They're both hot and sweaty from the dancing, hours of it, moving together, steps falling into place, bodies in sync, like two polished cogwheels spinning brightly against each other. He can feel the heat of her through the light summer dress, silk and not much else, and her arms around his neck are brown from long days at the beach, the hair on her forearms bleached almost white like her hair. She's stronger than she looks—that still takes him by surprise sometimes—and she smells like gardenias and piña coladas, her lipstick all but gone now and her cheeks shiny and flushed.

She's moving under him, squirming against the damp heat of the leather seats of her father's car, a small, foreign convertible that she promised her folks Ray wouldn't be allowed to drive, then promptly pulled over three blocks away from her house and handed him the keys. Her short skirt is already hiked up around her thighs and she's wrapping her legs around him, rubbing up against him in a way that's just driving him nuts, and one of her hands is in his hair, holding his head back and keeping his mouth just inches away from hers, so he can't kiss her but he can feel each puff of her breath against his cheek. His hand is down the front of her dress and her nipple drags against his damp palm, taut and full, and he can see the outline of the one he's not touching push against the thin material of her dress. Large, dark nipples that he loves, loves touching and sucking and just holding in his mouth, and he knows she hates them, wants them smaller, pinker, "less vulgar," she says, and he doesn't know how to tell her how much he loves them, how much he loves the way they can't lie or hold back.

Not that she's holding anything back tonight, soft mewling noises almost loud against the silent backdrop of the deserted lakefront, and he feels her whole body quiver as he ventures a hand under the hem of her dress, fingers skittering over the top of her smooth thigh. She moves into his touch, rocking, hand tightening in his hair and it hurts now how hard she's pulling, stings, but not enough to ask her to stop, not when her blue eyes are so wide and looking into his, and fuck, oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, the grip of her legs around his suddenly eases, he feels her thighs part, and oh my god, oh, fuck, she's going to let him, he can see it, feels it in her shaking arms tight around him, sees it in her face and her eyes. His fingers are shaking and he moves them higher, slowly, 'cause she precious, like nothing else in his life is and he wants to give her a chance to say no if she needs to, though it'll kill him if she does, but she just spreads her legs wider and her knees come up around his hips, and oh, Christ, his fingers are there, right there, and he can feel the heat of her, the wetness, and Jesus, please, please, please, just don't let him come too soon. He wants to make it good for her, so good for her.

And he hoists himself up onto one hand, feeling clumsy and awkward, and reaches for the buttons on his jeans but her hand is there first, shell pink tipped fingers tugging at them until they all come undone at once and his dick is out, in her hand, and she's holding it, touching him, and it's his turn to hold his breath, forehead on her shoulder, and she's not shy, not shy at all, he thought she would be shy, and then she's pushing at him and he freaks for a second, then realizes she's pushing him up and over and he follows, shifting onto his back as she settles down on top of him, and then she's shimmying out of the tiny bikini panties she's wearing and he's sliding into her, the sweet wet clench of her, and he's inside, and he wants to be inside her forever, love her forever, and he's inside her, he's inside, he's inside…

---

…him, he's inside him, oh sweet, sweet fucking Jesus, those are Fraser's fingers inside him. And he knew they were headed here, has known it for weeks, since Fraser's awkward declaration and that flustered but determined invitation to stay, stay here, in this big, bigbigfuckingbig, fucking wide open, fucking empty Northwest Areas-almost- North-Pole place. But Fraser's not asking this time, Fraser's not making with the polite noises and courteous inquiries here—Fraser's going for it, going for Ray, and Ray opens his mouth to say something that might be stop but might also be go-go-go, not that he has a clue 'cause he doesn't have a functioning grey cell to think with, and it doesn't matter anyway, Fraser's there before he can get anything out, tongue stopping his words, whatever they were, and Fraser's kissing him, over and over and over. And his ass hurts a little, like he's being cored, like a blunt knife sliding inside and twisting, except in a good way, and his asshole is clenching hard around Fraser's fingers, however many of them there are, more than one he's pretty sure and, oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, Ray's hips are coming up off the bed and he's probably shredding Fraser's back with his nails but shit, that's good, that's so good.

Jesus fuck, there, yeah, Fraser, theretherethere, and is this what happens to nice little Mounties when you let 'em run loose in their natural habitat? There wasn't anything special about today, today was a whole lot like yesterday was, what with Fraser watching and pretending not to, and hard pressed not to ask if Ray has decided anything, which by the way he has. And yeah, okay, he's decided to stay, yeah, he's fucking lost his mind, he's decided to stay, decided this morning, watching Fraser feed the dogs and the new snow painting everything white, and the coffee fresh and hot and strong in his cup. Yeah, he's staying, despite the cold and the dark and the noticeable lack of suitable employment opportunities for Chicago ex-cops, which he thinks is going to be more of a problem than Fraser seems to think, but he hasn't said anything yet, Fraser doesn't know he's decided anything, he couldn't know, and oh, oh, oh…

"Ray," and Fraser's rubbing his face all over him, his face and shoulders and under his arm and down his flank, and he's breathless, like Fraser never gets, even when he's running full out. "Ray, Ray, Ray," down his belly, between his legs, and god, yes, Ray's pretty sure he could die from this, that he's gonna die from this, this slow sweet skewering, and then it's Fraser's tongue instead of his fingers, which ought to be completely freakin' him out but just makes him hotter and he's non-verbal now, total fugue state, couldn't remember his own fucking name if he had to, which he conveniently doesn't since Fraser's still saying it, saying it, even as he lifts Ray's legs over his shoulders, even as he pushes inside, inside, and Fraser's inside of him and saying his name, and he's inside, he's inside, he's inside.