): L/C

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Please contact me in order for this story to be placed on an archive, or if you want know of a friend who would enjoy my works, please email me their address and I will mail them the stories, expressly for the purpose of link trading. MiSTiers are welcomed! Please do inform me that you'd like to do the MiSTing, however, and send me a copy of the finished product. I'd also love to archive any MiSTings that are made of my work!

CATEGORY: Romance

FEEDBACK: PLEASE?!

SETTING IN TIMELINE: Post-Show; Carmine's in New York

SPOILLER/SUMMARY: "It's seven-thirty" (CarmineLaverne)

NOTES: For Kath.  AND YOU SAID I COULDN'T WRITE HAPPY LAVERNE/CARMINE

***

She felt the mattress shift beneath her slightly, then the warmth of a mouth against the back of her neck.

"It's seven-thirty," she whines.

"I know."

She rolls over and glares at him.  "Seven thirty is too early for anyone under six to be up."

He took her hand and placed it low over the front of his pajamas.  "I'm not the only one who's up."

Her eyes popped.  Her had caressed of it's own volition.

It didn't take long for her pajama top to end up opened, for his mouth to part and take her neck inside, giving her a little purple hickey.  For awhile she lay still, playing the innocent, before grabbing for the waistband of his pajama bottoms and trying to yank them down.

He kicked them away, then reached to take off hers.

They bent and moved in ways that were artful, acrobatic, the sex athletic by nature.  Tongues turned nipples into immovable, blood-filled crests; hands tugged firmly or smoothly caressed; filling humid places with moisture and making what was once soft firm.  She pulled at handfuls of short, dark, springy hair and he pulled on her strong arms.

They tangled and kicked in the sheets, the compactness of their bodies well-matched.  She mounted him in the middle of the mattress, taking him with firm, eager, careful strokes to the center of her sex. 

Watching his face as they made love, she thought about her long journey to New York City, the altar, their studio apartment.  Each step had been hard, strange - shacking up with your girlfriend's ex-boyfriend would always be strange to the outsider - but worth the long ride.  They had adjusted to each other - they avoided watching each other eat, tried to avoid fighting about trivial crap, and concentrated on the good stuff.

There was a lot of good stuff to concentrate on.  Like his hand's adroit manipulation of her tensing clit.

The morning sun blessed her passion, washed away the tension inside of her like a rainstorm.  She squeezed him within her at just the right time, drawing him into the maelstrom a few seconds after her own orgasm made her knees quiver.

In the reunification of her brain and body she heard his laughter, bright in the air.

Her head colliding with his chest kept him quiet.

"Ow.  I always knew you had a hard head, Laverne."

"Your hard head's getting soft," she mourned, feeling him wilt inside of her.

"I ain't made out of steel."

"No, you're great like you are," Laverne replied, snuggling down against Carmine's chest.  "I love you."

"I couldn't guess.  So, where are we going, Missus Ragusa?"

She smiled, looked out the window, watched the pigeons return to their coop on Mister Angelli's fire escape.  "Wherever."

"Whatta poet."

A faceful of feathers and a laughing fit at sunrise were almost as delightful as the words she loved most to hear.

"I love you, too."